Page 1 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

MABEL

The phone is pressed so tightly against my ear, I’m half convinced it might become a permanently embedded accessory.

My other hand adjusts the carry-on strap digging into my shoulder, and as I step outside the terminal, the crisp Washington State air slaps me awake—like an overenthusiastic welcome committee.

Not quite enough to drown out my mom’s voice, though.

“Did you land safely? How was the flight? Did you remember to hydrate?” Her words tumble out like she’s racing against a clock.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” I reply, already regretting that I agreed to play the role of responsible daughter today. “I drank so much water, I’m practically a human sprinkler.”

She hums approvingly, but I can feel her skepticism even through the phone.

My eyes sweep across the bustling curbside crowd, a sea of people I shouldn’t know.

However, judging by the looks I’m getting, it seems they recognize me.

There’s always the first glance that lingers too long.

Then comes another, followed by the dreaded double take.

It’s like a ripple in the current of the sea I call my life .

What’s the saying, that this ain’t my first rodeo? Well, it isn’t…but I wish it was.

“Is that her?”

“No, it can’t be.”

“It is. Mabel McCluskey.”

I should be used to it by now. Instead, my stomach churns, tying itself into knots that would impress a sailor. This right here is why I didn’t want to accept this assignment. But here I am anyway, headed to Maple Falls, the town that remembers everything and everyone.

And I call it home.

“Mom, can we not do the interrogation right now?” I hiss into the phone, lowering my voice.

Her tone softens, but only slightly. “I’m just making sure my daughter survived crossing three time zones. Don’t get snippy with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I survived. Barely.” I fiddle with a frayed strap of my bag, my nerves stretching thinner with every passing second.

“Oh, stop it. It’s not like Maple Falls has sharks waiting to eat you alive,” she says.

“Only people armed with sharp memories,” I mutter under my breath.

Behind me, a snicker breaks through the low hum of voices. I glance over my shoulder to see the same two women still staring, but now their hands partially covering their mouths. It doesn’t work. One of them tilts her head toward me.

“She’s the one who dumped that bucket of dirty water on him, right?”

“Yup. And on live TV.”

I can’t resist. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I have to. It’s the city girl in me. I turn to the women and smile. “I also compared him to a broken pencil: pointless and a waste of everyone’s time.”

One of the women bites her lip in an obvious attempt not to laugh, while the other nods and holds a fist in the air. “Solidarity. I’m in awe.”

I know I should probably maybe kinda enjoy the attention—it’s not every day you break up with someone on live television and the whole world sees it.

Let’s just say that the next time my ex wants to cheat on someone, he shouldn’t do it to his reporting partner (ahem, me), and with their segment producer. Very proletarian.

Ah, but lest I forget, there is one woman in this world who does not think what I did needs to be celebrated.

As the pair disappear into a cab, I turn my attention back to that one woman.

I can feel my cheeks flaming with fresh heat as I press a hand to my forehead.

I’m not even in front of her and this is how I feel before I get to my mother.

“Well,” I begin, making my tone lighter and more cheery than usual, “at least they were on my side, right? Maybe I’ve hit legend status?”

“Oh, sweetie,” she says in that too-sweet, patronizing tone that only moms can pull off, only this one is laced with condescension. “You’re a traveling circus. All you need is a unicycle, some big ole clown shoes, and a red nose.”

Honestly, you would think some days she dated him and I broke them up.

My moment of weakness also coincided with a live crossover from the winning team’s locker room after an NHL game.

I was on the path to becoming a full-time sports reporter a year ago.

I’d paid my dues as one half of a reporting duo, my partner being my college boyfriend.

We reconnected, started dating again, and for a while, it worked.

We spent long hours putting together segments with our producer. She was sharp, talented, and always around. Until she wasn’t just around—she was sleeping around…with him.

We were covering a game and right before we went on air, I happened to catch the two of them, my man and our “boss” making out in the parking lot.

In the backseat of some old Honda, of all things, that I happened to park beside.

So, was I mad when we walked into that locker room to do our live segment?

I was boiling. He’s just lucky that the bucket of water I poured over his head wasn’t.

Did I handle it well? Judging by my mother’s reaction, that’s still debatable in some circles.

“Well, legends are unforgettable no matter how they’re made, even if they’re clowns.” I let out a strangled laugh despite myself. “Or at least I hope so.”

“Let’s hope you’re not always known as the reporter who dumped a bucket of water over her ex’s head on national television.

I raised you better than this,” she replies with no indication of humor in her tone.

“Now, look, I’m sorry I can’t be there to pick you up myself today.

” She sighs in my ear. I know that sigh; it has a special musical tone that’s meant to sound bummed, but also final.

It’s the same sigh she used the time she couldn’t make it to my senior class awards night because of Bridge Club.

No, not a committee to save bridges, but a card game.

“I really wanted to be there, but the planning for this inaugural bash has gotten bigger than expected and they’ve called an emergency town hall meeting for tomorrow, and of course I’ve volunteered to help get the word out. ”

A horn honks, causing me to jump. In my pacing I somehow managed to step off the curb and almost into the path of a taxicab. The New Yorker in me is not impressed, and the special one-finger salute I give the cabbie lets him know what I think of him, too.

“It’s fine, Mom.” I could say it’s what I expected, or I’m used to it, but why bother?

A shuttle breezes past with a familiar image and logo that makes my skin crawl in the most visceral reaction I’ve had in ages to anything.

“We’re headed to Maple Falls—you’ll never want to leave” is probably reassuring to some people.

A beacon of coming home. In a Hallmark movie, it’s the instant when the viewer realizes that our hometown girl is back, in the small town where she grew up, to do some good.

She’ll save some local businesses from destruction, fall in love with a billionaire, and live happily ever after.

Only this is not a Hallmark movie. It’s my life.

“Have you found Murray’s friend who’s picking you up?

” She sounds distracted, probably ticking down her to-do list for the day.

I bet she’s at the spot where she can cross my name off the list. Mabel…

tick, handled. “Keep an eye out for a man inside the terminal holding a sign with your last name on it.”

With my oversized suitcase next to me, I kick it out a few inches and park my rear on top of it, pulling my two smaller ones closer to me.

I should have gotten one of the bag trolleys, but this girl didn’t feel like shelling out ten bucks to rent a trolley to go a few feet.

I’m rethinking that decision, that’s for sure.

“So, I need to go back inside the terminal?”

Mom’s exasperated sigh slams against my ear. “Yes, Mabel. Where else is he going to be?”

“It would have been good to know that information before I wrangled my bags to the outside curb, that’s all.

” I inhale a sharp breath. The last thing I need is to start bickering with her before I’ve even set foot in the house.

I was hoping this visit back would be smooth, but I feel this conversation is telling me a big fat ‘nope, not today.’

“Well, you shouldn’t have packed so much,” she says matter-of-factly but then self-corrects. “You always do, and yet you wear the same outfits over and over.”

“Ignore her, Mabel. Your mother’s agreed to do too many things, and she’s being difficult.” The familiar voice of my stepdad, Murray, comes through the phone. Clearly, I’ve been put on speaker. “Be careful, or Mary-Ellen will rope you into helping, too.”

My mother is a very lucky woman in the fact that she’s had the chance to fall in love with two amazing men in her lifetime.

Her words, not mine. My father was one of them, of course, and now Murray.

Murray even comes with perks: he’s the building supervisor for the Maple Falls Arena.

Trust me when I tell you, my mother, an avid ice hockey fan ( see definition: stalker-adjacent ) never misses a chance to use those comped seats every season.

“Thanks for the warning,” I say with a half-laugh.

Murray and I have become good friends since they eloped.

It’s funny to think of these two as a couple, really.

My mother and Murray could not be more opposite—she likes summer, he loves the winter; she vacations at the beach while he wants to go skiing—but he worships the ground she skips across, and she loves him to the moon and back.

Can’t argue with that, can you? “I assume she wants me to go door-knocking to get people to sign petitions or help at some booth for Maple Fest this year?”

“Yes to all of the above,” Mom interjects. “However, we’ll talk when you get here. Just get back inside and look for the man with the sign.”