Page 26 of Hooked on Emerson
"Nothing crazy. The sunrise market in Fairview. Canoeing. This bookshop my mom used to talk about." She paused. "The Harvest Festival's on there too."
Another pause, this one shorter. "When do we start?"
The simple question, the easy acceptance of her invitation, made her smile so wide her cheeks hurt. "How's 5 AM tomorrow sound? For the market, I mean."
"Early." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll bring coffee."
After they hung up, Ava looked around at the boxes still scattered across her floor. The memories would still be there tomorrow. Tonight, she had preparations to make and a list to begin.
The world was still more night than morning when Emerson pulled up in front of Ava's house. The dashboard clock read 4:47 AM. The streets were empty, houses dark except for the occasional porch light. He cut the engine and sat for a moment, watching her front door, the porch light casting a warm glow on the steps.
Before he could reach for his phone to text that he'd arrived, the door opened. Ava stepped out, locking up behind her. She wore jeans and a soft-looking sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked both sleepy and alert in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Morning," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. The car filled with the scent of her—something floral but not perfumey,more like she'd absorbed the essence of her shop into her skin and hair.
"Morning." He handed her a travel mug. "As promised. Black with one sugar?"
She took a sip and made a sound of appreciation that did strange things to his insides. "Perfect. I'm not sure I'd be functional without this."
"Not much of a morning person?"
"Not much of a 'before the sun exists' person," she corrected with a small smile. "But Mom always said the market was worth it. The best stuff sells out by seven."
They drove in comfortable silence, the darkness gradually giving way to the faintest hint of gray along the horizon. Ava leaned her head against the window, watching the familiar landscape transform in the pre-dawn light. Occasionally she would point out something—a barn she'd always loved, a field where she'd once seen deer at this hour.
"I used to hate these early mornings," she said suddenly, her voice soft in the quiet car. "Mom would drag me out of bed for plant sales or farmers markets. I'd complain the whole way there."
"And now?"
She turned to him, her profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. "Now I'd give anything for one more early morning with her."
Emerson nodded, understanding the weight behind her words. His hand found hers in the darkness between them, a brief squeeze that said more than words could.
Fairview was thirty minutes away, a slightly larger town with a more established farmers' market that operated year-round. By the time they arrived, the sky had lightened to a deep blue, stars fading but the sun still hiding below the horizon. The market was already bustling, vendors setting up by lamplight, early birdslike them wandering between stalls with travel mugs clutched in their hands.
They parked and joined the flow of people. The air was cool, not yet touched by the sun, and smelled of earth and fresh bread from a nearby bakery stall. Without thinking, Emerson placed his hand lightly against Ava's lower back as they navigated through a narrow section. She glanced up at him but didn't move away from his touch.
"What are we looking for?" he asked.
"Heirloom tomatoes, supposedly. But mostly just the experience, I guess." She looked around, taking in the sights and sounds. "Mom started coming here before I was born. Said it reminded her of markets in Europe, where she traveled in her twenties."
They wandered from stall to stall, pausing to admire arrangements of produce that looked like art installations—purple cauliflower next to yellow carrots, tomatoes in shades from pale yellow to deep burgundy. Ava stopped at a flower vendor, her fingers lightly touching the petals of dahlias as big as dinner plates.
"These are gorgeous," she murmured. "We could never grow them this size in our soil."
"Why not?" Emerson asked, genuinely curious.
"Too much clay. They need better drainage." She leaned in to smell one, her hair falling forward. "Mom used to say we should stick to what thrives naturally rather than fighting the soil."
"Smart."
"She was. Practical, too." Ava straightened, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Though she did try to grow watermelons one year. Total disaster."
Emerson smiled, imagining a younger Ava and her mother laughing over failed garden experiments. "My dad tried to growcorn once. Ended up with stalks taller than the garage but no actual corn."
"What happened?"
"Wrong pollination or something. He wasn't exactly the research type. More the 'throw seeds in the ground and see what happens' school of gardening."
