Page 92 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Because they were. They were so real I can feel them still.
Clément arriving at the gate, the picture of the perfect date with a duffel bag for every possible activity. He ate lasagna at a little table with trembling hands and shared stories of his mother. And then came the puzzle.
What kind of woman asks a professional athlete to spend the night sorting through thousands of tiny pieces at her side?
Apparently, this woman.
He hadn’t flinched. He’d leaned in, laughed, and lookedintome with those deep brown eyes, and I melted. Then came sunrise…
And thatkiss.
I instinctively cover my mouth, just remembering it. How he wrapped his arms around me from behind as the sun lit up the sky, like we were the first people on Earth to witness it.How he turned me toward him. How our lips met and everything in me sparked to life like dry kindling meeting a match.
It was soft. And deep. And everything I ever wanted. How does it get better than that?
It doesn’t. It really doesn’t.
I smile up at the ceiling, a dopey, dreamy grin that has no business being this happy. I should feel embarrassed. I don’t. I just feel… warm. Like he poured sunshine into me and it hasn’t stopped glowing since.
But then he left.
The sound of his motorcycle fading into the morning light felt like someone pulling a curtain on a perfect show.
What just happened?
My fingers tighten against the blanket beneath me. Maybe he was worried about being seen, or what others would think. Certainly, Happy Horizons is one of those places where privacy is a myth. Was he thinking aboutmyreputation? That would be kind, even romantic.
Unless it’s that he wished that kiss hadn’t happened.
My stomach knots.
No. No, I refuse to believe that. That kiss was too honest. Ifeltit. I know he did, too.
Still, that flicker in his eyes as he left just didn’t feel right. Was he tired? Overwhelmed? Did I push things too far?
No. That wasn’t it.
The more I try to untangle it, the more I end up back at the same place: that kiss. That smile. The intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.
The roosters are already crowing and birds are gossiping in the trees. Somewhere on the ranch, Angel is probably frying up some eggs and humming to herself, while Scotty tries to rouse the kids. They’re both completely unaware that I’ve just lived through the most magical night of my life.
And despite all my overthinking, all my doubt and worry, it’s the memory of his hand curling around mine, the way his thumb traced the back of my fingers like he wanted to memorize them, that lulls me to sleep.
First date? Complete.
And I’m officially falling in love with a French hockey player who builds houses, does puzzles like he means it, and kisses in a way that says forever.
It’s a couple hours later and the mug in my hand is comically large. White ceramic with a faded “I Brake for Tax Season” decal that always makes Angel groan, it holds the exact amount of caffeine required to survive a Sunday morning after a sleepless Saturday night.
I walk slowly, letting the dew-damp grass cover the toes of my boots as I cut across the field toward the barn. The sun is just climbing high enough to warm the tops of the trees, and the usual ranch symphony is in full swing.
Scotty’s old truck kicks up dust on the path as it rumbles home from the farmers’ market. He leans out the window, grinning like the Cheshire cat in flannel.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the belle of the bachelor ball.”
I roll my eyes and sip. “You’re barely back and already causing trouble?”
He parks beside the main house, hops out, and gestures me over. “Come on. You know I’ve got the emotional range of a fourteen-year-old girl when it comes to my ranch family. Spill.”
