Page 94 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“These buildings aren’t just structures, they’re our history, our heritage. My great-great-great-grandfather’s signature is on these papers, pledging to protect them for future generations. It’s our duty to honor that promise.”
She’s good.
A council member looks everything over. “These documents date back to the nineteen-fifties and include a charter amendment passed during the Maple Falls centennial celebration. It required asupermajority voteto redevelop anypart of the historic district. That clause was never overturned.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
People start murmuring. I recognize many of them—they’re either my tax clients, their cousins, or the woman who once tried to deduct her parrot as a dependent. The excitement is infectious, even if I’m still mentally cataloging whether a 1950s clause holds legal standing after two reorganizations of town governance.
I glance at the door again.
Still no Clément.
The vote is called. Unanimous.
“Main Street is going to be a historic district!”
The room explodes into cheers. A woman behind me shouts, “I KNEW IT!” and throws her arms in the air, nearly knocking her husband out.
This is a win for the town, a rare miracle involving paperwork and integrity and democracy. As the meeting wraps up, and there is much hugging and celebrating, I know that I should go home.
But instead, I head toward Clément’s fixer-upper, heart hammering like I’m the one now being auctioned off to a room full of enthusiastic townspeople with deep pockets and questionable impulse control.
The house is closed up. No hum of tools or music spilling out from some corner of the renovation zone. Just stillness, and the faint creak of tree branches in the air. There’s a dampness in the grass that soaks through my boots by the time I reach the porch.
No movement inside. No sound.
I know there’s no game tonight. I saw most of the team at the Town Hall. So where is he?
My stomach tightens. The truth is, I wouldn’t be hereunless I wanted to talk to him. Really talk about what’s going on between us. And yeah, it might be awkward. It probablywillbe awkward. But I need to hear the truth fromhim, not from others on the team or the rumor mill or my own overactive brain.
I’m falling for him, and now that I know it, I can’t pretend it isn’t true.
I hover on the porch for another second, half-expecting him to pull up on his motorcycle, helmet askew and hair wind-blown, but the silence stretches on.
It only gets worse when I head over to the condo complex, just to find that Rivière on the buzzer has been replaced by Svoboda.
Oh wait, his friend Mathieu arrives today! Of course he wouldn’t be here. It’s only natural he’s taking his friend around and skipping a meeting for a town he only just moved to. I bet they’re off laughing and toasting and riding all around this part of Washington.
The idea makes me feel a bit better, but now I’m self-conscious and my courage is quickly disappearing. I have to get out of here before anyone sees Maple Falls’s ice queen trying to track down the Frenchman like a lovesick puppy. My feelings might be over the top, but I am not.
The game tomorrow.
I rush to the arena, pencil skirt holding me back from breaking into a run, which is probably for the best. I never thought I’d be a girl who would want to buy front row seats to a pro hockey game, but life does what life does.
And I want to be Clément’s ice queen.
CHAPTER 34
CLÉMENT
The couch creaks as I shift again, trying for the hundredth time to find a position that doesn’t make my skull feel like it’s being slowly compressed by invisible hands. Weston left me a soft blanket and a firm warning to text him if I needed anything, but I can’t even look at my phone. The light hurts too much. Everything does.
Mathieu’s arrival was less than fanfare, poor guy. He knows what I’m going through and is already off sight-seeing, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty. Only a little, though. I know Maple Falls is going to do him a world of good.
I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I hover in that strange place where time distorts and thoughts coil like vines around my throat.
Another migraine. Or maybe the same one that’s been lurking behind my eyes since I left Marcy on that beautiful morning with the sun rising behind her.
