Checking Mr. Wrong by Anne Kemp

Asher’s POV

“I’m Asher,” I say with a nod, hoping she’ll come to understand that I am not a foe. Not a friend either, yet, but definitely not a foe.

She eyes me, looking at me as if she half expects me to grab her purse and toss it out the window. “Mabel.”

“Nice to meet you, Mabel. You from here?”

She nods. “Born and raised in Maple Falls.”

She still watches me while I take a pause. The tiniest of jokes pops up like a cartoon bubble over my head. “Wait. You’re Mabel. From Maple Falls?”

“I know where this is headed, and you’re not funny,” she retorts dryly as she shoots another glare my way.

“Is your last name ‘Syrup’?” I ask innocently as Joe does me a solid and cracks up from the front seat. “That would be hilarious.”

Even when she glares, it’s kinda sexy. I keep her pinned in my line of sight as I’m hit with a subtle wave of recognition. “Do we know each other from—”

“Nope,” she interjects, looking at me pointedly and still chomping on her ice. The way she gnashes away on it is like she’s mad at the ice and rage-crunching, but who knows.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“How rude of me. Please, finish your thoughts,” she says as her lips form a tight thin line.

“I will.” Little does my new friend know, but I like the challenge of a sassy woman. “I was going to say that I know you from somewhere.”

“I doubt it.”

But I can’t shake it. “I think we must have met before.”

She snaps her head my way and stares at me. This is the second I truly notice her eyes—the kind of green that belongs in legends and treasure chests, brighter and more striking than any emerald I’ve ever seen. “I doubt it.”

“Okay,” I say, keeping my focus on her. “Well, when I remember how I know you, I’ll tell you.”

“Sounds like a plan. DM me,” she says with sarcasm oozing off each letter, and plastering on a fake smile that would make a Ringling Brothers clown cringe. She tips her cup back and tosses more ice into her mouth, chomping down on it as she puts her back toward me and faces the window again. I’m still listening to the crunch of her ice when she suddenly stops.

“Oh, ow!” Mabel drops her cup in between her feet, what’s left of the ice spilling on the mat, as she holds her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, no, no. No!”

“All good back there?” Joe asks from the front.

Mabel looks at me with fear in her eyes as she nods. “Uh-huh. All good,” she mumbles, sounding like she’s shoved a tissue in her mouth.

I give it a beat. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I can see her moving her mouth around as she stares at the back of the seat in front of her. From my spot, I can tell that her eyes are a little wild; she looks like a three-legged snake just ran in front of the car.

“I think,” she whispers, running her tongue over her front teeth. “I think I’ve chipped my front tooth.”

“Let me see.” She shakes her head, so I do my best to make her feel comfortable. I mean, it’s what I do. My dad said I’m the most people-pleasing of all the Tremblays, so I need to keep my reputation. “If you let me look, I can tell you how bad it is. I play hockey, so having a tooth chipped or getting one knocked out is par for the course.” I point to my two front teeth. “These aren’t even mine. I lost them both in the first game I played in college. If you want, I can also pop my bridge out for you, it’s back here…”

She holds up a hand, genuine worry etched on her face. “No, thank you.”

“So, give me a smile.” I lean over to her. “I promise I won’t laugh. But I can tell you how fast you need to make a dental appointment when you get to Maple Falls.”

It feels like it takes more than ten minutes to coax her, but she finally rewards me with a teeny-tiny, kinda toothy grin. I say kinda toothy because yes, part of her front tooth is for sure missing and the woman needs more than a chiclet shoved in there to make it all better.

“Is it bad?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, like she’s bracing for a hurricane of bad news.

“It’s…” I pause, searching for the right words. What do you tell someone you’ve just met who is obviously not thrilled about losing half a tooth? “It’s not bad, but it’s not great either.”

Her face crumples like I just confessed that I let her puppy run away. “Why,” she groans, pressing her lips closed and throwing herself against the back of the seat. Her head tips back dramatically, like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. “No, I do not need this right now.”

I bite back a grin, because this? This is comedy gold. I mean, it’s not funny for her, but watching someone overreact to a chipped tooth like it’s the end of the world? Hard not to find the humor.

“Nobody’s even going to notice,” I say, trying to sound sincere but probably failing. “You’ll be in Maple Falls, and everyone’s too busy looking at the trees and drinking cider to care about your teeth.”