Page 75 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Right?” Murray whistles low. “Big-time sports reporter right here in Maple Falls. Can you believe it?”
“I still can’t believe it myself,” I admit, laughing nervously as everyone looks at me. “The fact Willa and Noah trust me enough to run the whole sports segment is amazing.”
Mom beams. “Well, believe it. The Beaumonts did an amazing thing by bringing in those investors to fund the station, but you, my dear, are going to be the one to make it shine. I just know it.”
“I do too.” Asher leans closer, his hand brushing mine under the table. “Sports reporting suits you. Now you can talk hockey all day and get paid for it.”
“And every other sport,” I remind him, earning a laugh from Murray as he positions himself to attack the turkey. “Equal opportunity, right here.”
My mother claps her hands. “We almost forgot the best news of all…Maple Falls is going to stay as it is. I still can’t believe it.”
Asher and I exchange a look, and Murray fights not to giggle. Of course my mother would find a way to drop something juicier than the turkey on Thanksgiving. The woman doesn’t even take a holiday off.
“Wait…what?” I blink at her.
Asher leans forward. “How did you find that out?”
Mom shrugs. “Right place, right time. I was in town yesterday and grabbed a latte before heading across the town square––I needed to pick up some dessert for today––and stumbled across a surprise gathering.” She waves her hand in the air. “It’s a long story, but I think someone said there will be an article about it in the Maple Falls Gazette today. We’ll go online later and see if it’s been loaded to their website and you can read all about it then.”
Murray nods in agreement. “Because right now, it’s turkey time.”
Asher grins, his hands coming together in an exaggerated, but well deserved, slow clap as he looks my way. “I wonder if the town has you, Fiona, and a certain bird to thank for this?”
“If so, I’d like a statue of me. In the town square,” I manage to say before Asher pulls me close and kisses my cheek. “Fiona, too, of course.”
“Of course,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth curling into a coy smile.
“If we’re done now…” Murray lifts the carving knife, poised dramatically above the turkey, and my phone suddenly vibrates against the table. The buzzing is like a rogue fly at a picnic—impossible to ignore.
Everyone pauses. Murray lowers the knife, his brows raised. “You’re not one of those people who live-tweets Thanksgiving dinner, are you?”
“Or someone who has their phone at the table period,” mom says dramatically, rolling her eyes. “I know I taught you better.”
“Sorry. I was looking up ‘how to tablescape’ for Thanksgiving,” I say quickly, reaching for the phone. “I’ll just ignore it.”
But then it buzzes again. And again.
Mom’s lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Maybe the station is already calling to ask for a holiday sports special.”
“Or,” Asher says, deadpan, “it’s the group chat from the book club. Big drama over who brings the snacks.”
“Ha-ha,” I mutter, silencing the phone while my holiday companions laugh at my expense. “Fine. Let me just check, and then I’ll turn it off. I promise, no interruptions the rest of the day.”
I get up from the table, glancing down at the screen and smile. “It’s Neesha saying Happy Thanksgiving.”
“That sweet girl. Happy Thanksgiving to her as well.” She winks at me. “If she wants to bring her ice hockey player, I mean boyfriend over for dessert…”
“Mom,” I groan as the guys crack up. Murray puts the carving knife down and moves to stand beside Mom, who giggles as he presses a kiss to her cheek.
“This right here? This is the way I like my life,” she says, her voice soft with that specific kind of joy only moms get to own. “I’ve got my daughter moving home, my town’s safe, and a hot meal in front of us. What more could I ask for?”
The clatter of dishes and running water fills the kitchen as I scrape the last of the mashed potatoes into the trash and drop the plate into the soapy sink. Asher stands beside me, drying each dish I hand him. It’s an efficient rhythm we’ve settled into, but every now and then, our elbows brush, sending a spark that has nothing to do with static electricity.
From the living room, I hear my mom laughing at something Murray said as the football game hums in the background. She sounds happy, content. For the first time in forever, I feel the same way.
“You know,” Asher says, folding a dish towel neatly over the counter, “we could leave the rest of these for tomorrow.”
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “And risk my mother waking up to a dirty kitchen? Are you trying to get me disowned?”
