Page 20 of Checking Mr. Wrong
By the time we reach the next stall, she glances over her shoulder, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out my angle.
“What?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
She huffs, handing me a flyer. “You’re awfully eager for someone who doesn’t even live here.”
I take the flyer, shrugging. “Maybe I just like the company.”
She stares at me for a beat too long, then shakes her head, muttering something about relentless do-gooders under her breath before moving on.
And that’s when it hits me: I might be playing with fire here, but I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed the heat this much.
CHAPTER 7
MABEL
The Maple Falls farmers’market sprawls across the town park in a riot of color and chaos, a patchwork quilt of stalls selling everything from homemade jams to hand-knitted scarves to candles with names likeCabin DreamsandPumpkin Bliss.It’s charming in the way a postcard is charming—almost too perfect, like it’s trying a little too hard to be quaint. The air hums with conversation and the occasional laugh, mixing with the faintest whiff of cinnamon rolls that someone clearly thought were a necessity this morning.
Walking beside me is the human equivalent of all the sunshine and cheer, grinning like he was born to be here, while I try not to trip over my own feet in protest of so much relentless positivity.
Asher exudes ease and happiness like it’s his job. Every third person we pass calls out his name, and he greets them all with a grin that could melt ice. A vendor hands him a free apple, a kid high-fives him, and an elderly woman pats his arm as if he walks on water or, at the very least, is a golden retriever in human form. It’s...a lot.
I hang back a step, pretending to examine a display of succulents while covertly watching him charm his way through thecrowd. His shoulders are broad under a worn hoodie, and his sandy-blond hair catches the sunlight just enough to make it look like he’s glowing. Or maybe that’s just him. He laughs at something the caramel apple lady says, and it’s so easy, so unguarded, I feel a flicker of something in my chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of fascination. How does someone walk through the world like this, as if it’s designed just for them?
And why does it make me want to both roll my eyes and keep watching?
“You good over there, Mabel?” His voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s standing a few feet away, holding two cups of cider, one of which he extends toward me.
“Fine,” I say, taking the cup and immediately regretting it when his fingers brush mine. Of course his hands are warm. I bet his hands are always warm. He’s probably the kind of guy who never loses feeling in his toes, even in February.
We keep walking, and I try to focus on anything but the fact that his arm occasionally bumps mine.
“So,” he says, casual as ever, “what’s your mom up to with that Save Maple Falls group?”
I take a sip of cider, the warmth of it doing nothing to thaw my general irritation. “Sometimes I think she makes things up so she has a cause to stand for,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “She’s always doing everything. She’s been the president of the Bridge Club, run local campaigns and elections, led the Girl Scouts and 4-H, organized bake sales, charity drives, town parades—you name it, she’s done it.” I exhale sharply. “And now she’s decided to pitch in and help save the entire town.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, just nods as we pass a table piled high with pies.
“Sounds like she’s a powerhouse,” he says finally.
I huff a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“But that’s not how you see her,” he guesses, glancing over at me. His expression isn’t teasing or smug, it’s curious.
“It’s hard to see her as anything but exhausting,” I admit before I can stop myself. “She’s always moving, always fixing, always...doing. Like if she stops for even a second, the world might fall apart.”
We stop near a stall selling sunflowers, and he turns to face me fully. “Maybe she’s just trying to hold it all together for everyone else,” he says. “Sometimes people who do a lot aren’t trying to prove something. They’re just trying to make things better.”
I look at him, surprised. “Are you always this optimistic?”
His grin returns, softer this time. “Only when I’m right.”
“You’re not right,” I mutter, but the words lack their usual bite. Because the truth is, I’m not entirely sure he’s wrong.
“Off the record,” he says, his tone dipping into something more serious, “can I tell you a story about my mom?”
If he wants me off guard, he’s won. “Sure,” I say cautiously.
He leans against a wooden post near the flower stand, his gaze flicking to the bustling crowd before returning to me. “When I was a kid, my mom used to run herself ragged. She was a professional dancer, but like your mom, she was always going. She was the PTA president, in charge of bake sales, volunteered at the hospital, taught Sunday school—you name it, she did it. She was always busy, always on the go. Back then, I thought it was just what moms did.”
