Page 47 of Hooked on Emerson
“Morning,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Martin said they’re finishing up today.”
“Yes,” she confirmed, setting down the vase she’d been working with. The glass made a soft sound against the wooden counter. “Almost done.”
The air between them tense with the unspoken. She wanted to thank him for the flowers, to explain her distance, to tell him about Seattle. But the words tangled in her throat, caught in the web of her own confusion.
“I got your flowers,” she said finally. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
He nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “I’m glad you liked them.”
Another silence, this one more charged than the last. Ava’s fingers twisted in her apron, seeking something to do, somewhere to look besides his face and the careful neutrality he was maintaining. The morning light caught in his hair, highlighting strands of gold among the brown. He needed a haircut, she noticed absently. It was longer than when they’d first met, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
“I’m going to Seattle,” she said suddenly, the words rushing out before she could reconsider. “On Thursday. They want me to visit the studio on Friday, see the space, meet the team.”
Emerson’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a brief shadow of pain quickly controlled. “That’s good,” he said, his voice steady. “It’ll help you decide.”
“It’s just a visit,” she clarified, though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to. “Not a commitment. Just exploring the option.”
He nodded again. “Makes sense. You should see it before deciding.”
His reasonableness, his continued support despite her pulling away, made something twist painfully in her chest. It would be easier if he fought it, if he asked her to stay, if he gave her a reason to be angry or defensive. But that wasn’t Emerson. He wouldn’t use his feelings as a weapon or a chain.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, moving toward safer ground. She picked up a stray leaf from the counter, turning it between her fingers. “About the mill. The one I showed you, that my mom wanted to turn into a greenhouse.”
Interest sparked in his eyes, genuine despite the tension between them. “What about it?”
“I’ve been wondering if it could be something else. Something new and different. Not just a greenhouse but a studio space. For experimentation, for workshops, for creating something that’s, well, my own.” The leaf crumbled slightly between her fingers, releasing a faint green scent.
The idea was still forming as she spoke it, taking shape in the saying. A possibility she hadn’t fully considered until now.
“It would need a lot of work,” Emerson said, but there was no discouragement in his tone. Just practical consideration. He moved closer, leaning against the counter, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “But the structure is sound. It could be transformed.”
“Would it be worth it, do you think?” she asked, realizing as she said it that she was asking about more than just the building.
His eyes met hers, steady and clear. “I think anything that matters is worth the work. The question is whether it matters to you.”
The words hung between them, layered with meaning beyond the mill, beyond the greenhouse idea. Ava felt something shift inside her, a small clarification in the fog of her uncertainty.
“I need to figure that out,” she said quietly. “What matters most. What’s worth building, worth fighting for.”
Emerson nodded, accepting her words for what they were. They weren’t a decision, but a step toward one. “Seattle will help with that, I think. Seeing the alternative, the other path.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I hope so.”
The bell chimed as Martin entered, breaking the moment between them. He stomped his boots on the mat, leaving small clumps of dirt despite the effort. “Morning, folks. Ready for the final push?”
Business resumed with final inspections, payment arrangements, cleanup plans. Emerson stayed to consult and ensure everything was completed to his exacting standards, but the personal conversation was over, pushed aside by practical matters.
As he was leaving, he paused at the door, looking back at her with eyes that seemed to see more than she sometimes wanted to reveal. The morning light caught him in profile, illuminating the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows.
“Safe travels, Ava,” he said simply. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
The door closed behind him before she could respond, the bell’s chime fading into silence. She stood for a long moment, staring at the space where he had been, feeling his absence more acutely than she had allowed herself to these past days.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.The words echoed in her mind as she returned to her flowers, her hands moving automatically among the stems and blooms. The chrysanthemums were stiff and resistant, their stems woody, requiring her sharpest shears. The marigolds left a faint stain on her fingers, earthy and bitter.
The thing was, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for anymore. Freedom? Purpose? A chance to prove herself? Or something simpler, but more—a place to belong, a person to belong with, a life built on choice rather than obligation?
Seattle would help clarify some of that, perhaps. Seeing the studio, meeting the people, imagining herself in that sleek, modern space. But other answers wouldn’t be found there. Theywere here, in Millfield, in the shop her mother had built, in the mill that waited for transformation. In Emerson’s warm presence and patient heart.
