Page 4 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “Shall we go on a treasure hunt together?”
Still nothing.
Okay, not a talker. That’s fine. Some of my best interviews have been with people who hate me.
“I had an agreement with him when I signed to buy this house,” I go on. “He said I could do minor work on the property while the official permits processed. I just need the green light on plumbing, so I don’t get electrocuted trying to shower.”
“I’m the accountant,” she replies without looking at me. “Which means I’m aware of your permit request, but I cannot help you.” She spreads the paperwork out on the table and begins rearranging it with a long sigh.
I think I’m in love.
“So,” I say, standing tall and trying not to fiddle with the strap of my duffel, “I bought this property, you’ve probably seen it. Proper fixer-upper. Roof might be technically airborne in high wind, but I like a challenge.”
“Charming,” she says flatly.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I need to know the status, as I have about two weeks before I have to move in. My current rental accommodation will then be occupied by someone else, and I’ve never been one for sleeping under the stars in the winter.” Nothing from her. “I promise it’s just to do the normal stuff. I won’t even replace the bidet.”
She keeps her eyes on the papers.
“She is...trèsold-fashioned,” I add. “The house. Not the bidet. Maybe you don’t know what a bidet is, it’s very French after all, though even in Paris?—”
“I know what a bidet is,” she cuts in.
“I should have guessed.” I flash her my best smile. Theone that got me out of at least three speeding tickets and one awkward Christmas dinner in Paris. “I really want to make a home of Maple Falls, and for that, I need this permit.”
There’s a pause. Not the flirty kind. The kind where you can feel the imaginary red stamp on your metaphorical file. REJECTED. DO NOT PROCESS.
“You don’t believe me,” I say, amused.
“I believe,” she says coolly, “that you’re the type who shows up with a smile and a plan, with no intention of following through on either.”
Oof.
I let out a low whistle. “Et voilà. Brutal honesty. You must be a hit at parties.”
“I don’t go to parties,” she says.
Of course she doesn’t.
I could walk away. Should, probably. But her voice—it’s tight and tired. Like I remind her of someone.
And I hate that.
“I know the kind of guy you are,” she says softly, confirming my fear. “You’ll charm a few locals, flirt your way past rules, then leave when the novelty wears off and the first real snow hits.”
Just like that, she cracks my armor. I’m speechless. She’s so wrong, it actually hurts.
That’s not me.
It used to be, maybe. Before the league, before the expectations, before the panic I don’t let anyone see when I think too hard about what happens after hockey. I didn’t come here to flake out. I came here because I needed somethingreal.
I don’t get a chance to say any of that, because she straightens her blazer, scoops up her folder of Very Serious Papers, and turns on her heel.
I call after her. “I’m not that guy, you know!”
She doesn’t turn around. Just raises a hand and says, “You all think that—until you are.”
Then she’s gone.
