Page 36 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Her hair might be a bit disheveled, and her cheeks are flushed bright pink with the effort of pushing past the human barricade, but I have never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life. Her green eyes sparkle in the sunlight with pure joy as she holds the infamous red bucket with a feral sort of glee that makes my stomach twist in the best way.
“Mabel, be nice,” I manage, wagging a finger at her.
She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy climbing the rickety stairs to the stage with all the grace of a woman on a mission. Her smile is equal parts mischievous and vindictive, a combination that’s equal parts terrifying and—if I’m being honest—entirely captivating.
The crowd starts chanting, “Mabel! Mabel! Mabel!” as she steps up beside me, the bucket poised.
“You’ve got something to say…” she asks, her voice just loud enough for me to hear over the chaos as she points at my chest, “Snuggle Muffin?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, trying to look nonchalant despite the impending doom. “Don’t miss.”
“Don’t worry.” She smirks. “I never do.”
Before I can retort, she hoists the bucket high and lets the water cascade over me in one icy deluge.
The water crashes over my head, the shock of it hits like a thousand needles, and I let out a yelp that only fuels the crowd’s uproarious laughter. Every one of my nerve endings screams in protest. Water drips from my hair, my clothes clinging like a second skin, but the crowd is roaring.
“Poor Snuggle Muffin.” Mabel leans in, her grin wicked.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I mutter.
“Oh, you have no idea,” she replies, throwing her head back and laughing the most authentically I think I’ve ever heard anyone sound before, as if I’d told her ten of the best jokes back to back and she couldn’t wait for more. She then finishes it off by winking at me as she lifts the bucket with both hands and tosses it to the side of the stage before jumping off and high-fiving all the ladies as she walks past.
Revenge is going to be sweet. Just as soon as I can feel my fingers again.
The fire crackles in the living room, filling the place with that cozy warmth you only appreciate after freezing your butt off for charity. Drench for Defense sounded fun in theory—buckets of freezing water dumped over our heads for a good cause. In practice? Let’s just say I’ve got a newfound respect for polar bears. At least I’ve got lasagna in the oven, warming up the house and making it smell like an Italian grandma moved in.
Carson isn’t home yet, but he texted me about forty minutes ago he’d be back soon. I’d offered to save him some of the lasagna, but we both know I only mean it if there’s leftovers. While it heats, I decide to jump in the shower, letting the hot water chase away the lingering chill. By the time I’m out, myskin’s back to a normal color, but my thoughts? Still stuck on one person and one person only. Mabel.
She’d been there, bundled up and watching me like it was her mission in life. But then she’d laughed—really laughed. At the situation, at me, at…oh, who knows, but she was free. That laugh of hers hasn’t left my head since. It seemed to soften her whole face, even the way she held herself. It was like she forgot to keep her guard up, and for a split second, I wondered if she might be the best part of a day I was already supposed to feel good about.
I don’t stay trapped in my mind for too long before a knock at the door snaps me out of it. It’s probably Carson. I sling a towel around my neck, still in just my sweats, and head for the door. He’s seen worse. I don’t bother checking before pulling it open.
But it’s not Carson.
It’s Mabel.
She stands there, wide-eyed, her gaze dipping to my chest before snapping back to my face. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but the words don’t come. Instead, her cheeks flush, and for a second, I wonder if it’s the crisp autumn air or...me.
“Hey,” I say, leaning casually on the doorframe even though my heart’s doing some kind of overtime. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She blinks, clears her throat, and manages to meet my eyes, but not before I catch her sneaking one more glance south.
“I, uh…” She stops and shakes her head. “I’m meeting Carson here for his interview.”
“Ah, okay,” I say, standing back and opening the door wider. “He’s not back yet, but should be soon.”
“Okay,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“You can come in,” I offer, trying to sound casual.
She snickers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thank you.”
She steps inside, her hands tucked into her coat pockets as she looks around. The firelight flickers across the room, making it feel warmer than it probably is. I watch her take it in, her eyes landing on the books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table and the blanket half-draped over the back of the couch.
“Wanna sit?” I motion toward the couch.
“Sure.” She drops onto the cushions, her movements more hesitant than I’ve ever seen from her. Mabel’s usually all sharp edges and quick comebacks, but right now, she looks…small. “You know, I feel like I’m interrupting something. It’s very sexy-times vibey in here with the fire going.”
