Page 36 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I swear a cloud comes over her face as she marches in my direction, and I’m suddenly terrified. I have exactly zero idea what she is about to do. The migraine is abating, but I feel a stomachache coming on.
She stops two feet in front of me, chin high and hands on hip, little huffs coming out of her mouth before she finally speaks.
“Let me guess, you’re going to show off your soaking wet pecs to the world and then be sold to the highest bidder?”
A smile blooms inside me, but I can’t let her see it.
I’m starting to melt the Ice Queen of Maple Falls.
CHAPTER 13
MARCY
Ever since I heard the wordsDrench for DefenseandBachelor Auction, I can’t stop picturing Clément doing something ridiculous in slow motion—water glistening off his smug face, some pop ballad playing in the background while women scream like he’s the second coming of Mr. Darcy with a gym membership.
It’s annoying. And intrusive. And absolutely none of my business.
There’s nothing going on between us. Sure, we’ve spent a lot more time together as he’s come to the ranch to help Scotty any time he isn’t practicing. Even at the expense of constructing his own house. And sure, he’s proven time and time again that his heart is in the right place, and heaven knows every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m the only woman on the planet. But that’s just a French thing, right?
I am not the jealous type. I’m rational. I’m mature. I keep things in their appropriate emotional containers, tightly sealed and alphabetized.
And it’s not like he and I have ever even gone on a date. I remain the never-had-a-date wonder, and he’s a free agent.
So why does the idea of him getting auctioned off like some kind of charismatic cattle make me want to build a protective wall out of passive-aggressive Post-its?
I tell myself it’s my prudish side. But the truth is, it’s not. It’s him. It’s what hedoesto me.
And now that I’ve blurted out with thinly veiled jealousy how I feel about him getting drenched and sold… well, I know I’m in for it.
“I knew you were thinking about me all wet,” he says with a grin that should be illegal. “This is becoming a pattern.”
“I wasnotthinking about you wet,” I shoot back.
His eyebrows lift. “So you were thinking about me dry?”
“I wasn’t thinking about you, period.”
“Your tone of voice and unconcealed concern say otherwise.” He chuckles, low and smug and warm enough to make my ears burn while his eyes crinkle. “Admit it, you like me.”
“I like five-year budget forecasts. By comparison, you’re just fine.”
“Youdolike me.”
“I like order. You are chaos wrapped in muscle.”
“Muscle, huh?” He gestures to his bicep, which he flexes. “You mean this?”
I smack his chest before I can stop myself—solid, annoyingly solid, like a brick wall that smells faintly like cedar and probably some French cologne he swears he doesn’t wear.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You like that, too.” Edgar bleats, and Clément pauses mid-tease. “Wait…”
“You’ve now become attuned to the tone of Edgar’s bleats? I think you’ve spent too much time here, Clément.”
He suddenly rests his hands on my shoulders, his gaze far off and worried. “Wait. Listen.” Edgar continues bleating, faster now. I’m guessing his granola treat is just out of reach. “Something’s wrong.”
Clément takes off toward the small barn, the one where the smaller animals are kept. I hesitate and then sprint after him, my boots kicking up dust as we cross the paddock.
