Page 6 of Hooked on Emerson
Krysta rolled her eyes. "Eloquent as always. Come on, I promised you pie."
As they walked toward the door, Emerson glanced back, half-hoping to catch another glimpse of Ava. But she was gone, leaving nothing but the faint impression of lavender and thememory of her eyes meeting his in that final, unguarded moment.
Once outside, he followed Krysta to her car, his mind still caught in the echo of a connection that had appeared and vanished too quickly to grasp. The sky had clouded over while they were inside, the blue replaced by a pearly gray that threatened rain. Emerson looked toward Main Street, though he couldn't see it from here. Somewhere down there was a flower shop with a blue awning and impatiens out front.
He wondered if she felt it too—that strange sense of recognition. Or if, like so many things in his life, it had been nothing more than a trick of the light, a moment captured in a photograph but not kept.
Either way, he knew he'd be looking at Bloom & Vine differently the next time he passed it. And maybe, for once, he'd have a reason to step inside.
Emerson had passed the flower shop three times that week. Slowed each time, letting his gaze drift to the sagging awning and the narrow brick step with a crack running down its center like a quiet threat. The windowsill paint was peeling in long, curling strips, brittle as dry leaves.
But this time he parked.
From the driver’s seat of his truck, he saw her inside arranging something behind the front counter. Ava’s dark hair was twisted up, a pencil tucked behind one ear. She moved with the precision of someone used to working alone—each gesture efficient, no wasted effort—but there was also a weariness in the way her shoulders stayed lifted, like she hadn’t remembered to exhale in days.
He crossed the street, his boots thudding softly against the pavement.
Up close, the building told a fuller story. Water stains marked the wood trim. One of the window boxes had gone soft in the corner, the soil clumped and overwatered. He touched the frame beside the door without thinking, fingers tracing the warped grain.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as he stepped inside. The scent hit him like warmth—crushed stems, damp earth, and something else. Not sweet, not perfumed. More green and alive.
Ava looked up, surprise flickering across her face for a breath before it settled into something calmer. “Emerson,” she said, brushing a leaf from her apron. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He stepped fully in, letting the door ease closed behind him. “Just noticed your awning needed some help.”
She glanced toward the window where the fabric drooped, the metal frame uneven. “It’s on my list.”
“That list getting any shorter?”
Her mouth tugged into something like a smile. “Not really.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I could take a look. No charge for an opinion.”
Before she could reply, the bell chimed again. Mrs. Connelly breezed in, scarf knotted like armor, eyes bright with determination.
“Ava, I’m on the hunt for something cheerful. And not pink. My niece is having a girl, but I refuse to be predictable.”
“Of course.” Ava moved with practiced ease to the fridge, pulling out an arrangement—yellow freesia and white ranunculus with sprigs of eucalyptus. “Had a feeling you’d stop by.”
Mrs. Connelly beamed, then turned to Emerson. “Well, well. Look what the wind blew in.”
“Ma’am,” he greeted with a nod.
“He fixed my porch light. Twice. With the patience of a saint, considering the state of my wiring.” The older woman turned back to Ava with a gleam in her eye. “You should keep him around.”
Ava pressed her lips together, cheeks coloring faintly as she handed over the bouquet.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Connelly pronounced. “Your mother always knew exactly what I wanted. You’ve got that same instinct.”
A beat passed. Ava’s smile stayed in place, but her eyes dropped to the counter. “That’ll be forty-five.”
As Ava rang it up, Mrs. Connelly turned to Emerson again. “You see that ceiling stain? She won’t say it, but the roof’s been leaking for weeks. And don’t get me started on the back room.”
“Mrs. Connelly,” Ava said, voice cool but not sharp. “I think you’re due at the post office.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” She gathered the bouquet. “Just saying, this place needs a little care. And so does she.” With a final nod, she swept out, her scarf trailing behind her like punctuation.
Silence fell and Ava exhaled slowly, turning to the counter and brushing stray petals into her palm.
