Page 26 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“A fresh start,” she says, her voice soft but certain. “I’ve been looking into opening a shop there. Something bigger, something new. Maple Falls is great, but it’s limiting.”
“Limiting?” I repeat, my tone incredulous. “Neesha, you’re the queen of this town. People practically worship your cupcakes. Why would you want to leave that?”
“Because sometimes you have to take risks,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, look at you. You left. You chased your dream. Why can’t I do the same?”
I digest the thought before sitting up straighter. “Okay, but hear me out. Instead of a whole new shop, what about a food truck? You can still do your thing, but it’s mobile. You can go where the people are, test the waters, and see if Seattle’s really the place for you.”
Neesha tilts her head, considering. “A food truck?”
“Yeah,” I say, warming to the idea. “Think about it. Loweroverhead, more flexibility, and you get to keep that personal touch you’re so good at. Plus, you’re not tied down to one spot if it doesn’t work out.”
She bites her lip, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll look into it.”
“You should,” I say, grinning. “And when you’re wildly successful, you can name a cupcake after me. Something edgy but sweet.”
“Edgy but sweet?” Neesha snorts. “Like your entire personality?”
“Exactly.” I glance at my watch and hop off the stool. “I gotta go. I need to be at The Glass Olive in a few minutes.”
“Here, for later,” Neesha says as she shoves a cupcake in a brown bag for me.
“Perfect midnight snack. I’ll give you a call later,” I say as I lean across the counter and hug her once more. “And that maple-pecan-what’s-it you made me eat? So good.”
“Mabel’s Falling for Maple Pecan Cupcakes?” she calls out as I open the door.
I pump a fist in the air, okaying my namesake. “There it is!”
The Glass Olive is bustling with its usual dinner crowd, a symphony of clinking silverware and murmured conversations filling the air. The scent of garlic, basil, and fresh-baked bread is a constant temptation, mingling with the faint floralaroma of the olive trees that stand sentinel in large pots around the room. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast a warm glow, softening the edges of the rustic brick walls. I sit at a table for two tucked into a corner, the leather-backed chair creaking slightly as I shift, trying to look anywhere but the entrance.
Waiting. One of my least favorite activities.
I glance at the menu for the third time, not because I’m unsure of what to order but because it gives me something to do with my hands. The noise of the restaurant ebbs and flows, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional scrape of a chair against the tiled floor. My phone buzzes with a notification, but I ignore it. Tonight is about work, not distractions.
The door swings open, and a gust of cool night air briefly sweeps in. My eyes flicker up, and there he is. One part giant, one part superhero.
Asher’s broad shoulders fill the doorway as if he’s been cut out of a movie poster for “Charming Athlete Who Accidentally Takes Your Breath Away.” He reminds me of the actor, Scott Speedman, as he breezes in. His sandy-blond hair is a little tousled but in that intentional way, and he’s got this jawline that could probably cut glass. He’s wearing a navy blazer over a white shirt, the kind of casual-but-sharp look that makes me wonder if he’s trying too hard or if he always wakes up this effortlessly perfect.
I’m scowling before I realize it. He’s too good-looking. The kind of good-looking that has women leaning across bar counters to give him their numbers. The kind of good-looking that…oh, great, now he’s spotted me.
Asher’s lips curve into an easy smile, and he starts making his way over. This man moves with the grace of a dancer and the kind of confidence that only comes from years of skating circles around people. My stomach twists, and I immediately scold it.Calm down, Mabel. You’re here to work, not to swoon.
“Mabel,” he greets, his voice warm and rich as he slides intothe chair across from me. He looks comfortable, like this is just another casual night for him.
“Asher,” I reply, folding my hands over the menu in front of me. My tone is neutral, professional. No way I’m letting him know how distracting his stupidly-perfect face is.
We exchange a few pleasantries before turning our attention to the menus. A server appears, and I order the chicken marsala while he opts for spaghetti carbonara. As the server retreats, Asher leans back in his chair, studying me with a tilt of his head.
“So,” he begins, his smile edging toward mischievous as he rearranges his silverware into a perfect line on the top of his napkin, meticulous in his movements. “How do we begin?”
I straighten. “I’ll ask you some questions, on the record, and you’ll answer them.”
He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “That easy, huh?”
“That easy,” I reply, keeping my expression neutral. But the way he’s looking at me…there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
Asher laughs, a low, genuine sound that catches me off guard. “Well, if I’m going to answer questions for you, I think we should make a deal.”
I arch an eyebrow. This is not my first rodeo, but it is the first time I’ve had anyone I’m interviewing want to make a bargain before we get started. These types of requests usually comeafterthey’ve spilled all their secrets. “What kind of deal?”
