Page 17 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Oh, of course!” the woman says quickly, holding her hands up. “But, you know, good for you.” She winks at me, then bustles back to her seat at the counter, her excitement still palpable.
I let out a slow breath and slump back in my seat.
Mom arches a brow at me. “Aren’t you a hero,” she says flatly. “A right ‘legend,’ in fact.”
“Don’t start,” I mutter, burying my face in the menu. I’m not sure who wants to fall into a hole in the floor and disappear right now—me or my mom.
As if on cue, Asher lets out a low chuckle, and it’s loud enough for me to hear. My head snaps up, and our eyes meet again. He leans back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his expression one of pure, unfiltered amusement.
I narrow my eyes as he raises his coffee cup in a mock toast, his grin infuriatingly smug.
“I’m just saying, Mabel.” Mom clears her throat, pulling my attention back to her. “Not everyone gets a fan club for being impulsive.”
“Maybe not,” I say, risking one last glance at Asher. He’s stillwatching me, his expression softer now, almost curious. It makes my stomach do an annoying little flip.
“But it’s nice to know someone appreciates me,” I add, turning back to my mom.
“I thought I raised a lady.” Mom hums noncommittally, flipping her menu closed.
“You did, and then she moved to the city.”
“Well, that city attitude is going to get you nowhere if you keep it up,” she huffs, clearly irritated.
I glance back at Asher one more time, drawn in by the weight of his gaze. This time, his grin tilts into a smirk, slow and deliberate. It’s as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Whatever is brewing in that maddening head of his, I don’t know. But the way his eyes glint with unspoken mischief sends a clear message: he’s not letting this go anytime soon.
And something tells me, neither am I.
CHAPTER 6
ASHER
The crunchof 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 abooth 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?”
