Page 16 of Hooked on Emerson
She nodded against his chest, not trusting her voice. They stood like that for several heartbeats, the only sound the drip of water from the damaged pipe and their quiet breathing. His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her ear, a counterpoint to her own racing pulse. His thumb moved in a small circle at the base of her neck, a gentle, unconscious gesture that made her want to lean further into him.
When she finally pulled back, Emerson's eyes were dark and intent on her face. His hand lingered at her waist, as if reluctant to break contact completely.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For everything."
Something changed in his expression, a vulnerability she hadn't seen before. He reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth. The moment stretched between them, full of possibilities. Ava felt her heart hammer against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat.
Then headlights swept across the windows as the water company truck pulled up outside. The spell broke, and Emerson stepped back, his hand falling away from her face.
"I should talk to them," he said, his voice slightly rough. "Find out what they need to do."
Ava nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as the warmth of his embrace faded. "Okay."
She watched him walk to the door, his shoulders straight, movements purposeful. The water company workers followed him back in, their voices echoing in the damp space as they discussed repairs. Ava found herself staring at the place where they had stood, at the wet footprints that marked where his body had been pressed against hers.
Something had shifted between them tonight—not just the almost-kiss that hung in the air, but something that felt deeper. The way he had come without question, the way he had held herlike she was something precious, the way his eyes had looked into hers...
Earlier at the cemetery, she had told her mother she was tired of waiting, tired of feeling stuck between what was and what could be. Now, standing in the flooded shop with water still clinging to her clothes, Ava realized she wasn't waiting anymore. She was moving toward something—or someone—who made staying feel less like an obligation and more like a choice.
And that realization terrified her more than any burst pipe ever could.
The ruined floor had to be torn up. Ava watched as Emerson knelt beside the damaged section near the back wall, running his hand along the warped wood. Three days since the pipe burst, and the shop still smelled faintly of damp and mildew despite the industrial fans he’d brought in. The summer humidity wasn’t helping either.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he said, looking up at her. “Water got underneath, buckled the subfloor.”
Ava nodded, chewing her lower lip. Another expense, another delay. “How long will it take to fix?”
“Two days, maybe three.” He stood, brushing wood dust from his knees. “The good news is we can salvage most of the original boards. Just need to dry them out, plane them down.”
She glanced at the wall where her mother’s mural had been. The water damage had crept up nearly a foot from the bottom,blurring the delicate brushstrokes of lavender into a murky smudge. Elaine’s signature—a small, flowing “E.B.” in the corner—was now barely visible.
“And the wall?” she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
Emerson followed her gaze, his expression softening. “We’ll have to replace the damaged drywall. But...” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was thinking, maybe instead of trying to restore it, we could paint a new one.”
“I’m not an artist.”
“Neither am I. But we could try. Together.” He shrugged, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his way of making big offers seem casual. “Even if it’s not the same, it would be something of yours.”
Ava looked at the wall again, trying to imagine a blank canvas where her mother’s work had been. It hurt, the idea of covering it up. But there was something appealing about creating something new in its place, something that honored memory without being bound by it.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s try.”
The next morning, Emerson arrived earlier than usual. Ava was already there, sorting through the day’s flower shipment. She’d borrowed space at the back of Mason’s café to fulfill orders while the shop floor was being repaired, but she still came each morning to process deliveries and check on progress.
Emerson set a cardboard tray of coffee on the counter, along with a paper bag that smelled of cinnamon. “Breakfast,” he said simply. “Figured it might be a long day.”
“Thanks.” She reached for the coffee, their fingers brushing briefly. The small contact sent a ripple of warmth up her arm, a reminder of that night when she’d been wrapped in his embrace, his heartbeat steady against her cheek. They hadn’t spoken about that moment, or the almost-kiss that followed, but it lingered between them like a conversation waiting to happen.
They worked side by side through the morning, Emerson tearing up the damaged floorboards while Ava prepared the wall for painting. The rhythm they’d established over the past weeks had deepened, becoming something familiar and comforting. They moved around each other easily, anticipating needs, passing tools without having to ask.
By noon, the floor was clear, and the damaged section of wall had been cut away and replaced with fresh drywall. Emerson stood back, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Ready for primer?”
Ava nodded, setting down the sanding block she’d been using. Her arms ached pleasantly from the morning’s work, and her hair was tied up in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to curl against her neck. She felt grounded in her body in a way she hadn’t in months—present, alive, connected to the space around her.
“I brought something,” she said, crossing to her bag near the counter. She pulled out a small sketchbook, its edges worn from handling, the binding loose from years of use. “Found it in a box of mom’s things. It’s her designs for the original mural.”
Emerson came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He smelled like cedar and clean sweat, familiar and somehow comforting. She opened the sketchbook, revealing pages of delicate pencil drawings—sprigs of lavender, studies of light and shadow, notes on color mixing scrawled in her mother’s familiar handwriting.
