Page 43 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I look up—way up, because apparently that suit came with extra height—and I’m met with his eyes going wide as the sugar rush hits.
He looks incredible. His hair’s a little tousled and his tux fits like it was tailored by angels. And the bowtie, slightly askew, makes him look unfairly roguish.
My brain sends one very unhelpful message to the rest of my body: Do not look at his mouth.
Which, of course, I do, because it’s covered in icing and curved into a startled smile.
“Oh,” I say, suppressing the kind of laugh that might shatter my ribcage. “Hi.”
He starts to answer, forgets about the frosting, tries to inhale, and immediately starts choking.
“Are you okay?” I ask as he stumbles back.
He points dramatically at the water pitcher a table away, eyes slightly panicked, then bolts, still cupping his cupcake like it’s a baby chick and not the thing that tried to murder him.
The two guys he was talking to blink after him, clearly unfazed by this kind of behavior.
One of them smiles and steps forward, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Weston.”
The other one, sleeves already rolled up like the party’s over before it began, nods. “Lucian.”
I shake both their hands, trying not to let my palm still remember Clément’s heat. “Marcy.”
Weston gives me a knowing look. “So you’retheMarcy.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a title now?”
Lucian crosses his arms. “Only thing he’s talked about for a while now. Something about you nearly passing out in front of his place?”
“Let’s be fair,” Weston adds, “Marcy isn’t the only thing he talked about. There’s also the doorway disaster.”
“Doorway disaster?”
Lucian grins. “You know, measuring crown molding and getting distracted. Hammer met thumb. Thumb lost.”
“That tracks.”
“You a friend from around here?” Weston asks.
I nod. “Sort of. I was invited to tonight’s event by the mayor’s office.” Why do I feel the need to justify why I’m here and that it has nothing to do with Clément?
Their eyebrows lift. “Politics?” Lucian asks.
“Not yet,” I say, too fast. “I’m the accountant.”
A brief pause. Then their eyes go slightly wide in tandem.
Clément reappears, face slightly flushed, but otherwise recovered—water glass in one hand, cupcake still miraculously intact in the other.
He lifts the cupcake slightly like a toast. “Bonjouragain.”
I eye the frosting on his sleeve. “You okay? Or should I notify emergency services?”
He places a hand over his chest and lowers his head in mock solemnity. “Survived. But death by buttercream would have been a noble way to go.”
Weston sniggers. “Better than how he almost died in his attic last week.”
Clément groans. “We’re not telling attic stories tonight.”
