Page 43 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Mom waves a hand at me, unimpressed. “Helping implies actual effort. Put the phone away.” She bends to adjust one of the baskets and adds casually, “Oh, and guess who I just saw waltzing through town like he hadn’t vanished for weeks? Mayor Thompkins. No idea where he’s been, but he’s apparently alive and wandering the festival.”
She straightens up, then points to a lopsided stack ofpinecones. “Now, unless the spirit of civic leadership is going to organize this booth for us, I suggest you start fluffing those garlands.”
With a sigh, I shove my phone into my back pocket, ignoring the part of my brain that’s replaying the comment labeling him the “Dancing Defenseman.” It’s been on a loop all morning, right along with “Ice Ice Baby,” which raises some serious concerns about someone’s playlist choices. And since his epic first goal in the opening game for the Ice Breakers, he’s been all over my social media and dancing nonstop through my mind.
But never mind that. The fact remains: for a man who’s basically a human mountain, Asher is annoyingly graceful.
“Fine, I’m all yours. What do you need?”
Mom slides a box my way, pointing to the far side of the tent. “Fluff the garlands, like I said, then unpack this and arrange the contents neatly over there. Think charming yet practical, like an HGTV host with a passion for handmade home decor.”
“Got it,” I say, pushing my sunglasses up my nose and kneeling by the box. The sun’s already bright, the smell of fried dough wafting through the air, and Maple Fest is just getting started.
I’m elbow-deep when a familiar voice pulls my attention.
“Even though she’s able, Mabel from Maple Falls should not be working a table during Maple Fest.” I look up and find Asher standing in front of me, grinning like he knows a secret I don’t. “Maybe I’ll tell her a fable and pretend I’m Clark Gable.”
I put a hand on my hip and tilt my head to one side. “Or maybe she’ll strangle you with a cable.”
He winks. “I think Hallmark should hire me to write their greeting cards.”
“I’m sure.”
“Hi, Asher.” My mother pats her hair to make sure there are no flyaways, and smiles at Asher like he’s her special treat for the morning. “It’s nice to see you again. Are you in the market for a Thanksgiving-themed wreath?”
“Not this week, ma’am, but maybe closer to the day.” He points across the green space to where the Ice Breakers have set up a booth for meet and greets. “We’re all taking turns signing swag and taking pics today.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Mom claps her hands together. “You know I’ll be by to get my player cards signed and a photo with some of you boys.”
“I’d be shocked if you didn’t.” Asher laughs.
“Makes two of us,” I agree.
Mom looks at the time, then back at Asher with a quizzical expression. “The team booth doesn’t open for another two hours,” she says matter-of-factly. When she sees the look on my face, she shrugs. “What? Of course I know when it opens. I was planning on asking you to man the booth while I went by.”
“Actually, I’m here a little early to ask Mabel if she’ll join me.” He looks back at me and holds up a small printed map. “Someone told me the local school organized a scavenger hunt, but with physical activities. Lucian was going to do it with me, but he dropped out, citing personal reasons and a sudden urge for a cupcake.”
That last part makes me smile. Go ahead, Neesha.
“However,” he continues, “I’ve already paid our entry fee, so I have an extra ticket.”
“That’s too bad for you,” I say as I empty the last pile of garland from the container. “But hey, that money is going to charity, so you’ve done your good deed for the weekend.” I lean across the table that divides us and pat his head. “Go, you!”
“Sarcasm isn’t your color, Mabel-leen.” He winks as he looks at Mom. “Maybe she’s born with it?”
“Oh, Asher. Stop it!” Mom tosses her head back and giggles, the two of them in on some stupid joke only they get. If she wants me to date him so badly, maybe she should try him out first.
“I’m not born with anything. I’m Mabel. Not able, not a table,and not Mabel-leen or whatever other cutesy little nickname you come up with.”
“Fine. I won’t call you anything but Mabel. But, only if you”—he holds up the map and waves it—“will please be my partner for this thing.”
I snatch the map from his hand and look at the list of tasks. “Axe throwing, stuffing a scarecrow, photos in nature, pie-eating contest, and jumping in a leaf pile.” It all sounds doable, for me at least. But my companion may want to rethink this. “Asher, are you sure you want to jump in a leaf pile?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “And, I will. I can. I am able”—insert annoying wink here—“to do it.”
My eyebrows hike up so high they practically lick my hair. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s going to be fun.”
