Page 42 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
It’s Clément. Though Ashlyn’s argument was a good one, too. “Ashlyn said we need as many folks out as possible, making Maple Falls look like it’s worth saving. I think she quoted a dystopian novel. But why me specifically…”
“You’re trusted around here,” Scotty says. “You’ve done more for this town than most of the people at this party. You’ve done the books for Happy Horizons, Town Hall, a good part of Main Street, and a variety of start-ups. You made Neesha’s place solvent with nothing but a spreadsheet and spite.”
I clear my throat. “And receipts. Don’t forget the receipts.”
Angel smiles. “Look at you now. You came here with nothing. Found your way from upstate New York. No job lined up. And when that worthless ex of yours proved he wasn’t worth the trouble, you made a life of your own.”
I cringe. “We don’t need to?—”
“I’m just saying,” she goes on, “not many people can move across the country, arrive in a town that smells like hay and hot dog water, and turn it into home the way you have.”
Scotty lifts his glass. “To scary new beginnings and people who can balance a budget in their sleep.”
I lift mine too, begrudgingly. “To goat tax deductions and ethical fundraising loopholes.”
Angel clinks hers against mine, laughing. “That’s the Marcy we love.”
I’m about to take a sip when something catches my eye.
Over there, the far wall. A table, glowing under spotlights like the treasure in a heist movie.
Cupcakes.
Massive, well-frosted, logo-stamped cupcakes.
I lower my glass. “I didn’t know Neesha was doing cupcakes for tonight!”
Angel follows my gaze. “Ice Breakers cupcakes. That’s brilliant!”
“They have glitter. Edible glitter.” I hand my champagne to Scotty. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Where are you?—”
“I have a date,” I say, already moving. “With baked goods.”
The cupcakes are even more majestic up close. Neesha has outdone herself. Each one is topped with a perfectly piped swirl of frosting, a dusting of edible glitter, and a tiny fondant puck with the Ice Breakers logo.
Honestly, it’s almost too beautiful to eat. Who am I kidding? It’s worthy to be eaten.
I sidestep a group of overly perfumed donors and zero in. There’s a man standing at the table, tall, in a dark suit, talking animatedly to two other guys, and just close enough to block my access to the vanilla ones. The good ones.
I do what any cupcake-motivated woman in a formal dress would do. I slide under his arm.
Literally.
“Pardon me,” I say automatically, bending under the arm and snatching the cupcake.
He freezes. And then?—
“Marcy?”
I pause. That voice. That accent.
I look up to see Clément. With a mouthful of frosting and icing smeared across his upper lip.
And I’m still touching him.
My shoulder is pressed against his chest, right below where his arm had been slung casually around the cupcake display. His suit is warm. His body iswarm. And for a horrifying second, I forget what I came here for.
