Page 10 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

MABEL

The Maple Falls farmers’ market sprawls across the town park in a riot of color and chaos, a patchwork quilt of stalls selling everything from homemade jams to hand-knitted scarves to candles with names like Cabin Dreams and Pumpkin Bliss.

It’s charming in the way a postcard is charming—almost too perfect, like it’s trying a little too hard to be quaint.

The air hums with conversation and the occasional laugh, mixing with the faintest whiff of cinnamon rolls that someone clearly thought were a necessity this morning.

Walking beside me is the human equivalent of all the sunshine and cheer, grinning like he was born to be here, while I try not to trip over my own feet in protest of so much relentless positivity.

Asher exudes ease and happiness like it’s his job.

Every third person we pass calls out his name, and he greets them all with a grin that could melt ice.

A vendor hands him a free apple, a kid high-fives him, and an elderly woman pats his arm as if he walks on water or, at the very least, is a golden retriever in human form. It’s...a lot.

I hang back a step, pretending to examine a display of succulents while covertly watching him charm his way through the crowd.

His shoulders are broad under a worn hoodie, and his sandy-blond hair catches the sunlight just enough to make it look like he’s glowing.

Or maybe that’s just him. He laughs at something the caramel apple lady says, and it’s so easy, so unguarded, I feel a flicker of something in my chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of fascination.

How does someone walk through the world like this, as if it’s designed just for them?

And why does it make me want to both roll my eyes and keep watching?

“You good over there, Mabel?” His voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s standing a few feet away, holding two cups of cider, one of which he extends toward me.

“Fine,” I say, taking the cup and immediately regretting it when his fingers brush mine. Of course his hands are warm. I bet his hands are always warm. He’s probably the kind of guy who never loses feeling in his toes, even in February.

We keep walking, and I try to focus on anything but the fact that his arm occasionally bumps mine.

“So,” he says, casual as ever, “what’s your mom up to with that Save Maple Falls group?”

I take a sip of cider, the warmth of it doing nothing to thaw my general irritation.

“Sometimes I think she makes things up so she has a cause to stand for,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

“She’s always doing everything. She’s been the president of the Bridge Club, run local campaigns and elections, led the Girl Scouts and 4-H, organized bake sales, charity drives, town parades—you name it, she’s done it.

” I exhale sharply. “And now she’s decided to pitch in and help save the entire town. ”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just nods as we pass a table piled high with pies.

“Sounds like she’s a powerhouse,” he says finally.

I huff a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“But that’s not how you see her,” he guesses, glancing over at me. His expression isn’t teasing or smug, it’s curious .

“It’s hard to see her as anything but exhausting,” I admit before I can stop myself. “She’s always moving, always fixing, always...doing. Like if she stops for even a second, the world might fall apart.”

We stop near a stall selling sunflowers, and he turns to face me fully. “Maybe she’s just trying to hold it all together for everyone else,” he says. “Sometimes people who do a lot aren’t trying to prove something. They’re just trying to make things better.”

I look at him, surprised. “Are you always this optimistic?”

His grin returns, softer this time. “Only when I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” I mutter, but the words lack their usual bite. Because the truth is, I’m not entirely sure he’s wrong.

“Off the record,” he says, his tone dipping into something more serious, “can I tell you a story about my mom?”

If he wants me off guard, he’s won. “Sure,” I say cautiously.

He leans against a wooden post near the flower stand, his gaze flicking to the bustling crowd before returning to me.

“When I was a kid, my mom used to run herself ragged. She was a professional dancer, but like your mom, she was always going. She was the PTA president, in charge of bake sales, volunteered at the hospital, taught Sunday school—you name it, she did it. She was always busy, always on the go. Back then, I thought it was just what moms did.”

I study him, waiting for the point.

“One day,” he continues, “she forgot to pick me up from hockey practice. I waited for an hour, and when she finally got there, she was so apologetic, but she looked tired. Not the kind of tiredness you fix with a nap. Just worn down.” His smile is faint, wistful.

“I didn’t get it then, but looking back, I think she was trying to be everything for everyone and didn’t leave anything for herself. ”

I don’t say anything, but his words settle in my chest, sounding very familiar .

He straightens, his usual easygoing grin creeping back. “Just something to think about,” he says lightly.

Before I can respond, my gaze snags on a small group of women a few stalls away, watching us. They’re whispering to each other, not exactly subtle, and when one of them catches my eye, she grins.

I snort. “Look, they’re staring at you this time.”

Asher glances over and laughs. “Nope. I can tell they’re staring at you.”

“Why would they be staring at me?” I ask, skeptical.

“Because you’re famous,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“Famous,” I repeat, incredulous. “I would have thought this would have died by now.”

“It’s because you did what people want to do. From what I see, and hear, you’re the kind of hero made for women who get ‘it,’” he says, his grin turning sly. “Women who understand why you did what you did.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The scorned?”

He laughs, full and genuine. “I guess, yeah. If that’s what you want to call it. But come on, you got on live television and served your ex the karma he had coming. Why is that a bad thing?”

I can’t help it; I laugh, shaking my head. “Well, when you’re right, you’re right.”

“I knew you’d see things my way,” he says, his grin never wavering.

“Mabel? Mabel!” a familiar voice interrupts.

I turn as my old colleague Willa Blackwell-Beaumont comes bounding over, her long dark hair bouncing and her excitement practically radiating off her.

She’s dragging a tall guy behind her, who I recognize as her better half.

Willa is one of those people you can’t help but like, even if you’re feeling grumpy.

“Willa! I’ve been meaning to call you since I got back?—”

“Oh, please. I know what it’s like,” she says with a wink before gesturing to the guy beside her. “You know Noah, right, my husband? He used to play for the Ice Breakers. Noah, this is Mabel. She writes for Athletic Edge .”

“Nice to meet you.” Noah shakes my hand firmly, his expression polite but friendly.

As his line of sight moves to the man with me, Noah’s eyes light up as he reaches out to shake Asher’s hand.

“Dude! I know who you are. Asher Tremblay. Defense, signed to River City Renegades for your mandatory AHL introduction, then BAM!—you’re sent to Maple Falls instead to go pro, man. ”

“Noah Beaumont?” Asher grins. “You’re a legend. It’s awesome to meet you.”

The two men step aside, their conversation already dipping into hockey talk. Willa grins at me as another familiar face appears from the crowd, waving. “Mabel? Is that you?”

I glance up to see another New Yorker, Fiona Hale, weaving through the crowd.

She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and holding an iced coffee like she just stepped off a Manhattan sidewalk.

“I thought that was you. Oh my gosh, don’t you just love this small town!

Of course I’d run into you at the farmers’ market. It’s so Gilmore Girls, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know you’d be here yet,” I say, genuinely surprised.

“Just got in last night,” she says with a smile before glancing at Willa. “Hi. I’m Fiona.”

“Willa,” she says, extending a hand.

“Willa is an amazing photographer who worked freelance for a while, but we met when she was an editor for Athletic Edge ,” I explain to Fiona.

I’ve known Fiona, loosely, for about two years now.

We’ve crossed paths at events here and there—it’s funny how, in a city as big as New York, your world starts to feel surprisingly small once you find your niche.

Case in point: a few months ago, I was at my favorite salon getting a blowout, minding my own business, when guess who waltzes in and takes the chair beside me? Fiona.

As it turns out, we share the same hairdresser. Even crazier? We were both chatting about packing for Maple Falls at the exact same time. Talk about synchronicity.

“Of course you did,” Fiona says, shaking her hand. “I love how everything’s connected! It’s really nice to meet you, Willa.”

“How do you two know one another?” Willa asks.

Fiona grins as she hip-checks me. “Mabel and I know one another from New York.”

Willa’s eyes light up. “City girls unite! Okay, we need to have a proper city catch-up session. I love Maple Falls, but I miss hearing about the city. There’s something about the energy and the heartbeat of it that makes my heart sing. How about we grab coffee soon and dish about everything?”

I can’t help but smile at Willa’s enthusiasm. “Sounds like a plan.”

The conversation continues for another minute, but soon, Willa glances at Noah, who tilts his head toward the parking lot. “We’ve got to run,” she says, squeezing my arm. “But we’ll catch up more soon.”

Fiona waves goodbye as well, mentioning something about meeting up later, and just like that, they scatter, leaving me and Asher standing a few feet away from the Save Maple Falls booth.

I turn to him, suddenly aware of the quiet settling between us. “Well, looks like we’re back where we started.”

He chuckles, glancing across the market. His expression shifts, and I follow his gaze to where Carson is waving from the far side of the square, flanked by a few other hockey players, standing at the exit.

“Good timing ‘cause that’s my cue,” he says, tilting his head in their direction. “They’re waiting for me.”

I nod, trying not to feel...what? Disappointed? No, that’s ridiculous. “You better get going.”

“Yeah.” He hesitates for a beat, his usual grin replaced by something softer. “This was fun.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Fun?”

He shrugs. “You know, for a grump and a golden retriever. ”

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Go before you make me regret being nice today.”

He laughs, starting to walk backward toward his friends. “See you around, Mabel.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, watching as he joins the others, his easy charm drawing them in like moths to a flame. “See ya.”

As I turn back to the booth, I realize something strange: I actually did have a good time. And for the first time, I wonder if there’s more to Asher Tremblay than just sunshine and smiles.