Page 16 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Carson Crane, also known as Bama,” I say, shaking his hand. “I’m Mabel McCluskey, her daughter but also a reporter forAthletic Edge.”
Carson grins. “Very cool. You in town for a visit?”
“Here for some interviews,” I say, casting a look at Asher before snapping my attention back to Carson. “Would love to talk to you at some point, if you don’t mind?”
“Hand me your phone,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you my cell. Let me know when and I’m happy to talk.”
After he adds himself as a new contact and hands me my phone back, he points across the table to his companion while I slide into a seat at the empty booth opposite them. “Have you ladies met Asher yet?”
“Not me, but”—Mom flicks her hand my way as she joins me—“apparently my daughter has.”
Asher’s lips are pulled up at the corners with the biggest smile, but when I meet his gaze all I see in his eyes reflected back at me is pure delight. Mischief even. He taps his mouth.
“How’s it going?” he asks while Carson and my mother exchange a look.
“It’s fine, thank you. All fixed.” I grab a menu off a nearby table and flip it open, pretending there’s a need to scan it right now. I highly doubt Shirley May has changed anything on this menu since she opened her doors, but today I’m going to make sure of it.
“She’s not allowed solid foods for another hour,” my mother explains as if someone asked. She looks at Carson and Asher as she tosses a sympathetic look my way. “Chipped front tooth.”
“Mom.” The horror. She’s always loved to tell everyone about my business. Don’t get me started on my first menstrual cycle. She announced it to the church choir. “Carson and Asher don’t need to know…”
“Hey, we found a random tooth on the ice at the arena yesterday,” Carson says, looking at Asher, who is bobbing his head in agreement. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“We’re experienced in the art of losing teeth,” Asher reminds me, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I’m not experienced in the art of talking about my businesswith strangers,” I snap, causing both Asher’s and Carson’s eyes to widen, with Asher biting his lip.
“She’s tired,” my mother pipes in, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “She’s from New York City, and she’s always a little cranky as she adjusts to the time.”
She drops that last bit as if it should explain why I’m acting like I am. Maybe she wants me to add on to her statement or even apologize for my attitude. But I don’t and I won’t. Let’s be clear: I’ve spent my time apologizing for things I didn’t need to, and I’m not going to start again now.
“I’m sure Asher and Carson aren’t worried about it.”
“You never know, dear,” she says as she settles across from me in the booth and finally opens her menu.
I decide on a banana and strawberry smoothie, praying the sugar alone makes up for the fact that I cannot chew anything substantial for at least sixty more minutes. Just as I’m about to close the menu, a shadow falls over the table. I glance up to see a woman with cropped, bright red hair and glasses perched on her head, her face lit up like she’s just spotted a celebrity.
“Oh my goodness! Itisyou!” she exclaims, loud enough to turn a few heads. “You’re the one who dumped a bucket of water on that guy on TV, aren’t you?”
I freeze, my fingers tightening around the menu. “Uh…”
Mom, ever the queen of composure, pretends to be deeply engrossed in the menu. I know for a fact she’s ordering a BLT on wheat with fries, as she has every Thursday since the dawn of time.
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly, my shoulders slumping under the weight of public recognition. “That was me.”
The woman claps her hands together, practically bouncing on her heels. “I knew it! I told my sister, ‘That’s her, I’m sure of it!’ But she said, ‘No way, why would she come to a diner in Maple Falls?’ And here you are!”
I catch movement from the corner of my eye and glance over. Asher sits with a steaming plate of eggs and bacon, watching thescene unfold with open amusement. When our eyes meet, he quirks an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he’s fighting off a grin.
I glare at him, but it only makes his grin widen.
“What was it like?” the woman continues, oblivious to my silent battle with Asher. “Did you plan it? Or was it, like, a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“Definitely spur of the moment,” I say, dragging my gaze back to her as my mother shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“That’s what I thought!” she says, nodding so enthusiastically I’m surprised her glasses don’t fall off. “You’re kind of a legend, you know. That guy totally deserved it.”
Oh, no. She said it. She said the word legend. My mother finally looks up, her expression cool and unimpressed. “I’m sure my daughter would prefer not to dwell on it,” she says, her voice a polite dagger.
