Page 58 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I know that voice.
Lucian’s eyes go cartoon-wide. He tips his head toward the hallway. “Isn’t that the accountant you’re trying to conquer?”
I glare at him. “I’m not trying toconquerher. This isn’t a medieval love poem.”
He shrugs, grinning. “Hey, you’re the one who said ‘winher over.’ That’s battle language. I’m just following the metaphor.”
What if that’s what they all think? That I’m just trying to seduce Marcy for sport. What ifshethinks that? What if I’ve become exactly the guy I swore I never would be—charming on the surface, but shallow underneath?
I wipe my hands on the rag and take a breath.
Time to show her who I really am.
“Clément?” she calls again.
I step out of the bathroom, still damp, one hand clutching a rag that’s probably more rust than cloth. Lucian trails behind me, muttering about tetanus.
Marcy stands just inside the front door, hands clasped in front of her like she’s about to deliver a keynote address. She’s wearing a navy pencil skirt and a blouse buttoned all the way up.
“I tried knocking,” she says, looking around, “and your doorbell doesn’t work. Hasn’t since the Kennedy administration, I assume.”
Lucian snorts.
“Ah,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yes, well. It adds to the ambiance.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your ambiance smells like wet plaster.”
Lucian, unhelpfully, gestures toward the bathroom. “And that was before he caused a flood.”
Marcy blinks. “It’s somehow worse than it was the last time I came.”
I open my mouth to protest, then catch Lucian’s expression behind her and think better of it. “Renovation is an evolving process.”
She steps further into the house, gaze darting like she’s cataloging structural crimes. “Right.”
There’s a pause. She clears her throat. Twice. Then straightens her already arrow-straight posture and lifts her chin an inch.
“I may have been a bit… hasty,” she says, carefully, “the other day. When you came to Happy Horizons.”
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m too stunned she’s saying anything about that.
“And since Maple Fest is starting today,” she continues, looking over my shoulder as if she’s hoping someone else might take over mid-sentence, “I thought, as someone who is more local than you are, I could maybe, you know, share some of the delights of this annual event.”
Lucian coughs loudly. I pretend not to hear him.
Marcy frowns at the floor and does a sort of awkward shuffle, arms crossing, then uncrossing, then clasping her hands in front of her. I can’t help watching her.
She’s beautiful, obviously. But it’s more than that. It’s the way she’s trying. The way this offer costs her a little pride and vulnerability. I can see, clear as anything, that this is not a woman who does things halfway.
And I—stupid, romantic idiot that I am—feel my chest tighten.
But also… Maybe itwaseasier when I thought of her as a challenge. Something to win. Someone to chase.
Because real things break. I could give her an easy way out and gently refuse her offer…
Like I would ever do that in a million years.
“I’d love that.”
