Page 18 of Hooked on Emerson
They worked in companionable silence as the music flowed around them. Ava started with the background, broad strokes of purple and blue blending into a twilight sky. The paint was cool and slick against her brush, clinging to the wall in satisfying stripes of color. Emerson focused on the lower section, laying in the foundation of the lavender field with careful precision. His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked, occasionally stepping back to check his progress before leaning in again.
Occasionally their arms would brush as they moved, or one would step back to let the other reach a particular spot. Each contact felt deliberate, even when it wasn’t—a quiet acknowledgment of shared space, of growing comfort.
As the music shifted to something slower, Ava found herself following its rhythm with her brush strokes. The lavender took shape beneath her hands—first the stalks, then the delicate blooms, each touch of the brush building something new. Beside her, Emerson added depth to the field, his larger hands creatingsweeping movements that somehow matched her smaller, more detailed work.
“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” Emerson said after a while, his voice low beneath the music.
“Where?” Ava raised her hand, inadvertently adding another smudge to her skin.
His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening his face in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Now you’ve got more.”
“Great.” She laughed, wiping at her face with her forearm.
“Here.” He set down his brush and stepped closer. With gentle fingers, he brushed at the smudge near her jaw. His touch was light, careful, but Ava felt it like a current running through her. She found herself holding her breath, watching his face as he concentrated on the task. “Got it,” he murmured, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.
She looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. His eyes were dark in the late afternoon light, intent on her face. She could count the flecks of paint on his t-shirt, smell the faint pine scent that clung to his skin.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He didn’t step away immediately. His hand lingered near her face, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. For a heartbeat, Ava thought he might lean down, might close the distance between them. Her lips parted slightly, an unconscious invitation.
Instead, he reached past her for his brush, his arm brushing hers in a way that felt deliberate. “The lavender’s looking good,” he said, his voice a touch rougher than before.
They resumed painting, but something had shifted between them. Each movement filled with awareness, each glance holding something unspoken. The playlist continued, one song flowing into the next. Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine” began, the soulful notes filling the shop with longing.
“This one too?” Emerson asked about the music, stepping back to survey their work.
Ava nodded, a smile playing at her lips. “She had eclectic taste. Said you couldn’t paint anything worth keeping without a little soul in the background.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” Ava dipped her brush in a deep violet, adding detail to a cluster of lavender blooms. The paint clung to the bristles, thick and rich with pigment. “She would have liked you, I think.”
Emerson paused, his brush hovering over the paint tray. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She appreciated people who could build things. Said it was a kind of magic, turning nothing into something.”
He resumed painting, but Ava caught the pleased set of his shoulders, the small smile he tried to hide. “Not magic. Just patience.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
They continued working as the light outside began to soften, golden hour casting long shadows across the shop floor. The mural was taking shape—not a replica of her mother’s work, but something new that echoed its spirit. The lavender field stretched toward distant hills, the stalks bending as if caught in a gentle breeze.
Ava had added small details her mother never had—a bee hovering near one bloom, a weathered fence post at the edge of the field. Emerson had created depth in the background hills, layers of color that gave the impression of distance and space. Together, they’d built something neither could have created alone.
“This is turning out well, becoming something special,” Emerson said, stepping back to look at the whole wall.
“It is, isn’t it?” Ava stood beside him, surprising herself with the pride she felt. “Different, but good different.”
He nodded, eyes tracing the lines they’d created together. “Sometimes different is exactly right.”
The playlist shifted again, this time to Sam Cooke’s “Nothing Can Change This Love.” The opening notes swelled, rich and warm in the quiet shop. Ava felt something tug in her chest—memory, yes, but also something newer, something present that made her skin feel too small for the feelings beneath it.
Without thinking, she set down her brush and held out her hand. “Dance with me?”
Emerson looked surprised, then uncertain. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Neither am I,” she admitted. “But mom always said this song demanded movement.”
