Page 25 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

ASHER

I arrive at Mary-Ellen’s house at precisely eleven in the morning, as instructed.

The bouquet of flowers in my hand feels too big, too bright—like it’s mocking me.

I adjust my grip and take a deep breath before knocking on the door.

The hinges creak, and Mary-Ellen appears in the doorway, dressed in…

old clothes? Her shirt has a tear at the shoulder, and her jeans look like they’ve been through a war.

Her eyes flick to the flowers and then back to me. Her expression reads somewhere between amused and bemused. “Hello, Asher,” she says.

“Hi,” I say, peering behind her before I look over my own shoulders. When someone bids on you at a bachelor auction, not that it’s happened to me before, but I would think they’d be more excited to see you or even simply be dressed for your date.

“You look confused,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. You told me to be here at eleven. I thought…” I gesture at the flowers, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Lunch date?”

She bursts out laughing, a hearty, unapologetic sound. “Oh, sweetie, no. I never said anything about lunch. Come on in.” She steps aside, motioning for me to enter.

I hesitate, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “So…what exactly am I here for?”

“Chores,” she says matter-of-factly, closing the door behind me.

“Got a list of things that need doing around the house. Figured a big, strong hockey player like you could handle it.” She hands me a folded piece of paper and a hammer that looks older than me.

“We’re starting with hanging a picture in the living room. ”

“Hanging a picture,” I repeat, my voice flat.

“Yep. It’s been sitting on the floor for months.”

I glance at the flowers in my hand. “What should I do with these?”

“Oh, those are lovely. Stick ‘em in that vase over there,” she says, pointing to a shelf without looking back.

I do as I’m told, setting the bouquet into a dusty vase that’s clearly seen better days. Then, with the hammer in one hand and the list in the other, I follow her into the living room.

The picture in question is a large ornate frame containing what I assume is a family portrait. Mary-Ellen plops herself down in an armchair, a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. The whipped cream—piled high and sprinkled with chocolate shavings—taunts me.

“You’re just going to sit there?” I ask, incredulous.

“Well, yeah,” she says with a shrug. “You’re the one doing the work. I’m supervising.”

I run a hand through my hair and sigh. The hammer feels heavy, even though it’s probably all in my head. “All right, let’s do this.”

By the time I’ve wrestled the picture onto the wall, my hands are covered in dust and I’m questioning every decision that led me to this moment. Mary-Ellen offers me a cheer of encouragement .

“Good job, Asher. You definitely have a back up career as a handyman if hockey doesn’t work out.”

I’m debating whether to say something, or question bachelor auction rules (there must be some?), when the door opens and Mabel walks in, carrying a couple of grocery bags.

Her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene—her mother lounging with her hot chocolate, and me standing there with a hammer like I’m part of some twisted DIY reality show.

“What’s going on here?” she asks, setting the bags on the floor.

Mary-Ellen grins. “Oh, just putting my winnings to work. He’s surprisingly handy.”

I shoot Mabel a pleading look. “Help.”

The slow, evil grin that tugs on Mabel’s lips shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “I’d love to, Asher, but”—she juts her chin toward the bags of groceries she’s dumped on the floor—“my hands are tied.”

“I made a cup of hot chocolate for you, too, Mabel,” Mary-Ellen calls out from her perch.

I whip around, hand on my hip. “What kind of joke is this?”

“A good one,” Mary-Ellen crows, punctuating her remark with a cackle.

Not a laugh, not a giggle. Straight-up cackle.

She picks up a sheet of paper on the arm of the chair beside her and waves it in the air.

“I’d like to have one of the shutters fixed on the back of the house, and if it’s possible, I do have a few things that need to be picked up from the dry cleaners. ”

She doesn’t let up. “Oh, and while you’re at it, the gutters need clearing.

And the garage door’s been squeaking for months—I’ve got some WD-40 in the other room.

” She jumps up and runs into the kitchen, digging under the sink.

Once she has what she wants, she walks past me and hands me the spray can like she’s passing me a puck on the ice.

Mabel snorts while I stare at the spray can, and Mary-Ellen’s phone rings. We both watch as she plucks her phone dramatically from the coffee table and sighs soap-opera loud. “Oh, hang on a sec. I’ve gotta take this.” She disappears into another room, leaving me alone with Mabel.

Mabel’s always one to look put together, but today, standing near the kitchen, wearing running pants that hug her curves in all the right ways, I’m fighting to keep my eyes from making their way to below her neck.

Instead, I let my eyes drift to her lips, those perfect pink treasures that I’ve had the pleasure of pressing mine against, before snapping away.

Focus, Asher. This is not the time or the place.

But, a low chuckle tells me I’m busted and that Mabel’s caught me staring. Her eyebrows arch slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, going back to fiddling with the spray can. It’s not like I’m about to tell her the truth. Not with her mom hovering like a drone nearby, anyway.

Before I can spiral any further, Mary-Ellen reappears, clutching her purse like it’s a lifeline. “Asher, I’m so sorry, but I have to dash. The book club needs me to pick out the next book, and I’ve got another meeting right after that.”

“Mother,” Mabel says, crossing her arms and fixing her with a skeptical stare. “You have to pick out the book now? Right this second?”

“Yes, darling. It’s an emergency,” Mary-Ellen replies breezily, sliding one arm into her jacket.

Mabel’s eyes slam into mine as she shakes her head. She turns her attention back to Mary-Ellen. “A book emergency?”

“It’s a very competitive book club, Mabel. If we don’t have a title, the infighting begins.”

“You never double-book, though,” Mabel counters, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, today I did.”

“You don’t double-book.”

“And yet, miraculously, I managed it. A first for everything!” Mary-Ellen gives a bright, almost-triumphant smile as if breaking her own rules was a badge of honor .

“How can you just leave him here?” Mabel throws her hands in the air, clearly exasperated. “You’re the one who bid on him, and won, in the bachelor auction.”

Honestly. It’s like watching Federer and Nadal battle it out on the tennis court for a Grand Slam.

“Hi, guys,” I say, shaking the can. “I’m here and my name is Asher.”

Mary-Ellen waves a dismissive hand. “Mabel, darling, make sure he gets these things done. Here’s the list.” She thrusts it into her daughter’s hands. “Make sure he finishes it, okay?”

I’m feeling like a discarded prize when Mabel’s jaw goes slack. Mary-Ellen grabs her keys and quite literally runs out the door. Mabel waits a few beats before slowly turning to face me.

“Sorry, Asher. No one probably told you about Hurricane Mary-Ellen. She’s a storm all her own.”

I can feel a little tension with her words. “Hey,” I say in an attempt to placate the situation, “it’s fine. She’s a busy mom who likes to be a part of the community.”

“She’s a busybody who doesn’t stay out of anyone’s business,” Mabel manages through gritted teeth. “Oh, except her daughter. That’s one life and person she won’t come near.”

“We can turn the day around,” I say, shaking the can again. “I’m here, I may as well lubricate something.”

Mabel eyeballs me before she takes the list and crumples it up, chucking it across the room into the fireplace. “No. No list. She tricked you.” Her line of sight lands on the bouquet of flowers on the counter. “You brought that woman flowers and she gave you a to-do list?”

I consider my words before shrugging. “My mom would like her.”

“Well, everyone pretty much does. Except when they don’t.” Mabel looks around the room as if she were trying to find answers in the art on the walls.

“Well,” I say, looking at my watch, “since you said no when I asked you out that time, and seeing that I blocked off my whole afternoon on Mary-Ellen’s insistence—and she is your mom, so guilty by association—I’ve got nothing but time today. Want to come with me to get some lunch?”

“She insisted?”

“Told me she would plan the whole thing. So come on. What’s the pay off from a bachelor auction if I don’t get to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” she says, her words rapid-fire and sharp.

Only, her stomach growls—it is loud and unapologetic, a foghorn cutting through the silence.

My eyes flick to her midsection, and I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips.

It’s like her body has called her out in the most embarrassing way possible.

Mabel presses a hand to her stomach, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink as she mutters, “Traitor.”

I bite back a laugh, pretending to focus on the can of WD-40 in my hand. “You sure you don’t want to join me for a pizza? Sounds like you’re halfway there.”

She looks at me. “I can’t get mad at pizza.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

We step out of the Rustic Slice Pizzeria, the lingering scent of garlic and melted cheese still clinging to my shirt. The sun filters through the trees lining Maple Falls Park, dappling the path ahead of us. I glance over at Mabel, her expression unreadable.

I nudge her elbow. “Thanks for coming with me to lunch. ”

“Sorry my mom kinda ‘tricked ya and ditched ya’,” she manages with a chuckle.

“Your mom, she’s one of a kind,” I start, hesitating as Mabel stiffens.

“You could say that.”