Page 44 of Hooked on Emerson
“Thank you,” she said, running her finger along the edge of the counter, feeling the small dent where someone had once dropped something heavy. “For arranging this with Martin.”
“Of course.” He hesitated, then added: “Ava, whatever you decide about Seattle—”
“I haven’t decided anything yet,” she interrupted, not ready for that conversation. Not here, not now, with the loan application still open on her laptop and contractors scheduled for tomorrow.
Emerson nodded, accepting the boundary. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. When Martin arrives.”
After he left, Ava returned to her laptop, the cursor still blinking in the same field where she’d left it. She took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering scent of Emerson’s presence, sawdust and coffee. She clicked “Submit,” sending the application into the digital ether. Done. One decision made, even if it was just a practical one.
She opened a new browser tab and pulled up her email. There, still unread since yesterday, was a message from the Seattle Floral Design Studio. Subject line: “Following up on apprenticeship opportunity.” The sight of it made her stomach tighten, a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Her finger hovered over the keyboard. Before she could overthink it, she typed a quick response:
Thank you for your continued interest. I would like to schedule that phone interview at your convenience to discuss the position further to see if I would be a good fit. Looking forward to hearing from you.
Send. Another decision made, or at least a step toward one. Not a commitment, just an exploration. A conversation. Only a possibility.
She closed the laptop with more force than necessary, as if slamming the door on her own confusion. The sound echoed inthe empty shop, followed by the soft plink of another drop falling into a nearby bucket.
The next morning brought scaffolding, work trucks, and the rhythm of boots on the roof. Martin’s crew moved with the efficiency of people who knew their craft, stripping away old shingles to expose the damaged plywood beneath. The sound of pry bars and hammers created a constant backdrop to the day, punctuated by the occasional shout between workers or the thud of debris landing in the dumpster positioned near the back door.
Ava kept the shop open despite the noise, moving between customers and repair consultations with growing weariness. The bell above the door chimed continuously as people came in—some to buy flowers, others just curious about the work being done. By midday, her shoulders ached from tension, a headache brewing behind her eyes. The bank had approved her loan, smaller than requested with enough to cover the essentials, just no emergency cushion. Another piece falling into place, anotherstep toward making the shop whole again, whether for her future or someone else’s.
She arranged a bouquet of autumn dahlias and chrysanthemums, their rich oranges and deep reds a reflection of the season outside. The stems were thick and slightly sticky against her fingers, requiring a sharp cut from her shears. The scent was subtle but distinct—green and earthy with a hint of spice. Work she knew by heart, work her hands could do while her mind wandered elsewhere.
Emerson arrived around two, the bell announcing his presence even before she looked up. He exchanged a few words with Martin, who had come down from the roof for a brief break, his face flushed from exertion, a sheen of sweat despite the cool autumn air. Emerson’s expression was serious as he listened, nodding occasionally, asking questions she couldn’t quite hear over the continued work overhead.
Eventually he found her in the back room, inventorying stock that had been moved to accommodate the repairs. The space felt smaller with him in it, though he stood only in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that easy grace that seemed so natural to him.
“They’re making good progress,” he said. “Should have the plywood replaced by end of day, felt down tomorrow, shingles the day after.”
Ava nodded, marking something on her clipboard without really looking up. She could feel his eyes on her, patient and observant. Waiting.
“Do you need help with anything else while I’m here?” he asked after a moment.
“No,” she said, then softened her tone. “Thank you, though. I’ve got it under control.”
“I know you do.” There was a smile in his voice that made her look up despite herself. His eyes were warm, a hint of admiration in them that made her chest tighten. “You always do.”
She wanted to say more, to bridge the careful distance that had grown between them. To ask him what he was thinking, what he wanted, whether the night of the storm had changed things for him as it had for her. But the words wouldn’t come, blocked by her own uncertainty, her fear of making promises she couldn’t keep.
“I should get back to this,” she said instead, gesturing to the inventory. A box of ribbon spools sat open beside her, each color neatly labeled and counted. “Busy day.”
Emerson nodded, pushing off from the doorframe. “I’ll check in tomorrow then.”
After he left, Ava set down the clipboard and pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to stem the headache that pulsed behind them. The pressure felt good, bringing momentary relief and darkness. What was she doing? Why was she pushing away the one person who had been nothing but supportive, who had told her he would wait if she went to Seattle, who looked at her like she was something precious?
Because it would be easier to leave if she started pulling away now. The thought came unbidden, uncomfortable in its honesty.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibration startling against her hip. Seattle. A response to her email, suggesting a phone interview tomorrow morning. She typed a quick confirmation, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and dread, thumbs moving across the screen with more certainty than she felt.
Another step. Another possibility. Another complication.
By Sunday, the roof was halfway done, the worst leaks addressed, new plywood gleaming pale against the older sections. The shop hummed with activity on a day she would normally be closed—customers coming and going, workers calling to each other overhead, Ava moving between it all with increasing exhaustion.
Her phone interview with Seattle had gone well. Too well. They’d invited her for an in-person visit on Friday, all expenses paid. A chance to see the studio, meet the team, discuss specifics. She hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Emerson. Especially not Emerson.
She saw him less now, as he’d promised. He came by to check on the work, to consult with Martin, to help move something heavy when needed. But he kept his distance otherwise, nolonger helping himself to coffee or offering to stay late. The space between them grew with each passing day.
