Page 22 of Hooked on Emerson
“The shop’s looking good,” Emerson said after a while. “Customers seem happy to be back.”
Ava nodded, looking around at the space they’d rebuilt together. Beams of sunlight caught in the glass vases, sending prisms dancing across the newly painted walls. “It does look good. Better than before, even.”
“Will that be enough?” The question was gentle, without judgment, but Ava felt its weight nonetheless.
She set down her sandwich, suddenly less hungry. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Some days I think it could be. That I could find my place here, continuing what my mom started but making it my own somehow.”
“But?”
“But other days I feel like I’m just going through the motions. Like I’m living her life instead of finding my own.” She turned to face him fully, taking in the way the sun touched his hair with gold, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. “Seattle called again yesterday. The apprenticeship is still available.”
Something flickered across Emerson’s face. The emotion was too quick to name, but Ava felt its impact like a physical thing in her gut. His jaw tightened briefly before relaxing, his eyes dropping to his hands. “You thinking of taking it?”
“I’m considering it,” she said carefully, watching his profile. “It would be a chance to learn something new, to see if I can make it on my own terms.”
He nodded, his face carefully neutral, but she noticed the way his thumb traced the edge of his sandwich, a nervous gesture she’d never seen before. “How long would you be gone?”
“Six months, maybe a year.” She watched his face for a reaction. “Only thing is, I’d have to close the shop or find someone to run it while I’m away.”
Emerson was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the window. A car passed by, its shadow briefly darkening the room before light returned. When he spoke, his voice was calm. “You should do what feels right for you, Ava. Not what you think your mom would want, or what the town expects.”
“What about what you want?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, softer than she’d intended, almost a whisper.
His eyes met hers, something vulnerable shining in their depths. “What I want doesn’t factor into this decision.”
“Maybe it should,” she said, her voice gentle. “If you wanted it to.”
The air between them seemed to still. Emerson’s hand rested on the bench between them, and Ava found herself staring at it—the callused palm, the small scars across his knuckles, the strength evident in each finger. She wanted to reach for his hand, to bridge the small physical distance that seemed to represent something much larger.
“Ava,” he began, his voice rough with emotion. “I—”
The bell chimed as someone pushed open the door despite the “Closed” sign. Mrs. Connelly bustled in, her arms full of yellow baby blankets, the scent of lavender sachets wafting from her coat. “Oh good, you’re both here. I need your opinion on which of these to pair with the arrangement.”
The moment shattered, leaving Ava with a sense of something important left unsaid. It was like reading a story and being left on a huge, frustrating cliff hanger. She stood, smoothing her apron with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Of course. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Connelly dominated the conversation, showing off blankets and discussing her grandniece’s perfect fingers and toes. Emerson returned to his work in the back, the sound of his hammer a steady counterpoint to Mrs. Connelly’s enthusiastic chatter.
When the older woman finally left, Ava locked the door behind her with a sigh of relief. The shop felt suddenly quiet, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor. She made her way to the back room where Emerson was finishing the last piece of trim. The scent of fresh-cut wood filled the small space.
“Sorry about that,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “You know how she gets when she’s excited.”
He glanced up, a small smile touching his lips. “No need to apologize. It’s nice, how much she cares about her family.”
“Still, we were in the middle of something.” She traced a pattern in the sawdust on the workbench, not meeting his eyes.
Emerson set down his hammer, wiping his hands on a rag. “Were we?”
The question hung between them, both challenge and invitation. Ava took a step closer, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I think we were.”
He stood, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. This close, she could smell the coffee on his breath, the faint scent of cedar that always clung to him. “I was going to say that I want you to be happy, Ava. Whatever that looks like.”
“But what about you?” She found herself studying the lines around his eyes, the small birthmark near his temple she’d never noticed before. “What would make you happy?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes. “I’m not good at wanting things for myself.”
“Try,” she whispered, the word barely audible between them.
For a long moment, he was silent, his eyes searching her face as if memorizing every detail. The sound of their breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper. “I want you to stay. Not for your mom, or the shop, or the town. For me.” He swallowed hard, the movement visible in his throat. “For us.”
