Page 5 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
For the first time in a long time, I don’t have a comeback.
CHAPTER 3
MARCY
It’s just past lunchtime, and I’m already elbow-deep in cupcakes. Alas, not the cupcakes themselves. Specifically, I’m reviewing a spreadsheet for Neesha Gilmore’s new cupcake venture. There’s a tab titled “Dream Flavors,” which includes Midnight Maple Fudge. I might be salivating.
My calculator ticks away like a metronome, which is exactly what I need after yesterday’s little fireworks display with the Frenchman. He’s the last man allowed to occupy my mind when there are cupcakes on the line.
But some people call me an ice queen? That was news. And I’m not sure how I feel about it. My blood pressure still spikes when I think about Phillip Bane questioning my spreadsheets. The nerve.
When my phone rings, shrill and unexpected, my heart jumps. I stare at the caller ID: Unknown Number.
Great. Either a telemarketer or doom.
I swipe to answer. “Marcy Fontaine Accounting, this is Marcy. How may I help you?”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to activate every fight-or-flight response I’ve got.
“Marcy,” a woman begins, voice cautious. “This is Ashlyn Thompkins. Mayor Thompkins’s daughter?”
I sit up straighter. “Hi, Ms. Thompkins. What can I do for you?”
“I’m helping my dad out this week,” she says, “and I’ve come across a confidential situation that I need some help understanding.”
My stomach tightens. Here we go.
“An accounting situation?” I ask, trying not to sound defensive, but already gearing up to pull receipts, backup receipts, and triple-checking my Q2 summaries. “I assure you, I keep meticulous records. Anything you need, I can provide multiple pieces of evidentiary documentation?—”
“This isn’t something you did,” she cuts in quickly. “But before I explain further, I need your word that you won’t share any details of what I’m about to tell you.”
“Oh.” I change my tack. “Of course. I’ll sign a confidentiality agreement if you want.”
“No need to sign anything.”
That’s when I realize I’m not dealing with a town official. This is someone who grew up in Maple Falls. In this town, promises are handshake deals and secrets travel faster than Wi-Fi. Which is why I’ve made it a policy to never give anyone anything juicy to talk about.
“But,” Ashlyn adds, “is it possible to meet for coffee somewhere outside Town Hall?”
Ah. Now it makes sense. Phillip Bane has a way of hovering around conversations that aren’t his. I wouldn’t want to talk around him either.
“I don’t even work at Town Hall. I’m independent,” I say, probably too firmly. “I could meet you at Maple Grounds intwenty minutes.”
“See you there,” she says, and we hang up.
I set down the cupcake spreadsheet. Midnight Maple Fudge dreams will have to wait.
I arrive at the bakery with exactly two minutes to spare. I hate being late, even for a mystery meeting requested by the mayor’s daughter with absolutely no explanation beyond “confidential accounting matter.”
The bell over the door jingles. Inside, it smells like cinnamon and poor impulse control. I scan the room and spot her immediately.
“Marcy. Over here,” Ashlyn Thompkins calls, smiling in a way that tries to be casual but doesn’t quite stick.
I cross the room, heels clicking on the way. When I reach the table, there’s a cider already waiting in front of the empty seat. Warm steam curls from the top, the perfect golden color, and I have the sense things are about to go terribly wrong.
“How did you know it was me?” I ask.
“Lucky guess.” She gestures for me to sit down. “I hope you like cider.”
