Page 15 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

MABEL

Main Street’s pretty quiet this time of day, just a few cars parked along the curb and a couple of locals chatting outside the bakery like it’s their full-time job.

Ice Breakers captain Jamie Hayes walks beside me, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, answering my questions like we’re just two old friends shooting the breeze instead of me grilling him for a story.

“So you played with Coach Hauser in college?”

“I learned everything that I took with me into my career from him.”

“Kind of a full circle moment, then, getting to play with him now?”

Jamie grins. “You took the words right out of my mouth. Can you quote me on those?”

“You bet,” I say with an easy laugh as I hit a button on my phone to stop recording our conversation. “And thank you again for your time.”

“Thank you.” He puts his fist out, and I bump it without hesitation. “It was fun.”

With an easy wave, Jamie heads off, striding down the sidewalk with that effortless confidence captains seem to come preloaded with.

A couple of kids zoom by on bikes, calling out to him by name, and he throws them a quick wave, stopping to chat and take a few photos for a sec before moving on.

It’s like he belongs in every inch of this postcard-perfect town.

I turn back to the door of Falling for Books, where the sunlight glints off the freshly polished gold lettering. I stand here, caught in my own head, as the door swings open and Willa steps out, nearly bumping right into me.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Willa says as she steps in my path. “Are you here for my new book?”

“What new book?”

Spinning on her heel, she walks back inside and grabs one off the shelf, whipping it around to show me the cover. “This one. With my name on it.”

“ Benny the Blue Rock Thrush is your book?” I ask, following her inside to inspect it. “Wow, congrats! How did this come about?”

“It’s a long story, but the Blue Rock Thrush had only been sighted one other time in Oregon.

When some scientists at the Smithsonian Museum found out, they backed a contest to get photographic evidence that there were more,” she laughs.

“It coincided with me being here one year, plus there was a reward, and the rest is history.”

“City girl,” I say, giving her a teasing nudge. “Didn’t take you for a bird nerd.”

Willa rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I still can’t believe I found that bird here. It was only its second sighting since 1997. It’s rare because its native breeding habitat is actually in Europe, Africa, and Asia.”

“And it was here, in Maple Falls?”

“Yes, but not was. It is here.” Willa’s eyes almost bug out of her head. “In fact, because I photographed it, and more birds were spotted, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services got involved. They found a loophole and added the bird to a protection list. Wild, right?”

I don’t know how to respond—I’ve never heard anyone talk about birds with such passion in my whole life.

Considering I spend most days ducking the pigeons of New York City, or the rats of the air as I call them, I’m completely unprepared for this level of bird enthusiasm.

Is this what happens when people leave the city?

They stop dodging flying disease carriers and start naming winged creatures like they’re long-lost relatives?

Willa points to someone standing near the counter. “Of course, none of this would have happened if a certain bookstore owner had not encouraged me to self-publish, which I did. She also invested in copies so she could sell them in her store. My book is, currently, exclusive to Falling for Books.”

“But we have feelers out to some other bookstores in the area. We’ll get you on shelves in Washington and Oregon yet,” Emmy says as she comes over to give me a hug. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“You, too,” I say, hugging her back. Emmy Roberts is one of the sweetest humans I know, and she’s also engaged to former Ice Breakers goalie Dawson Hayes.

She’s been the face of Falling for Books for as long as I can remember, so it makes sense that now she’s the owner of the store.

Emmy’s got the best taste in literature of anyone I’ve ever met.

I point to the book in Willa’s hands. “What a great idea.”

“I’m showing it to a chapter of the Audubon Society in Seattle this week, and then going to Portland to meet with a group there, too.” Willa grins at Emmy. “It’s kind of a book tour. A very niche one, but still.”

“I wish I was going with you,” I mutter as I lean against the counter, waving to Neesha as she walks toward us from the back with Fiona by her side. “A city has anonymity, and I need that. I miss it.”

“Are you leaving town already?” Neesha asks, her face downcast.

“No, not at all,” I say as I shake my head. “I’m meeting Asher here in a few minutes to fact-check a few things, and then I can wrap his interview and move on to the next one. ”

“Who’s next?” Willa asks.

“Carson Crane, also known as the ‘Gentleman Wingman’,” I say over my shoulder as I let myself scan the shelves. “He’s from the South, seems super nice.”

“Man, some days I miss the ‘go, go, go’ of journalism,” Willa says wistfully. “I loved the days I worked at Athletic Edge .”

“Well, if your idea takes off—” Emmy begins, only to have Willa shush her.

“What?” I ask, looking at the two women.

“I can’t tell you guys everything, yet, since it’s still top secret, but…” She leans in and gathers us around her. “I can tell you that I’m hoping to have a little launch party for the book.”

“We want to get busy planning one heck of a party here,” Emmy chimes in. “Or, we will be once I get ahold of the mayor and have him sign off on this consent form. I swear, I haven’t seen that man in ages.”

I hold my hand out. “Give it to me. I live across the street from him and can drop it off if you’d like.”

“You’re an angel,” Emmy says. “Thanks.”

“If he’s not there, I trust Ashlyn if you want to pass it on to her,” Willa adds. “And thanks—I thought you’d be too busy for much else with your interviews, your mom, and that big party coming up soon. What’s it called?”

“It’s the inaugural bash,” Neesha pipes up.

“Are you going?” I ask as Neesha shakes her head.

“My cupcakes are, but not me.”

“Well, I’m not going either,” I say, sarcasm sprinkled over my words. “Mom got tickets for herself and Murray but didn’t get one for me because she didn’t think it was something I’d enjoy.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, Mabel,” Neesha says as she pats my hand. “In her mind she was sparing you. You can always hang out with me.”

I throw an arm around my old friend. “I’d rather hang out with you any day of the week over going to any kind of ball or bash or whatever. At least with you, I know I’m being asked, not maneuvered into it.”

“Maneuvered?” Fiona tilts her head to one side as the bell on the front door jingles, signaling a new customer.

“Asher…” I trail off, rolling my eyes with a laugh. “I’m starting to think that man could sell rain to a storm cloud and make it thank him for the privilege.”

“Asher can do what, now?”

The voice, low and amused, has me spinning around, and there he is.

Asher stands in the doorway with Carson, looking like a couple of giants who wandered out of a fairy tale book from the children’s section.

Only instead of wielding clubs, they’re armed with charm and a dangerous amount of confidence.

I recover quickly, tilting my head at him. “Asher can help me finish my article,” I say smoothly, ignoring Willa’s not-so-subtle groan behind me.

Before anyone can comment, I stride over, grab his arm, and steer him toward a table in the back corner of the coffee shop. “C’mon, superstar, I’ve got deadlines.”

Carson stays put, glancing between my friends. I don’t need to look back to know they’re sizing him up like an unexpected guest who didn’t bother to RSVP.

“We’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder. “Please be nice to Carson, ladies.”

Asher laughs quietly, leaning closer as we walk. “You just left him in the wolves’ den.”

“He’ll survive,” I say, before I think of Neesha, who may have something to say about his choice of profession. “Maybe.”

Once we’re seated, I pull out my notebook and laptop, placing them on the table between us. Asher leans back in his chair, his arms crossed in that casual way he has that somehow still manages to take up half the room.

“Okay, I’ll make this fast,” I say, opening my notebook and clicking my pen. “I just need to fact-check a few things from the other night.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Fair enough.”

I begin tossing out a string of questions at him, double-checking some of his answers and making sure I’d gotten the right detail.

Look, I’m good at my job, but sometimes I have to go back and be this pedantic.

I don’t want to ever put something into print that could hurt the reputation of a player, especially not someone like Asher.

He handles everything I toss his way like the pro he is. It takes less time than I’d anticipated. But I like this part of the process, because every now and then, a few new questions come up that I hadn’t thought to ask—like in this instance.

“Okay, new question: How do you stay focused during high-pressure games?”

His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Are all your questions going to make me sound like a motivational poster?”

“Just answer the question, Asher,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re the newbie with heat. I’m aiding in keeping your momentum going. Thank me later.”

“Fine,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “Routine. You stick to your routine, no matter what. You don’t let the stakes mess with your head.”

“Perfect,” I murmur, scribbling furiously. “Okay, last one: Who’s the toughest player you’ve ever gone up against?”

He’s closer now, leaning on the table, his face just inches from mine as he answers. But instead of the quick quip I’m expecting, he pauses, his gaze steady on mine.

“The toughest person I’ve ever been up against?

Well, it isn’t a player,” he says quietly.

“I’d like to say it was my mom, because everyone thinks their mom is tough, but that’s not it.

” His lips curl into a faint smile. “I think the most tenacious person I’ve ever sat across from is a reporter from a magazine called Athletic Edge . ”

I blink, caught off guard. “Me? ”

“You don’t pull punches, Mabel. You ask questions that make me sweat and then stare at me like you already know the answer.” He shrugs, his smile deepening. “That’s tougher than any player I’ve faced on the ice.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stare at him, my pen frozen on the page.

I stay like this for only a second before looking down at my pad.

As I write his response, I can feel his presence more acutely.

When I glance up, he’s already looking at me.

Our eyes meet, and suddenly, the whole coffee shop fades away.

It’s like I’m stuck in a time warp from the other night at dinner, where the noise has vanished and everything is on pause as I’m wrapped in his world.

I watch as his gaze flickers down to my lips, and suddenly the air between us feels charged, full of electric current that has no tether, like static before a storm.

My pulse skips, and I can feel my cheeks heating. My grip on the pen tightens, and I’m pretty sure there’s a cold sweat beginning somewhere on my body. This is not happening. Not here. Not now.

I panic when I feel moisture on my upper lip, my anxiety suddenly taking charge. I shift slightly, my elbow bumping into the table. This singular motion knocks over a forgotten cup, which spills a cold, sticky mess of someone’s abandoned drink all over the surface.

“Oh no!” I yelp, grabbing for napkins. The spell is broken as Asher jumps up to help, a tiny cry escaping his lips as he does. The chaos is enough to make my heart race for entirely different reasons now.

“Smooth,” he says with a smirk, dabbing at the spill.

“I’m known for my grace,” I mutter, willing the blush on my face to disappear as I frantically wipe up the mess. Maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll think the color in my cheeks is from embarrassment and not…whatever that was.

I look up, and his eyes are already on me again, softer this time, like he’s seeing something new. My heart does a little flip— not quite sure what it means yet—but it’s different from before, like something inside me is starting to stir.

His hand moves, slow and casual, brushing against mine as he reaches for a napkin. The small contact sends a surprising jolt through me, the kind that makes you sit up straighter and notice everything.

For a beat, we stay as we are. No questions, no words, no distractions.

Then laughter bursts from the front of the shop while Carson’s voice cuts through.

“Hey, man, sorry to break it up, but we’ve gotta go. Team dinner’s waiting!”

Asher glances toward the noise, a smirk tugging at his lips, then back at me.

“Duty calls,” he says, standing up and offering me his hand. “I’ll see you at Drench for Defense in a few days?”

“You will,” I say, a little bit too cheerful for me as I take his hand before I can stop myself.

My mind swirls with thoughts I haven’t quite figured out yet, reluctantly letting go once I’m on my feet.

Interesting in that I’m distracted by how soft his hands are for someone who is so physical every day of their life.

As he heads for the door, I watch him walk away and realize that maybe—just maybe—I don’t want him to go.