Page 9 of Hooked on Emerson
“I’ll be here,” she said. Then, after a breath, “I always am.”
He nodded and stepped outside. “Wait,” she called gently. He turned back around.
Ava came forward holding a single stem of lavender. “For your trouble.” She hesitated, then added, “And because you fixed the bracket before I even asked. I know it's not much.”
He took it from her, fingers brushing hers. “Thanks. I love it.”
The door clicked shut behind him, but he stood there for a moment longer, the scent of flowers clinging to his shirt, her voice echoing faintly behind him. He started down the street to his truck, lavender in hand, already making a mental list of what to fix next. He almost felt like whistling, a strange feeling...
Main Street was still mostly asleep—just birdsong and a few shopkeepers dragging open awnings. Emerson parked across the street, coffee tray balanced on one knee while he reached for the handle of his toolbox.
Inside the shop, Ava was already at work. Even through the window, he could tell—her posture focused, the rhythm of her movements smooth and familiar. She was wearing a soft gray T-shirt and a pair of faded overalls smeared with something green near the thigh. Her hair was in a braid today, not the usual bun, and for just a second, Emerson let himself watch her before stepping out of the truck.
He crossed the street slowly, savoring the quiet and the smell of bread baking from the café down the corner. When he reached the shop, he knocked once on the door with his knuckle before pushing it open.
The bell gave a soft chime. Ava didn’t look up immediately—she was sorting through a tangle of twine and floral tape on the counter—but when she did, her eyes landed on the coffee tray first, then on him.
“That smells like a bribe,” she said.
“Might be.” He set it down carefully between two glass jars of ribbon. “Mason’s experimenting again. He figured we would be his guinea pigs.”
She pulled one of the cups toward her and lifted the lid, closing her eyes after the first sip. “Lavender and honey. He’s dangerously good at this.”
Emerson took his own, black and steaming, and nodded toward the window trim. “I brought the rest of the supplies. Thought we’d knock it out today.”
Ava followed his glance. “The sage green’s been growing on me. Looks better than I imagined.”
“Told you it would.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You also said navy would be ‘practical.’”
He gave a half-smile. “I’m practical. Doesn’t mean you have to be.”
They worked side by side for the first hour, the kind of easy rhythm that didn’t require endless small talk. Emerson taped the edges of the front windows while Ava watered the buckets and trimmed stems at the prep counter. The scent of eucalyptus and earth filled the shop, grounded and clean.
Occasionally, he’d glance her way—noticing how she tucked her knee under herself when she bent to arrange a bouquet or how, when she was focused, she chewed the inside of her cheek.
At one point, she reached under the counter for a pair of shears and stilled. Her hand brushed something tucked behind a vase. A small, worn recipe card. She pulled it out slowly.
“What’s that?” Emerson asked without turning.
Ava’s laugh was soft, almost startled. “My mom’s handwriting.” She held up the card. “She used to write out notes on whatever paper was nearby like recipes, flower pairings, grocery lists with doodles in the margins.”
She set it on the counter beside her, fingers lingering on the corner like she wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “This one says: ‘Pair lavender with freesia for courage. And always keep chocolate in the back drawer.’”
“She sounds like she knew what mattered,” Emerson said.
“She did.” Ava folded the card and slipped it into the drawer again, carefully, as if tucking it away would keep it from fading.
After Mr. Harmon came and went with his daisies, and the mid-morning crowd thinned, Emerson suggested they take a quick break before painting. Ava gestured toward the back room.
“There’s an old bench back there. It used to be my mom’s favorite reading spot before the pipe burst and flooded everything. I’ve been meaning to sand it down and bring it out front again.”
He followed her through the narrow hallway. The back room smelled less of mildew now and more like lemon cleaner and dried petals. A single window let in filtered light across the worn floorboards.
The bench sat beneath the window, its slats warped and the paint chipped to bare wood in places. Ava ran a hand along the top rail. “She used to sit here with a mug of tea and a pair of scissors, snipping dead blooms and humming. Sometimes she’d forget to open the shop on time.”
Emerson crouched beside the bench, testing its legs. “It’s still solid. Could use a few screws, but the bones are good.”
