Page 14 of Hooked on Emerson
“I don’t know.” Ava bent to pick a wildflower, twirling it between her fingers. The petals were soft, almost velvet against her skin. “Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to remember there are still places in this town I haven’t fully explored.”
She looked up at the mill again, trying to see it through her mother’s eyes. “In Seattle, I’d be working in a sleek studio with concrete floors and glass walls. Nothing like this.”
“Would that be better?” Emerson asked, not challenging, just curious.
“Different,” she said after a moment. “Not necessarily better.”
They spent the next hour wandering the clearing, Emerson pointing out where supports could be added to the mill, Ava identifying flowers she recognized from her childhood. The conversation flowed easily between them, punctuated by comfortable silences. By the time they headed back to their cars, the sun was high overhead, and Ava’s phone had several missed calls from Mrs. Connelly about a special order.
“I should get to the shop,” she said reluctantly.
Emerson nodded. “I’ll follow you. Still need to finish the shelving in the back room.”
The drive back to town was quick, the roads familiar beneath her tires. As Ava pulled up in front of Bloom & Vine, she felt a strange mix of emotions—the anxiety of obligations, but also a flicker of possibility that hadn’t been there before.
The afternoon passed in a blur of customers and arrangements. Emerson worked quietly in the back, the steady rhythm of his hammer a comforting backdrop to the day. Occasionally their paths would cross—him coming for a glass of water, her retrieving stems from the cooler—and each time, Ava felt a subtle shift in the air between them, as if their conversation that morning had changed something fundamental between them.
By closing time, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. She locked the front door with a sigh of relief, flipping the sign to “Closed.”
“Long day?” Emerson asked, emerging from the back room.
“The longest.” She leaned against the counter. “Three funeral arrangements, a last-minute anniversary bouquet, and Mrs. Connelly changing her mind about colors three times.”
He smiled. “Sounds like you earned a break.”
“What I’ve earned is a glass of wine and a hot bath,” she said, then felt her cheeks warm at the intimacy of the admission.
Emerson’s eyes held hers for a moment before he looked away. “I should head out. Let you get to that bath.”
She nodded, suddenly reluctant to see him go. “Thanks for today. For listening.”
“Anytime.” He gathered his tools, movements efficient and practiced. “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish the shelves.”
“I’ll have coffee waiting,” she promised.
After he left, Ava moved through the shop, turning off lights, checking the cooler temperature, her mind still caught in the quiet exchange of their morning. There was something about Emerson that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in a long time, maybe ever. He didn’t try to fix her grief or tell her what to do. He just listened, offering his own experiences like stepping stones across a river.
At home, she poured herself a glass of wine and ran a bath, adding a handful of dried lavender from the jar she kept by thetub. As she sank into the warm water, her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from an unfamiliar number.
Hey Ava, it’s Nattie! Your photos are ready. They turned out really beautiful. Let me know when you want to pick them up.
Ava stared at the message, remembering the strange intimacy of that day, of standing close to Emerson, a man she hadn't known then, feeling the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, the careful way he'd tucked her hair behind her ear. It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had been just a few weeks.
She set the phone down without responding, sinking deeper into the bath. Tomorrow, she decided. She'd deal with it tomorrow.
The phone's shrill ring jolted Ava from sleep. She fumbled in the darkness, knocking a book to the floor before her fingers closed around the vibrating device.
"Hello?" she mumbled, squinting at the clock. 2:17 AM.
"Ava? It's Mrs. Connelly." The older woman's voice was tight with urgency. "I was driving home from my sister's and saw water coming out from under the shop door. Looks like a pipe burst."
Ava sat up, instantly alert, the words ‘not again’ playing on repeat in her head. "I'll be right there."
She threw on random clothes—jeans, an old sweatshirt, the first shoes she could find—and was out the door in minutes. The roads were empty at this hour, streetlights casting pools of yellow light on the pavement. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she drove, mind racing with images of ruined flowers,damaged merchandise, the shop her mother had built drowning in the middle of the night.
When she pulled up, Mrs. Connelly was standing on the sidewalk in a bathrobe and rain boots, clutching a flashlight. "I called the water company," she said as Ava approached. "They're sending someone, but it might be an hour."
Ava nodded, fumbling with her keys. When she pushed open the door, water sloshed around her ankles, ice-cold and smelling of rust. The shop floor was covered in at least an inch of water, reflecting the streetlight from outside in eerie, rippling patterns.
