Page 84 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
CHAPTER 30
CLÉMENT
Iroll in slowly, gravel crunching under my tires, and my heart is pounding like I’m heading into overtime.
I expected… I don’t know. Some kind of activity or challenge.
Instead, what I see is exactly like her. Beautiful. Simple on the surface, profound in the details as you look closer.
Just outside the barn is a small wooden table dressed in a faded red-and-white checkered cloth. A pair of mismatched chairs face each other, and strings of lights zigzag from the barn’s beams to a fencepost, swaying in the breeze. There are milk bottles with flowers—wildflowers, I think, nothing too polished—and two glass pitchers of an amber drink that might be sweet tea, cider, or liquid courage.
Marcy stands in the driveway, cowboy boots crunching lightly over the dirt. Her dress is casual but a soft blue, the color doing strange things to my ability to form coherent thoughts. I swing my leg off the bike and try to remember how to walk like a normal person.
She tucks a strand of curled hair behind her ear, and wejust stand there. Looking at each other. Both clearly trying not to look like we’re looking as closely as we are.
“Hi,” she says.
I smile. “Bonsoir.”
She laughs, just a breath of a sound, and gestures toward the table. “Welcome to your date.”
“It’s perfect.”
She bites her lip as I approach and for a terrible second, I think she’s going to say she changed her mind and that we’re eating with the whole Happy Horizons family. That a date was a mistake. That she isn’t interested in a French goalie with a questionable living situation and zero emotional subtlety.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“Famished,” I reply. “But I’m more interested in the company.”
She rolls her eyes. “You always like this?”
“Panicked? Only on very important occasions.”
“I meant charming.” Her lips quirk, but her eyes soften. “You don’t seem panicked.”
“I’m French.” I shrug. “We fake it well.”
She leads me over to the table in front of the barn, sits, and gestures for me to do the same. I do, and for a moment the only sound is the gentle clink of glassware as she pours us both a glass of cider.
There’s the scent of hay, and of something sweet and baked. Somewhere off in the field, Edgar bleats in jealousy. I’ll give him a scratch later.
I take a breath, the kind that you can feel all the way down.
Angel emerges from the ranch house behind us like she’s starring in her own cooking show, holding a casserole dish with incredible reverence.
“Et voilà,” she says, placing it squarely in the center of the table. “Lasagna. It’s homemade, even if I had to do a quick defrost. I hope it won’t insult your European sensibilities.” She winks and adds with a terrible French accent, “Bon appétit, monsieur. Mademoiselle.” Then, with a dramatic bow and a swish of her apron, she disappears, leaving behind the faint scent of garlic and basil.
“Do you think we’re going to be spied on?” I ask as I stare after her.
Marcy shrugs. “Probably.”
“Will she hide to take in the sights?”
“Not just her.All of them.”
We laugh, and my shoulders finally get the message they can relax.
Marcy lifts the serving spoon, scoops two generous slices of lasagna, and lifts one onto my plate.
