Page 56 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I run a hand through my hair and sigh. The hammer feels heavy, even though it’s probably all in my head. “All right, let’s do this.”
By the time I’ve wrestled the picture onto the wall, my hands are covered in dust and I’m questioning every decision that led me to this moment. Mary-Ellen offers me a cheer of encouragement.
“Good job, Asher. You definitely have a back up career as a handyman if hockey doesn’t work out.”
I’m debating whether to say something, or question bachelor auction rules (there must be some?), when the door opens and Mabel walks in, carrying a couple of grocery bags. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene—her mother lounging with her hot chocolate, and me standing there with a hammer like I’m part of some twisted DIY reality show.
“What’s going on here?” she asks, setting the bags on the floor.
Mary-Ellen grins. “Oh, just putting my winnings to work. He’s surprisingly handy.”
I shoot Mabel a pleading look. “Help.”
The slow, evil grin that tugs on Mabel’s lips shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “I’d love to, Asher, but”—she juts her chin toward the bags of groceries she’s dumped on the floor—“my hands are tied.”
“I made a cup of hot chocolate for you, too, Mabel,” Mary-Ellen calls out from her perch.
I whip around, hand on my hip. “What kind of joke is this?”
“A good one,” Mary-Ellen crows, punctuating her remark with a cackle. Not a laugh, not a giggle. Straight-up cackle. She picks up a sheet of paper on the arm of the chair beside her and waves it in the air. “I’d like to have one of the shutters fixed on the back of the house, and if it’s possible, I do have a few things that need to be picked up from the dry cleaners.”
She doesn’t let up. “Oh, and while you’re at it, the gutters need clearing. And the garage door’s been squeaking for months—I’ve got some WD-40 in the other room.” She jumps up and runs into the kitchen, digging under the sink. Once she has what she wants, she walks past me and hands me the spray can like she’s passing me a puck on the ice.
Mabel snorts while I stare at the spray can, and Mary-Ellen’s phone rings. We both watch as she plucks her phone dramatically from the coffee table and sighs soap-opera loud. “Oh, hangon a sec. I’ve gotta take this.” She disappears into another room, leaving me alone with Mabel.
Mabel’s always one to look put together, but today, standing near the kitchen, wearing running pants that hug her curves in all the right ways, I’m fighting to keep my eyes from making their way to below her neck. Instead, I let my eyes drift to her lips, those perfect pink treasures that I’ve had the pleasure of pressing mine against, before snapping away.
Focus, Asher. This is not the time or the place.
But, a low chuckle tells me I’m busted and that Mabel’s caught me staring. Her eyebrows arch slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, going back to fiddling with the spray can. It’s not like I’m about to tell her the truth. Not with her mom hovering like a drone nearby, anyway.
Before I can spiral any further, Mary-Ellen reappears, clutching her purse like it’s a lifeline. “Asher, I’m so sorry, but I have to dash. The book club needs me to pick out the next book, and I’ve got another meeting right after that.”
“Mother,” Mabel says, crossing her arms and fixing her with a skeptical stare. “You have to pick out the book now? Right this second?”
“Yes, darling. It’s an emergency,” Mary-Ellen replies breezily, sliding one arm into her jacket.
Mabel’s eyes slam into mine as she shakes her head. She turns her attention back to Mary-Ellen. “A book emergency?”
“It’s a very competitive book club, Mabel. If we don’t have a title, the infighting begins.”
“You never double-book, though,” Mabel counters, narrowing her eyes.
“Well, today I did.”
“Youdon’tdouble-book.”
“And yet, miraculously, I managed it. A first for everything!” Mary-Ellen gives a bright, almost-triumphant smile as if breaking her own rules was a badge of honor.
“How can you just leave him here?” Mabel throws her hands in the air, clearly exasperated. “You’re the one who bid on him, and won, in the bachelor auction.”
Honestly. It’s like watching Federer and Nadal battle it out on the tennis court for a Grand Slam.
“Hi, guys,” I say, shaking the can. “I’m here and my name is Asher.”
Mary-Ellen waves a dismissive hand. “Mabel, darling, make sure he gets these things done. Here’s the list.” She thrusts it into her daughter’s hands. “Make sure he finishes it, okay?”
