Page 52 of Checking Mr. Wrong
He’s still watching me. When he sees my response, he raises an eyebrow and places a hand on his chest in mock offense before tapping at his phone again.
Please.
I bite back a grin and type.
Still no.
That’s your favorite word, isn’t it?
Not really.
Still a form of no.
I make a show out of putting my phone down firmly and wave at him, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t. Instead, he flashes me the most ridiculously charming smile, one I have absolutely no intention of acknowledging. Even if his kisses are sweeter than any icing Neesha could ever make, no way. I don’t even want to think about them, because honestly, they’re starting to make me crazy. Good crazy, but crazy.
“You’ve hardly eaten any of your dinner,” Mom says as she stabs my steak with her fork and takes a bite. “It tastes good to me.”
I tip my chin toward the back of the room where Neesha stands holding court with her sugar. “I’m saving space for dessert.”
“Honestly,” Mom says, shaking her head. “To be your age again. No worry where the extra pounds will go. Just wait till you hit menopause.”
“Mom.”
“What?” She exchanges a knowing look with one of her book club friends at the table with us. “Suzette, am I lying?”
“Oh, lady.” Suzette levels her gaze on me, as if she was sharing the secret to the pyramids with a trusted friend. “Don’t even get me started on the hot flashes.”
“I use the cooling mat I got for my dog in summer to help with mine,” another lady chimes in. “Even on the hottest nights, I’m feeling great.”
“We need to start a new club, ladies.” There Mom goes, with her big ideas. “In fact, our first meno-meeting can be next week, after Halloween?”
I want a giant hole to suddenly appear so I can roll myself off my chair and inside of it. It needs to be more than six-feet deep. If I’m out of here, I wanna stay buried. “Meno-meeting? How ever will you fit it in with all the other things you do?”
My mother stops in mid-thought, as if she’s considering my words even though they’re laced with sarcasm and sprinkled with cynicism. “No, I can make it work. If there’s one thing I know how to do, that’s run a committee.”
The ladies at the table all murmur agreement, nodding heads and smiling at my mother. Enablers. Another notch in the belt that is my mother.
I pick up my fork, with my mother watching, and poke at my meal as Asher’s voice fills the air.
“Nobody puts baby in a corner,” he says, standing beside the table doing his best Patrick Swayze fromDirty Dancingimpression.
“I’m not a baby,” I sing out.
“Good. Cause I need you to bid on me,” he says, nudging my mother in her shoulder like she’s his co-conspirator.
Do I wish I had enough money to bid on him tonight? Part ofme thinks yes. I can’t forget those kisses, and the thought of him maybe being grabbed by someone else, whose lips could get the goods, makes me a little weary. Yet, there’s also the other side of things.
As in, I wonder what kind of comedy gold will happen if one of these older Maple Falls mavens wins him. Nowthatis worth paying the price of admission for.
“Alas, dear Asher,” I say, holding up my “Press” badge. “It’s against ethics.”
He shoots me a look. “We should talk about ethics, then.”
“No, none of that boring talk.” Thankfully my mother decides now is the time to butt in. She hands me her phone. “Honey, take a picture of all of us with Asher, please?”
Gritting my teeth, I do as instructed, lining up the shot while Mom gathers her friends around him like he’s the prize turkey at the county fair. Asher, of course, eats it up, flashing that signature smile and throwing an arm around the shoulders of the two women nearest to him.
“Okay, say cheese!” I mutter, snapping the picture.
