Page 83 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Angel turns to Scotty like she’s commanding a battalion. “You. Set the platform in front of the barn. Clean tablecloth, candles. Not the citronella ones, we’re not warding off vampires. And get that speaker from the house. I want Ella Fitzgerald!”
Scotty salutes. “Yes, General.” He hollers over his shoulder, “Lil! Andy! We’ve got a date emergency!”
“Are you being romantic for Mom again?” Andy shouts back from the ranch house.
Lily groans, “Gross.”
“Not us—Marcy!” Scotty barks. “She’s got a gentleman caller incoming.”
“For goodness’ sake,” I mutter, face flaming. “Can we not use the phrasegentleman caller? I’m not eighty.”
Angel ignores my comment with commands. “You. Inside. Now.”
I’m pushed into my own cabin, still slightly dusty as Lily and Lisette join us. Lily and Angel are moving full speed ahead and it’s a flurry of fabric, makeup bags, and hairbrushes. Lisette sets herself down on the porch when Lily shouts, “I’m heating the curling iron!” and suddenly I’m in the middle of what can only be described as a reverse barnyard fairytale.
Angel rips open the closet and works her way through my wardrobe. “No. No. Definitely not—why is this even in here?” She pulls out a soft blue sundress with a cinched waist and tiny embroidered flowers that I wore only once because it felt too colorful. “This. It’s ranch date perfection.”
“Does it come with ranch date instructions?” I laugh, a weak sound that incites a look of pity from Angel and Lily.
With my hair set and dress on, Angel curls my hair on the porch. Scotty has enlisted Andy to sweep the platform in front of the barn. “Do you think Clément’s bringing flowers?” he asks Lily, who’s setting two mismatched mason jars with candles inside them like she was born doing tablescapes.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lily says. “He’s French. He’s bringing poetry.”
“Breathe, sweetie,” Angel says as she rolls the curling iron dangerously close to my scalp. “You’ve got this. He’s going to show up, fall head over heels, and then you’re going to pretend you’re not already halfway there.” She sprays a ton of hairspray over me.
I swat at the air and cough. “I am not halfway there.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
I roll my eyes and swipe on lip balm. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
“You do realize you say that a lot these days.” Angel steps back and beams at me in the mirror. “You look perfect.”
That’s when we hear a rumble, the purr. A motorcycle pulling up the gravel drive.
Angel claps. “Fifteen minutes late. I love European time.”
My stomach swoops.
Scotty calls, “He’s here!” just as Lily mutters, “And he’s hot,” and Andy adds, “Like, annoyingly so.”
I stand there, curled, dressed, and far too flammable from the neck up.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk up to the gate.
Behind me, I feel them watching. Angel, Scotty, the kids, a couple of the ranch crew. No one says a word.
The breeze is cool against my skin, though my palms are damp. My heart’s beating so fast I’m not sure if it’s excitement or terror. It’s both.
I’ve never done this before.
I stop just before the gate and glance back once—Angel nods and Scotty gives me a soft smile.
“Twenty-five years old,” I mutter to myself. “Never had a date. And I’m starting with Clément Rivière. Pro hockey goalie. Frenchman extraordinaire.”
A nervous laugh escapes me, then I square my shoulders and push the gate open.
Here goes nothing.
