Page 3 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
CLÉMENT
Okay, yeah, I probably could’ve been more subtle in my entrance. But subtlety has never really been my thing.
I learned a long time ago that when you want to move up in life, make new connections, or get paperwork done at a government office, you have to be memorable. French administration is known worldwide for its complexity and slower-than-molasses approach.
But my situation is getting desperate. I need a building permit, and fast.
So when I didn’t see anyone at the front desk of the Town Hall, but heard voices down the hall… I knew I had to make an entrance.
Seems that’s what I’ve done.
Papers are flying through the air in slow motion as if we’re in a high-stakes scene in a courtroom drama. Only this courtroom smells like lemon cleaner and municipal carpeting.
The two people in the room look like consummate town hall employees. The first is a confirmed bureaucrat in abutton-up shirt sporting a very unimpressed frown on his face.
The other is the woman I apparently just startled into launching a legal dossier across the room.
And she’s stunning.
Not in the overdone, look-at-me way of Parisian heiresses or runway models who smell like sarcasm and rose water. No. This woman—she’s precision wrapped in a form-fitting skirt and caffeine. Structured navy blazer, sleeves rolled just so, and dark hair pulled back like she hasthings to doand you’re in the way.
French women lean in when they want to be noticed. They pout, they toss their hair, they know exactly what they are doing at every step.
But this woman?
She leansaway. Away from distraction and away from attention. One look from her piercing dark eyes as if she’s royal and I can tell she’s leaning away fromme.
I’m fascinated.
She’s still staring at me like I’m a boulder that just crashed through a stained glass window. Fair enough, I didn’t mean to startle her. But I also didn’t expecther—this walking thundercloud of composure with eyes that are somehow calm and furious at the same time.
A page skims across the toe of my sneaker.
She drops down at the same time, and we nearly collide.
Her perfume is clean laundry and ink. She narrows her eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I get that a lot,” I say with a shrug, like I haven’t decided to rearrange my entire week around her schedule. She doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. Which would be disheartening if it didn’t also make her approximately ten times more intriguing.
She scoops up a document like it’s the last will and testament of the town itself.
I glance toward the desk, where the confirmed bureaucrat is watching this unfold with faint amusement. “I can’t help you with a building permit. That’s firmly in mayor territory. Maybe try asking the Ice Queen.” He gestures to the woman and marches out with a huff. I can’t hide that I’m glad he’s gone.
I smile at the woman on the floor. “Hi. Maybe you can help me?”
“Only if you need help with taxes.” She drops her business card in front of me and finishes collecting the scattered documents. She’s efficient in a way that makes me wonder if she has memorized every one of them. Then she rises in one graceful movement and turns to face me.
She’s taller than I thought, and the hunch of her shoulders says she’s already mentally removed me from the building. Possibly with a catapult.
Most women I come across are eager to meet me. Occasionally after games, I can see them lining up. It comes with the territory, and in my younger days, I loved the attention. But I know enough now about the world to know that love doesn’t wait in line.
The fact that this woman seems to want to be anywhere except talking to me has lit a fire that will not extinguish until I have won her over.
I’m now obsessed.
“I’m Clément Rivière,” I add, offering my hand before realizing she’s already too busy judging my soul to notice. “I’m here about the permit. I’d sent my request in for Mayor Thompkins to review. Is he around?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
