Page 2 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

I’m not even surprised when the call disconnects, leaving me standing here confused.

I grab my bags and start to balance everything so I can get back across the thruway and into the terminal when I spot a lone empty baggage trolley.

It might as well be shimmering like a desert oasis as far as I’m concerned.

Clutching my bags, I drag everything over so I can plop it on top of the little pushcart, my body already thanking me.

As I begin to wrestle my bags onto the trolley, I finally feel a glimmer of hope.

My back sings with relief, and I grin like I’ve just won the lottery.

I’m literally in the middle of hoisting the biggest piece of luggage up to load onto the cart…

when the trolley glides away. It happens almost too smoothly, like it’s being carried off by a magical force.

Except it’s not magic. It’s a man. A very large giant man who looks like he could palm my suitcase if I’m being honest.

“Hey!” I shout, spinning around just in time to see this guy in a hoodie and faded jeans pushing my trolley away like he’s late for a flight. My shoulder bag slips and thuds onto the sidewalk, barely missing his foot.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. Unreal.

“Excuse me!” I yell, grabbing my dropped bag and straightening up, my voice cutting through the chaos of the curbside pickup area.

No reaction.

I’m beyond irritated now. Somehow, I manage to scoop up my smaller bags, precariously balancing them as I clutch my other bag and stomp after him. “Hey! You! Cart thief!”

Still nothing. No flinch, no pause. Just the steady push of my good-luck trolley.

By the time I catch up, breathless and absolutely livid, I’m about two seconds away from yanking the trolley right out of his hands. “Are you serious right now?!” I snap, planting myself in front of him.

That’s when I see them—AirPods, tucked snugly in his ears, practically glowing with audacity. If they had faces, I’d be looking at little tongues sticking out at me.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I mutter, more to myself than him. I wave a hand in front of his face like I’m flagging down a taxi. “Hello!”

He blinks, finally noticing me, and pulls out one earbud, a huge smile spreading across his face.

A very good-looking face at that, and it’s on top of a broad set of shoulders, but I’m too mad to appreciate him and his good looks right now.

Even if his eyes are the clearest blue I’ve ever seen and the hoodie he’s wearing hugs the curves of his arms and shows off his biceps. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I point to the cart. “You took my trolley.”

His gaze flits to the cart as he pushes a few strands of his sandy blonde hair out of his line of sight, then back to me. “Was this yours?”

“No,” I deadpan, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I enjoy chasing strangers. It’s the number-one way to win friends and influence people.”

His face breaks into a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that. I thought it was a freebie someone left behind. ”

“Well, it’s not. It’s mine.” I glare at him, my hands on my hips, daring him to argue. It’s a little lie, but only a small one.

“Right. My bad.” He steps back and gestures to the trolley, as though the whole ordeal is no big deal.

But I’m not done. “Do you make a habit of wandering off with other people’s stuff, or is today just special?”

He chuckles— the nerve —and shrugs. “Guess I’m off to a bad start this morning.”

“You don’t say.”

Before I can deliver another biting remark, he raises a hand in a casual wave and walks away, disappearing into the crowd like this is some normal occurrence.

I stand there, gripping the trolley handle like it’s the last thread of my sanity. “Welcome home, Mabel,” I mutter to myself. “This is going to be great. And yes, I will certainly want to leave.”

I wheel the trolley through the terminal, weaving in and out of heaving crowds, my eyes scanning the sea of people holding signs. Some signs are professional, neatly printed, while others are handwritten scrawls in shaky black marker. My name has to be here somewhere. McCluskey , plain and simple.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, barely managing to answer before the call drops. “Hello?”

“Mabel! Finally.” My editor, and the man I answer to at the magazine I work for, Athletic Edge, is in a good mood.

I’ve worked as a freelance reporter for them off and on for years, but more on since I lost the job on TV, of course.

A girl has to pay her bills. Frank’s voice barrels through the line, louder than the overhead announcements. “How was the flight?”

“I made it,” I mutter, sidestepping a cluster of people arguing over the proper way to fold a stroller. “What’s up, Frank?”

“What’s up?” he echoes, like the idea of casual conversation offends him. “What’s up is that we’ve got deadlines, and I need to make sure you’re hitting the key players for this piece. Got a second to review the list? ”

I dodge a suitcase rolling dangerously close to my ankle. “Sure, why not? Let’s hear it.”

“First off, the mayor. You’ve tried him, right?”

“So many times. No dice. He’s more elusive than Bigfoot. I’ve left three voicemails, emailed his office, and even tried a LinkedIn message. Nothing.”

Frank grumbles something about small-town politics and clears his throat. “Okay, well, keep trying.”

“In the fun way small towns work, he also lives across the street from my mom, so if I have to knock on his door this week, I will.” Yep, #smalltownlife is real.

“That’s my girl,” Frank shouts as he moves on. “Next: the head coach. Make sure you sit down with him. We need his perspective on building a team from scratch.”

“I already had a pre-interview with him earlier this week,” I say, mentally noting I need to call his assistant when I get to my mom’s. “He’s also answered some questions over email already, so we’re good there.”

“Good. Now, the players. Jamie Hayes, the captain—don’t miss him.

He’s the heart of this team, and the readers will eat that up.

Then there’s Clément Rivière, our fancy Frenchman, we for sure want a quote from him.

Oh, and Cade Lennox from Chicago…definitely get some face time with our resident party boy. ”

“Got it,” I say, taking mental notes as I weave past a family having a meltdown near baggage claim. “Do you have anyone else in mind for this?”

Frank pauses, and I can practically hear him shuffling through papers. “Yeah. There’s someone coming in from an AHL team in Virginia, The River City Renegades. He’s Canadian and is going to be a star, mark my words…I’m just blanking on his name.”

Finally, I laugh. “That’s the Frank I know and love. ‘Baby, you are a star! I just can’t remember your name.’”

“Oh stop it, McCluskey,” Frank chides me. We’ve worked together for so long, bickering is our love language. “You’d forget too if you were my age and reading names off like doing roll calls for the army.”

“The day you forget my name, I’ll be worried, though.”

“McCluskey, I’m serious. This kid has heat. I’ll dig up his details and shoot you a bio and a headshot.”

“Send it over, and I’ll work him in,” I say as I mentally add him to the ever-growing list.

“And this is exactly why I wanted you to be our person on the ground for the Ice Breakers inaugural game,” Frank says, sounding pleased. “I want this piece to shine, McCluskey. You’re the best we’ve got for this.”

“I know,” I say dryly. “I’m also the only one who is from Maple Falls, so why not send me home for torture, right?”

“As a man who clawed his way out of his own small town and lived to tell the tale, I get it. However, at the end of the day, it’s a free flight to see your family. Appreciate it.”

Of course he has the power to make me think twice about looking the gift horse in the mouth. I also wish I knew what that phrase really meant. “You have a point. Now, let me go find my ride out of here so I can get to work.”

I hang up and tuck my phone back into my pocket when I realize I’ve got a serious case of dry mouth.

I make my way to a fast food counter and order a soda with lots of extra ice I can chew on, then scan the terminal again.

This time, over by the automatic exit doors, a sign catches my eye: McCluskey . Bingo.

Sipping my drink, I gleefully push the trolley toward the man holding the sign. Look, I’m not thrilled to be here, but I am looking forward to getting home and taking a long hot shower. This gal is getting pungent after a day of travel in the cramped quarters of economy.

The man in question is older, gray-haired, and wearing a crisp black suit that screams “airport driver.” As I approach, I clear my throat. “Hi. McCluskey. That’s me. ”

Before the man can respond, a familiar voice cuts in from behind me.

“Okay, Joe. I got what I came for.”

I whip around, and there he is with his blue eyes sparkling with glee—the cart thief. He stands there, clutching some odd-looking baggage and towering over me with that stupidly carefree grin plastered across his face, as if fate finds this whole situation hilarious.

“Oh, no,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh, yes,” he says, clearly having overheard me.

“I mean, oh no. This isn’t a cab,” I say, pointing at the driver with my thumb. “He’s a friend of my stepdad’s and he’s my ride.”

“Your stepdad,” the trolley thief says, “Murray?”

“Yes,” I growl.

Big eyes look back at me as he points to his trolley. “I had a couple of bags that didn’t land with me when I arrived a few days ago that I needed to pick up. Murray offered for me to share your car today so I could get my things.”

That good relationship I have with Murray may be officially tested today. “He did what now?”

“I’ve got an SUV, it’s big enough.” The driver’s gaze rocks back and forth between us, his expression impassive but his eyebrows creeping upward just slightly. “This way.”

The jolly giant gestures for me to go first, his grin widening. “After you.”

Grabbing my trolley, I follow the driver toward the sleek black SUV parked at the curb while my new friend strolls behind me, whistling a jaunty tune like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

The driver, who introduces himself as Joe, throws my bags and the trolley thief’s into the trunk while I slide into the back seat, scooting over as far as humanly possible without plastering myself to the door.

Of course, my new buddy plops down right next to me, his long legs invading what little personal space I have left. Considering how large the back seat of an SUV is, this is some feat on his part.

“Cozy,” he says with a wink.

I turn my attention to the window, willing the car to start moving.

It does, smoothly pulling away from the curb and into the endless flow of airport traffic.

I dig into my bag, pulling out my travel folder.

The bold label Athletic Edge glares back at me, a stark reminder of the to-do list I’m already dreading.

“ Athletic Edge ?” he asks, leaning slightly toward me. “Are you a sports fan?”

I snap the folder shut and shove it back into my bag. “Something like that.”

He doesn’t seem deterred. “What sport?”

“Lots of them,” I say vaguely, pulling out my phone as if I have an urgent text to answer.

He chuckles, sitting back and giving me a look like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Are you always this chatty?”

I ignore him, pretending the scenery outside is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

Thankfully, he gets bored of me pretty fast, because in an instant he’s leaning forward and tapping Joe on his shoulder.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks, launching into easy small talk.

Joe’s voice softens as he starts talking about his job, his years driving for various clients, and his favorite stories from the road.

My seatmate keeps the conversation going with the kind of warmth and enthusiasm that makes me wonder if he’s running for governor of the state or maybe he’s naturally this annoying.

Me, I say a silent thank you to the gods of airline flights that he wasn’t sitting next to me for the flight across the country.

I am not a travel talker, no thank you and no way.

I try to tune them out, scrolling aimlessly through my phone until it beeps with a new email notification. It’s from Frank.

I open it, finding a brief note: Here’s the bio and pic of that player you need to talk to—Asher Tremblay. Here’s his number, touch base with him when you can.

Attached is a photo of Asher Tremblay in full hockey gear, grinning like he’s just won the Stanley Cup, a bio, and his digits so I can call him.

My head snaps up, my gaze darting to the man sitting next to me. The easy smile. The blond hair. The stupidly carefree energy.

Of course, it’s him.

He glances my way, catching my stunned expression. “Something wrong?”

“Nope.” I clamp my phone to my chest and force a tight smile. “Everything’s just peachy.”

But inside, I’m screaming.