Page 31 of Hooked on Emerson
"Goodnight, Ava."
She watched as he walked back to his truck, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. Only when his taillights had disappeared down the street did she unlock her door and step inside, her mind already counting the days until Wednesday, until the rest of her list could be completed, until they could finish the conversation that had started beneath the festival lights.
Three days. It seemed both too long and not long enough to prepare for what might come next.
The sky had been threatening all afternoon. Ava watched it from the shop windows, the clouds gathering like bruises, dark and heavy. The weather report had mentioned the possibility of storms, but nothing severe, nothing worth closing early for. Still, she found herself glancing upward with increasing frequency as the day wore on, something in the air making her uneasy.
Emerson had arrived after his last job, toolbox in hand, to finish the shelving in the back storage room. It was Wednesday tomorrow—their day for canoeing and the bookshop—and he wanted to complete the last of the repairs before then. He'd been quiet as he worked, focused on measuring and cutting, though occasionally their eyes would meet across the shop.
Since the festival, since his confession on the dance floor, the mood between them had changed. Not uncomfortable, butfilled with anticipation, with questions still waiting for answers. They'd settled back into their routine—him fixing, her arranging—but underneath ran a current neither could ignore.
"That doesn't look good," Emerson said, coming to stand beside her at the front window. Outside, the first fat drops had begun to fall, spattering the sidewalk with dark circles that expanded and merged.
"No," Ava agreed, watching as the wind picked up, bending the young maple across the street. "Maybe we should call it a day. Finish up tomorrow."
Emerson glanced at the half-completed shelving in the back room, then back at the sky. "I'm nearly done. Just need another hour or so."
"I can stay," she offered. "I have some bookkeeping to catch up on anyway."
He nodded, returning to his work while Ava settled at the counter with the ledger. The sound of rain increased, a gentle patter becoming a steady drumming against the roof and windows. She found it soothing at first, a rhythmic backdrop to the scratch of her pen and the measured sound of Emerson's saw in the back room.
But as the minutes passed, the storm intensified. Wind howled down the street, rattling the shop windows in their frames. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the darkened street outside, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that made Ava jump in her seat.
"That was close," Emerson called from the back.
"Too close," she agreed, closing the ledger. The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized. "Maybe we should—"
A sudden, sharp crack of thunder interrupted her, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy falling nearby. The lights went out completely, plunging the shop into prematureevening darkness. Through the window, Ava could see that the entire street had lost power.
"Ava?" Emerson's voice came from the back, calm but concerned.
"I'm fine," she called back. "Just the power."
He appeared in the doorway, flashlight in hand. The beam cut through the gloom, catching dust motes swirling in the disturbed air. "I keep this in my toolbox," he explained, moving toward her. "There are candles under the sink in the back room. Your mom always kept some there for emergencies."
Ava nodded, though the mention of her mother sent an unexpected pang through her chest. Of course he would know that. He'd been fixing things in this shop for weeks, learning its secrets, becoming as familiar with its corners and contents as she was.
Together they gathered candles, placing them in jars and old flower pots around the shop. The warm glow created pools of light that pushed back against the storm's darkness, making the space feel smaller, more intimate. Rain lashed against the windows in sheets, driven sideways by the wind.
"That shelf can wait," Emerson said, setting down his tools. "This storm isn't messing around."
Ava nodded, moving to the front window to watch the rain. The street had become a shallow river, water coursing along the gutters and pooling at the corners. Across the way, Mason's café was dark, though she could see the flicker of flashlights moving inside as they dealt with their own storm preparations.
A particularly violent gust of wind sent something—a branch, perhaps, or loose debris—clattering across the roof. Ava flinched at the sound, then froze as she felt something else. A drop of cold water landing on her shoulder.
She looked up. A dark stain was spreading across the ceiling tile above her, moisture gathering at its center. As she watched,another drop fell, then another, landing with a soft pat against her skin.
"Emerson," she called, unable to keep the alarm from her voice. "The roof—"
He was beside her in an instant, following her gaze upward. "Damn," he muttered, then louder, "We need buckets. And tarps if you have them."
They moved quickly, gathering containers from the back room—buckets, bins, even empty flower pots—positioning them beneath the growing leak. But as they worked, Ava noticed more dark patches forming on the ceiling, more drips beginning in different corners of the shop.
"This can't be happening," she said, her voice tight with disbelief. "We just fixed everything."
"Those repairs are holding," Emerson said, moving a display table away from a new leak. "But this storm is finding every weak spot we haven't gotten to yet."
Another flash of lightning, another immediate crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the building. The rain intensified, drumming on the roof like thousands of impatient fingers. And with it, the leaks multiplied.
