Page 55 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Not done yet, Mom turns and gives a Medusa-like death glare to the table of Seattle’s finest. “And you? Does anyone want to step up?”
That’s it. Fiona’s almost on the floor. “Your mom saidstep up?” she manages to eke out between gulps of air and bursts of laughter. “This town is the best. I want to move here forever.”
When the other bidder shakes her head, Mom holds her arms in the air triumphant.
“Sold!” Ashlyn cries out. “To Mary-Ellen McCluskey.”
“Yes!” she screams from her pedestal. “I’m bringing you home with me!”
The crowd erupts into cheers and applause. Fiona is laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes. “She’s unstoppable! Mabel, you’re doomed.”
Me? I feel like my soul has left my body. “I’m changing my name and moving to another country. Don’t try to stop me.”
Neesha grins, elbowing me. “Oh, come on. You know this is going to be legendary. People around here will be talking about this for years to come.”
“You’ll laugh about it,” Fiona tries to help. “Someday.”
“Today is not that day,” I reply flatly.
Asher, still on stage, looks like he’s holding back a laugh. His eyes meet mine again, and he gives me a little shrug.
I let out a breath and cover my face with my hands. This is officially the most embarrassing day of my life.
CHAPTER 19
ASHER
I arriveat Mary-Ellen’s house at precisely eleven in the morning, as instructed. The bouquet of flowers in my hand feels too big, too bright—like it’s mocking me. I adjust my grip and take a deep breath before knocking on the door. The hinges creak, and Mary-Ellen appears in the doorway, dressed in…old clothes? Her shirt has a tear at the shoulder, and her jeans look like they’ve been through a war.
Her eyes flick to the flowers and then back to me. Her expression reads somewhere between amused and bemused. “Hello, Asher,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, peering behind her before I look over my own shoulders. When someone bids on you at a bachelor auction, not that it’s happened to me before, but I would think they’d be more excited to see you or even simply be dressed for your date.
“You look confused,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. You told me to be here at eleven. I thought…” I gesture at the flowers, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Lunch date?”
She bursts out laughing, a hearty, unapologetic sound. “Oh,sweetie, no. I never said anything about lunch. Come on in.” She steps aside, motioning for me to enter.
I hesitate, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “So…what exactly am I here for?”
“Chores,” she says matter-of-factly, closing the door behind me. “Got a list of things that need doing around the house. Figured a big, strong hockey player like you could handle it.” She hands me a folded piece of paper and a hammer that looks older than me. “We’re starting with hanging a picture in the living room.”
“Hanging a picture,” I repeat, my voice flat.
“Yep. It’s been sitting on the floor for months.”
I glance at the flowers in my hand. “What should I do with these?”
“Oh, those are lovely. Stick ‘em in that vase over there,” she says, pointing to a shelf without looking back.
I do as I’m told, setting the bouquet into a dusty vase that’s clearly seen better days. Then, with the hammer in one hand and the list in the other, I follow her into the living room.
The picture in question is a large ornate frame containing what I assume is a family portrait. Mary-Ellen plops herself down in an armchair, a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. The whipped cream—piled high and sprinkled with chocolate shavings—taunts me.
“You’re just going to sit there?” I ask, incredulous.
“Well, yeah,” she says with a shrug. “You’re the one doing the work. I’m supervising.”
