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

ASHER

The road snakes through the mountains, the asphalt twisting and turning like a puck in overtime.

On either side, the trees are on fire—not literally, but the colors make it look like the hills are ablaze.

Reds so rich they make stop signs jealous, oranges that look like they were plucked right from a pumpkin patch, and yellows so bright they could outshine a team’s championship banner.

As we crest the ridge, the town of Maple Falls spreads out below us, nestled snugly in a valley like it’s trying to hide from the rest of the world.

It’s picture-perfect, almost like someone planned it for a postcard.

There’s a creek cutting through the middle, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

When I first arrived and went down Main Street, I was blown away at how the buildings look like they’ve been there forever, with their brick facades and hand-painted signs advertising things like Shirley May’s Diner , The Glass Olive , and Falling for Books .

It’s the kind of scenery that makes me wish I had someone with me who appreciates it as much as I do. Playing hockey and choosing to make it a career has meant that some things have not had as much attention as I would like to have given them. Like my love life.

I let my line of sight make its way over to the other passenger sharing the backseat with me, and judging from the scowl across her face, I don’t think she’s as impressed with this view as I am.

In fact, she’s spent most of the ride so far rage-chomping on the ice from her drink.

I’ll bet you one hundred dollars she sleeps with a mouthguard.

Someone this tightly wound would have to grind their teeth all night long.

“Stunning, huh?” My lame attempt at small talk.

“What?” she asks, not even bothering to turn to look my way.

I gesture to the scenery outside of our speeding car. “This area. Maple Falls. It’s pretty here.”

“That’s a matter of personal interpretation,” she says as she turns to face me, still crunching on her ice with her mouth wide open. It’s as if she’s daring me to ask her to stop.

When our building supervisor at the Maple Falls Arena overheard me yesterday saying I needed to get to the airport today, he’d been quick to offer me some last-minute help.

I’d just gotten here, but there was a predicament: I made it but my hockey gear didn’t.

When I called the airline, the news got even better.

Normally, they’d deliver a lost bag like this one, but because of its size, I needed to be at the airport to sign for it, no ifs, ands, or buts.

And, considering today is my first day of practice in the NHL, I did not want to show up without my gear, because how sad would that be?

That’s when Murray jumped in, saying his buddy Joe was picking up his stepdaughter who was coming in on an early morning flight.

I think I hugged him, I was so happy, but he’d started laughing.

I asked if she would mind, and he kept laughing, telling me good luck and that she’s “a lot” before he was called away for an emergency in the coaches’ offices.

While yesterday I was left curious about this woman, this stepdaughter I’d be sharing a car with, I’ll admit I was a bit befuddled by how he acted. Only now that she’s here in front of me, I’m beginning to understand the undertone of his message.

What Murray also did not share was that his stepdaughter is beyond gorgeous.

I’m not a guy who grabs a fashion magazine, but when I tell you she looks like she is fresh off the cover of one, I mean it.

This woman might be rocking a chip on her shoulder the size of a loaf of sourdough, but she’s stunning—like take-my-breath-away beautiful.

“I’m Asher,” I say with a nod, hoping she’ll come to understand that I am not a foe. Not a friend either, yet, but definitely not a foe.

She eyes me, looking at me as if she half expects me to grab her purse and toss it out the window. “Mabel.”

“Nice to meet you, Mabel. You from here?”

She nods. “Born and raised in Maple Falls.”

She still watches me while I take a pause. The tiniest of jokes pops up like a cartoon bubble over my head. “Wait. You’re Mabel. From Maple Falls?”

“I know where this is headed, and you’re not funny,” she retorts dryly as she shoots another glare my way.

“Is your last name ‘Syrup’?” I ask innocently as Joe does me a solid and cracks up from the front seat. “That would be hilarious.”

Even when she glares, it’s kinda sexy. I keep her pinned in my line of sight as I’m hit with a subtle wave of recognition. “Do we know each other from?—”

“Nope,” she interjects, looking at me pointedly and still chomping on her ice. The way she gnashes away on it is like she’s mad at the ice and rage-crunching, but who knows.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“How rude of me. Please, finish your thoughts,” she says as her lips form a tight thin line.

“I will.” Little does my new friend know, but I like the challenge of a sassy woman. “I was going to say that I know you from somewhere. ”

“I doubt it.”

But I can't shake it. “I think we must have met before.”

She snaps her head my way and stares at me. This is the second I truly notice her eyes—the kind of green that belongs in legends and treasure chests, brighter and more striking than any emerald I’ve ever seen. “I doubt it.”

“Okay,” I say, keeping my focus on her. “Well, when I remember how I know you, I’ll tell you.”

“Sounds like a plan. DM me,” she says with sarcasm oozing off each letter, and plastering on a fake smile that would make a Ringling Brothers clown cringe.

She tips her cup back and tosses more ice into her mouth, chomping down on it as she puts her back toward me and faces the window again.

I’m still listening to the crunch of her ice when she suddenly stops.

“Oh, ow!” Mabel drops her cup in between her feet, what’s left of the ice spilling on the mat, as she holds her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, no, no. No!”

“All good back there?” Joe asks from the front.

Mabel looks at me with fear in her eyes as she nods. “Uh-huh. All good,” she mumbles, sounding like she’s shoved a tissue in her mouth.

I give it a beat. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I can see her moving her mouth around as she stares at the back of the seat in front of her. From my spot, I can tell that her eyes are a little wild; she looks like a three-legged snake just ran in front of the car.

“I think,” she whispers, running her tongue over her front teeth. “I think I’ve chipped my front tooth.”

“Let me see.” She shakes her head, so I do my best to make her feel comfortable.

I mean, it’s what I do. My dad said I’m the most people-pleasing of all the Tremblays, so I need to keep my reputation.

“If you let me look, I can tell you how bad it is. I play hockey, so having a tooth chipped or getting one knocked out is par for the course.” I point to my two front teeth.

“These aren’t even mine. I lost them both in the first game I played in college.

If you want, I can also pop my bridge out for you, it’s back here… ”

She holds up a hand, genuine worry etched on her face. “No, thank you.”

“So, give me a smile.” I lean over to her. “I promise I won’t laugh. But I can tell you how fast you need to make a dental appointment when you get to Maple Falls.”

It feels like it takes more than ten minutes to coax her, but she finally rewards me with a teeny-tiny, kinda toothy grin. I say kinda toothy because yes, part of her front tooth is for sure missing and the woman needs more than a chiclet shoved in there to make it all better.

“Is it bad?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, like she’s bracing for a hurricane of bad news.

“It’s…” I pause, searching for the right words. What do you tell someone you’ve just met who is obviously not thrilled about losing half a tooth? “It’s not bad, but it’s not great either.”

Her face crumples like I just confessed that I let her puppy run away. “ Why ,” she groans, pressing her lips closed and throwing herself against the back of the seat. Her head tips back dramatically, like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. “No, I do not need this right now.”

I bite back a grin, because this? This is comedy gold. I mean, it’s not funny for her, but watching someone overreact to a chipped tooth like it’s the end of the world? Hard not to find the humor.

“Nobody’s even going to notice,” I say, trying to sound sincere but probably failing. “You’ll be in Maple Falls, and everyone’s too busy looking at the trees and drinking cider to care about your teeth.”

I can tell when I’m not going to get far, so I dig around inside my backpack and pull out some snacks.

My mom had sent me a care package before I flew out and she’d stuffed it with gummy bears, my favorite.

Snacking on these little guys is my safety, a warm blanket.

What can I say? I’ve got a sugar tooth .

“Want any?” I say, offering the bag as she scowls at me.

“I literally just chipped my tooth, and you’re offering me food?”

I bite one. “They’re soft.”

Mabel shakes her head. “Thanks, but no.”

Shrugging, I turn my attention to my snack, pulling open the bag.

The crinkle of the plastic is louder than I expect, loud enough to cut through the hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio playing.

I try to be subtle about it, pinching the edges of the bag as delicately as possible, but the noise persists. It’s sharp, insistent.

Mabel’s scowl deepens, and she shoots me a look, her eyebrow arching.

“Seriously?” she says, her tone hovering somewhere between annoyed and incredulous.

“I feel like I’m in a movie theater and you’re that guy sitting behind me, chewing the loudest, breathing the heaviest, and opening his candy wrappers like they have a microphone attached to them. ”