Page 46 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Asher straightens, looking toward the pile, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask quietly.
“When I was little, before my mom was injured, we had aroutine. Every autumn at our farm, we’d spend at least one day in the yard raking up piles of leaves. We’d have at least eight giant piles that were all over our front yard, and as soon as we’d raked the last one, we’d race around together and jump into every one of them.”
“That sounds like the best memory,” I say, wanting so badly to reach over and take his hand, but resisting the urge. I know his mom was injured in a fluke farm accident—it’s come up in my research—but for some reason that even I cannot explain, I’ve not looked into it. Which isn’t like me, not at all. But I want Asher to have the dignity of telling me what happened to his family, not read about it online from a third-party source.
He exhales slowly, obviously in the midst of his own internal back and forth, then nods. “I’ve worked on this in therapy.” He then turns to me, grabbing my hand with a confidence that takes me off guard. “Do it with me.”
“Yeah?”
I don’t need him to give me the answer verbally. He’s tells me what I need to hear when he squeezes my hand tightly and nods.
We take off, running together at a breakneck speed, the crunch of leaves underfoot merging with the rush of adrenaline, and leap into the pile, hands still clasped. The world blurs in a swirl of red, gold, and brown as we sink into the leaves, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.
When we emerge, leaves clinging to our hair and clothes, he’s still holding my hand. Gasping and laughing, we stumble to our feet and before I can even think about it, I’m matching his stride as we sprint toward the finish line.
“Come on, we’re almost there!” he shouts, his voice alive with excitement.
“I’m the one keeping up with you!” I yell back, my chest burning from the effort, but my grin refuses to quit.
We cross the finish line together, our hands raised, triumphant. I look around like an Olympian, waiting for hergold medal, while Asher accepts a goodie bag from one of the scavenger hunt coordinators.
“You two did a great job! Prizes for participating are inside,” she says as she passes the bag to Asher.
“Anything good?” I ask.
Asher peeks in the bag and starts laughing. “We get an apple custard slice and a maple doughnut.”
I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “Doughnuts,” I say, panting. “We did all that…for doughnuts.”
“And eternal glory,” Asher counters, his hand already reaching up toward my hair. “Hold still.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got so many leaves in your hair,” he says, laughing.
“At least it’s not food,” I retort.
“Let me get them,” he says, his thumb brushing against my cheek again, softer this time.
“And you’ve got one—” I reach up to pluck a leaf from his hair, my fingers brushing against his temple. My voice catches in my throat as his eyes meet mine, the warmth there pulling me in like gravity. His hand lingers, the warmth of his fingertips searing through the crisp air.
He looks side to side, as if he’s half expecting someone he knows to tiptoe behind him and scare him. “Come with me.” He tugs my hand, leading me around the side of a nearby tent. My heart’s doing laps as he pulls me into the quiet, the smell of cider and cinnamon wrapping around us.
He stops, turning to face me. Beautiful, sparkling blue eyes search mine, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it as he plucks another leaf from my hair, and then he grins. His eyes find mine, holding me still like no one else has ever done.
“Mabel from Maple Falls,” he whispers, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face with such deliberate gentleness that it steals my breath. His gaze lingers on me, dipping to my lips.
I don’t trust myself to speak. Not at all. Words would ruinthis, break the spell we’re wrapped in. Instead, I let my fingertips trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—full, red, inviting—and before I can second-guess myself, I close the space between us.
My lips find his, tentative at first, brushing his gently as if testing the waters. But the very second his hand moves to cup the side of my face, anchoring me there, my hesitation vanishes. It’s all warmth and pressure, and the electric spark that feels so inevitable leaves me wondering why we ever resisted this at all.
I melt before I even realize it’s happening. His hands find my waist and pull me closer, tighter, as I clutch his jacket to keep from floating away. The world narrows to just us—his touch, his scent, the way he tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to make my knees weak.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and smiling like an idiot. Our foreheads touch, and he chuckles softly.
“Best prize ever,” he says.
