Page 23 of Hooked on Emerson
The words settled around her like falling leaves, gentle but impossible to ignore. Ava felt an ache grow in her chest, a tightness that was growing warm and feeling unfamiliar. “Emerson—”
“But I won’t ask that of you,” he continued, stepping back slightly, his hands dropping to his sides. “I can’t be the reason you stay if staying isn’t what you truly want.”
She reached for his hand, needing the connection. His fingers curled around hers, warm and a little rough with calluses, including the new ones from all his help in the shop. “I don’t know what I want yet,” she admitted. “But I know that you matter to me. More than I expected.”
His thumb traced a small circle against her wrist, the touch sending shivers up her arm. “You matter to me too.”
The shop phone rang, shattering the moment. Ava reluctantly pulled away to answer it, her skin still tingling where he had touched her. She couldn’t help wonder why they kept getting interrupted. Was the universe telling her something? The call was brief, about a question about delivery times for the weekend, but when she returned, Emerson had gone back to work, the vulnerability of moments before carefully packed away.
They spent the rest of the day in a strange dance of proximity and distance. Working side by side, hands occasionally brushing, conversations light and practical. But beneath it all, like a current running underground, Ava felt the heaviness of what had been said. And what hadn’t been.
As closing time approached, Emerson finished the last of the trim work and began packing up his tools. The metal clinked against metal as he arranged them in his toolbox, each item finding its proper place. The shop looked transformed—bright, fresh, renewed. But it was still her mother’s shop, still filled with memories and obligations that sometimes felt too heavy to bear.
“I think that’s it for the repairs,” Emerson said, surveying his work. “Unless there’s something else you need fixed.”
Ava shook her head, suddenly aware that without repairs to make, he had no reason to keep coming by every day. The thought opened up a hollow feeling in her chest. “Thank you. For everything.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable in the fading light. “Anytime.”
As he headed for the door, Ava felt panic rise in her throat, sharp and unexpected. “Emerson,” she called, stopping him. “Would you... would you still come around sometimes? Even if there’s nothing that needs fixing?”
He turned back, the late afternoon light catching in his eyes, warming them to amber. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “That’s what I want.”
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features and reaching his eyes. “Then I’ll be here.”
After he left, Ava moved through the shop, closing up for the day. She watered the flowers, the spray from the nozzle catching the light in tiny rainbows. She balanced the register, the familiar routine of counting bills and coins calming her. She swept the floor, gathering the day’s debris—fallen petals, bits of stem, a dusting of pollen that glittered gold in the fading light.
At the back of the shop, she paused before the mural she and Emerson had painted, studying the lavender field with its rolling hills and distant horizon. The colors seemed deeper in the evening light, more saturated. Her fingers traced their initials in the corner, looking at them side by side but still separate. Like the two of them, connected but with space between.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from the design studio in Seattle asking for a decision by the end of the week. Ava stared at the message, feeling the weight of choice pressing down on her. Stay or go. Safe or unknown. Past or future. And somewhere in the middle of that choice was Emerson. Quiet, steady Emerson with his careful hands and guarded heart, who had admitted he wanted her to stay but wouldn’t ask it of her.
The shop felt suddenly too small, the walls too close. She needed air, space to think. Grabbing her keys, she headed for the door, locking it behind her with a decisive click.
Outside, the streetlights were just beginning to flicker on. The air was cool against her flushed cheeks, carrying the scent ofsomeone’s dinner cooking nearby, something with garlic and rosemary. Ava walked without a clear destination, her footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. She passed the bookstore, closed now but with a single light burning in the back. The hardware store where Emerson probably bought his supplies. The elementary school where children’s artwork decorated the windows, bright splashes of color against institutional brick.
She found herself at the edge of town, where the old mill stood silhouetted against the darkening sky. The place her mother had dreamed of turning into a greenhouse. The place she’d shown Emerson, where he’d said the bones were good.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of wild flowers from the fields beyond. It caught at her hair, lifting it from her neck for a moment before letting it fall. Ava wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how much had changed in just a few months. Her mother was gone. The shop was different. And she had met a man who looked at her as if she were something precious and irreplaceable.
As the first stars appeared overhead, pinpricks of silver in the deepening blue, Ava made her way back toward town, her steps more certain now. She still didn’t have all the answers, still didn’t know if staying was right or if leaving was necessary. But for the first time, she understood that maybe the choice wasn’t between Millfield and Seattle, between her mother’s legacy and her own future.
Maybe the choice was about what she wanted to build, and who she wanted to build it with.
The lights of Main Street back came into view, familiar and comforting. As she passed the café, she saw Mason closing up, wiping down tables with practiced efficiency. The scent of coffee still lingered in the air around the entrance. He waved, and she returned the gesture with a smile.
When she reached the flower shop, she paused, looking at it with new eyes. The faded blue awning, the window boxes she’d planted with trailing ivy and pansies, the sage green trim that Emerson had helped her choose. Not just her mother’s creation, but something that was becoming hers, too. Something she had rebuilt with her own hands, and Emerson’s.
Her phone buzzed again. Another text, this time from Emerson:
Left something for you on the counter. Forgot to give it to you earlier.
Curious, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The shop was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the front windows, casting long shadows across the floor. On the counter sat a small wooden box, its surface smooth and polished, a simple carving of a lavender sprig on the lid. The wood was warm to the touch, as if it still held the heat of his hands.
She opened it carefully, the small hinge moving without a sound. Inside lay a folded note, the paper thick and slightly textured beneath her fingers. She moved to the window to catch the light, unfolding it slowly.
Ava,
