Page 9 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

ASHER

The crunch of gravel under my boots and the chatter of vendors setting up their stalls welcome me as I cross the parking lot toward the Maple Falls farmers’ market.

My phone is pressed to my ear, my mother’s voice flowing through the line like that one little piece of home I’ve managed to carry with me.

“You’re not overdoing it, are you?” I ask, weaving between stalls brimming with pumpkins and bouquets of dried corn husks. “The last thing you need is to hurt yourself trying to do too much coordination for the syrup.”

“Asher, I’m in a wheelchair, not incapable of using my brain,” she quips back, her tone warm but teasing. “My brain might still be sharp, but yours is getting soft. What are they feeding you down there?”

I laugh, the sound blending with the hum of market chatter. “A lot of carbs and maybe too much apple-flavored everything. I can’t seem to walk past a stall without someone insisting I try something that has apple in it, or cinnamon. It’s like they know I’m from out of town.”

“But don’t get used to their maple syrup. Ours is still better.”

“Obviously. Nobody comes close to yours.” I glance at a booth selling steaming cups of cider and think of our quiet family farm back home. “Are you and Dad getting out at all?”

“We went to the farmers’ market here last weekend and then out to the movies. I saw some of the neighbors this week at our neighborhood watch meeting. Everyone’s asking when you’re coming back home for a visit.”

Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the bustling market.

“Awesome dance moves, Asher!”

I turn toward the source, a grin spreading despite myself. A teenager at a nearby stall waves, her phone in hand. TikTok strikes again , I think wryly.

“What was that?” Mom asks, her tone edging on suspicious.

“Nothing,” I say, already stepping toward a quieter corner. “Our social media manager has a couple of us making videos for her to post on TikTok, and they’re doing really well. Like, we have a couple with over a million views.”

“I have no idea what that means.” She chuckles. “Is it good?”

“I’m showcasing my dance moves, so yes, it’s good,” I joke, knowing that hearing I was reveling in dancing would make her happy.

“You’re dancing?” She practically squeals in my ear. “Oh, where is this, Asher? I have to see it!”

“Later, Mom. I’ll send you a link, but I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Fine, but make sure you call me or I’ll be worried,” she says, her motherly tone starting to shine through. “Don’t forget to eat something green today, not just carbs.”

“Love you,” I say, disconnecting before she can add another reminder about vegetables.

As I slip my phone into my pocket, I spot my PAL, or player assimilation liaison, Bailey Porter, navigating her way through the crowd with ease.

She’s another Maple Falls local, and even though she was late to our first meeting—the one where she was taking me to my new place to live—she’s got a huge heart, the most positive attitude I’ve ever seen, and a love of maple butter that rivals my own.

“Did I hear someone shouting about your dance moves?” she asks with a smirk, falling into step beside me.

While her position as a PAL is a new one to me, I’m lucky she’s got it.

From the second I arrived, Bailey was tasked with helping me settle into the community.

From sorting out where I was going to live , to helping me get tickets for friends and family to the games, she’s the best.

“TikTok. Our social media manager thought it would be a good idea to get us on there. Turns out it’s harder to live down than I thought.”

“I know Clara, she’s creative.” Bailey nods. “And I’ve seen those videos. You’re pretty good.”

“The result of dance classes since I was five,” I say, giving a slight bow at the waist.

“I’m sure that helps, too. How’re you doing?” Her question holds more weight than a casual inquiry, and I appreciate her subtlety. “I’ve not heard from you so I figured you were settling in, but I know it’s a rocky road with OCD if you’re not feeling yourself yet.”

“Better than I thought I would,” I admit. “Cade hooked me up with a local chronic illness support group.”

Bailey’s smile softens. “That’s huge, Asher. How was it?”

At practice, Cade’s noticing my tick helped me to break down one of my own walls.

When we were leaving the arena that night, I’d joked I needed more therapy, and to my surprise, he offered to take me to a local Chronic Warrior’s Support Group meeting.

Sixteen-year-old me used to dream about the day I’d get onto the ice as an NHL player; I’d probably go out on my first night with my new professional friends and have some brews and some steaks, and then…

But no. It’s not like that. I went to a support group for my mental health. And I am so grateful he took me.

“It’s exactly what I needed. I’ll probably go again. ”

Her encouraging nod is cut short when my gaze snags on someone moving through the market.

Mabel. Her hair is tied back, a few strands escaping as she carries a coffee in each hand.

I follow her trajectory and see she’s heading toward a booth where her mom is busy arranging flyers on a table underneath a sign that shouts “SAVE MAPLE FALLS.”

Bailey follows my line of sight and smirks. “You know Mabel?”

“Yes, kinda—but, no,” I say, my voice distant as I watch Mabel interact with her mother before she jumps behind the table and starts helping to arrange flyers, books, and other items laid out on the table in their stall.

“She’s cool. I grew up with her.” Bailey smiles, reminiscing.

“Our moms took us trick-or-treating together when we were little, and I’m pretty sure I had my first sleepover at her house.

Her mom baked us fresh cookies that night.

I’ll never forget it, going to bed after eating a hot, straight from the oven, chocolate chip cookie. ”

Bailey’s voice drifts away, like a low hum of background music on a distant radio, barely registering as I watch Mabel.

My focus is locked on her, every movement pulling me in like a magnet I can’t resist. “She’s…

interesting,” I finally say, each word deliberate, the only ones I’m willing to give away.

“Well, it was nice running into you, Asher. Enjoy your day. You’ve got my number if you need anything.” Bailey pats my arm and then veers off toward another stall.

I linger, steadying myself before I start toward Mabel, not sure why my feet started moving in her direction. Obviously, the rest of me has to follow.

I approach the booth, and Mary-Ellen looks up first. Her face lights up with recognition, and she waves me over. “Well, hello, Asher. It’s nice to see you again.”

Mabel glances over, and her expression immediately hardens into a scowl. Her green eyes lock on me like I’ve just interrupted something important, and I’m pretty sure I’m already not her favorite person.

“Hi,” I say, grinning as I step closer. “Mrs. McCluskey, right?”

She smooths her hair back, preening as she straightens her shoulders. “Mary-Ellen, please. None of that Mrs. business.”

“Technically, she’s Mrs. Patterson,” Mabel deadpans. “But she didn’t take her new husband’s surname.”

“You say ‘new husband’ like I get one every few years,” Mary-Ellen says a bit sharply before she looks my way again and literally bats her eyelashes. “I got remarried about a year ago, and I’m at the age where everyone in town knows me as a McCluskey. Why confuse them?”

While her mother launches into the detailed explanation, her voice steady and assured, Mabel stares at her with an expression that can only be described as What the actual…? It’s the kind of look that could stop traffic, or at least make her mother reconsider mid-sentence.

“So,” Mabel interrupts, “you’re saying McCluskey is like having a pen name?”

“Stop it, Mabel,” she hisses as she gestures to the jars of preserves. “Anyway, we’ve got apple butter, pumpkin preserves, and my famous spiced peach jam, all to show off the flavors of Maple Falls. You can taste-test while signing our petition here.”

“It all looks amazing,” I say, my gaze flicking to Mabel, who’s busy arranging jars like I’m not standing right here. “Do you make all of this yourself?”

“Oh, no,” Mary-Ellen says, patting Mabel’s arm. “I make the spiced peach jam for fun, small batches once a year. The rest I gather from local farmers and hobbyists to sell on commission.”

“Is there any maple butter?” I enquire.

Mabel snorts. “Maple butter?”

“Don’t be angry at it,” I explain. “We make it back home on my parents’ farm. It’s amazing on toast in the morning.”

“Well, if you ever get a care package and feel like spreading the wealth, I’d love to try some. I’ve only seen it on Pinterest,” Mary-Ellen says as someone approaches the booth, flagging her down. “Excuse me, you two.”

“You are quite the pair. Great teamwork,” I say, letting the compliment hang in the air as I aim it at Mabel.

She doesn’t miss a beat, turning to me with a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Thanks. We aim to please.”

“Really? Because that look you’re giving me says otherwise,” I counter with an exaggeratedly innocent expression.

Mabel’s lips twitch, but she reins it in, folding her arms across her chest. “Maybe you’re misinterpreting it. This is my ‘pleased’ face.”

“Is it now,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Because back home, we’d call that a ‘you’re pushing your luck’ face.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement beneath her mock glare. “And yet, here you are. Pushing.”

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I like to live dangerously.”

Mabel rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile as she picks up her coffee and takes a sip. As she does, I notice a group of young adults nearby, clearly staring at us.

Mabel catches it too and groans, rolling her eyes. “Here we go,” she mutters under her breath.

The group approaches, and one of them—a guy with a backward cap—points at us. “Hey, are you?—”

“Yes, it’s me,” Mabel cuts in, exasperated. “I’m the person who dumped water on the TV reporter. Can we move on?”

The guy looks confused. “Uh, no. I mean, we’ve seen you in those TikToks, man,” he says, pointing to me. “You’re the dancer—the hockey player! Those videos are awesome.”

Mabel’s jaw tightens and she crosses her arms as the small crew walks off, her cheeks flushed bright pink with what I’m guessing is embarrassment. She doesn’t say it, but it’s written all over her face.

Suddenly, as if she was summoned out of nowhere, Mary- Ellen claps her hands, cutting through the awkwardness. “Mabel, would you please take some of these Maple Fest flyers around to the other stalls and hang a few up in town?”

Mabel sighs, already reaching for the stack of flyers. “Sure.” Her tone suggests she’d rather do anything else, but she doesn’t argue.

“I’ll help,” I say, jumping at the chance before I can think better of it.

Mabel’s head snaps toward me, her gaze cool and steady. “That’s not necessary,” she says, her words clipped and deliberate.

I flash what I’ve been told is a winning smile, the kind that got me out of trouble in high school and earned me a free drink or two in college. “I insist. It’ll go faster with two people.”

Her sigh is back and this one is loud, exaggerated, and entirely dramatic. “Fine. But try to keep up.”

She turns on her heel and heads toward the market’s bustling rows, the stack of flyers tucked under her arm like a shield. I follow her, weaving between colorful stalls of fresh produce and handmade crafts, my grin growing with every step.

Because the truth is, I don’t care if she’s annoyed. In fact, I am realizing that her irritation only fuels the fire. Spending time with Mabel—whether she’s glaring at me, rolling her eyes, or trying her best to pretend I don’t exist—is quickly becoming my favorite pastime.

And as she tosses a flyer onto a nearby stall with more force than necessary, I know one thing for certain: this little mission just got a whole lot more interesting.

By the time we reach the next stall, she glances over her shoulder, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out my angle.

“What?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

She huffs, handing me a flyer. “You’re awfully eager for someone who doesn’t even live here. ”

I take the flyer, shrugging. “Maybe I just like the company.”

She stares at me for a beat too long, then shakes her head, muttering something about relentless do-gooders under her breath before moving on.

And that’s when it hits me: I might be playing with fire here, but I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed the heat this much.