Page 1 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he crunch of gravel under his boots was the only sound as Emerson Reed approached the Henderson house.

He liked that kind of quiet—nothing but birdsong in the distance and the honest sound of work to come.

The air held late summer’s warmth, though the mornings were growing crisp, and the sky stretched wide and blue above Millfield.

He adjusted his tool belt, its weight a familiar comfort, and knocked twice on the doorframe. The screen door hung open, propped with a clay pot and a struggling fern. Too much sun. Not enough water.

“There you are!” Mrs. Henderson called, her voice leading the way before she appeared. “Right on time, as always.”

“Morning.” Emerson offered a faint smile. “That back door still giving you trouble?”

“Can’t even get it open without putting my whole weight into it,” she huffed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Nearly cracked a rib yesterday.”

She ushered him inside, cinnamon and coffee wrapping around him like a worn quilt. Photos lined the wall, most faded, a few tilted slightly—kids, grandkids, a husband who’d passed on a decade ago. Emerson had been fixing things in this house since before arthritis had settled into her knuckles.

He declined her offer for breakfast—politely, as always. Small talk and shared meals weren’t his thing. Fixing things was.

The door was worse than she’d described.

Emerson ran his hand along the swollen wood, fingertips catching where it stuck against the frame.

The whole thing had shifted with the humidity and years.

He didn’t need to say much. He’d fix it because that was what he did. Simple problems, clear solutions.

By the time he packed up two hours later, the door swung open like a breeze had kissed it.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Mrs. Henderson said, testing it again with childlike wonder. “You sure you won’t stay for a scone?”

“I’ll take a rain check,” Emerson said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Let that door sit a day. Let me know if it sticks again.”

She tried to press extra cash into his palm. He shook his head. She insisted.

“Take it anyway,” she said, eyes narrowing like she hadn’t lost her edge. “For being handsome while you work.”

He didn’t blush, but he didn’t argue either. After all these years and projects with her, he knew better.

Outside, the morning had softened into gentler sun. Emerson loaded his tools into the truck bed, the metal clinks and thuds grounding him. He paused for a moment, leaning against the open tailgate, watching a pair of kids ride bikes down the sidewalk, hollering about dragons and invisible swords.

He liked that—the slow rhythm of this town. Predictability. Familiarity.

He drove two blocks over to the Connelly place next. Mrs. Connelly had called about a faulty outdoor light. He’d replaced it once already, but the wiring in that house was older than most of the trees on Main Street.

She met him on her porch, wrapped in a sweater despite the sunshine, holding a chipped mug that read “Teachers Never Retire, They Just Grade Differently.”

“Evening light keeps flickering,” she said by way of greeting. “Thought maybe it was haunted.”

She led him around the side of the house, where a pair of finches chirped from a crooked feeder.

The wiring was, as expected, a tangle of guesswork and ancient insulation.

He got to work with his usual precision, unscrewing the casing, shielding the wires from the breeze with one hand as he examined the connections.

“You ever think of doing something else?” Mrs. Connelly asked, sipping her coffee. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Could’ve been an engineer.”

“I like working with my hands.”

“You like hiding behind them.”

He glanced at her. “You always this direct?”

She smiled over the rim of her mug. “Teaching middle school for forty years will do that to a person.”

He tightened the last screw and flipped the switch. The porch light beamed to life, steady as sunrise.

“Haunted no more,” he said.

She gave a satisfied nod. “You ever think about dating again?”

Emerson wiped his hands, tucked his screwdriver away. “Is that a question for you or just curiosity?”

“Call it community upkeep,” she said, eyes twinkling.

He shook his head as her laughter followed him back to his truck.

By the time he rolled down Main Street, it was just past noon.

Millfield moved at its usual pace—slow, familiar, unhurried.

Mason stood outside the café, chalking the day’s special onto the sandwich board.

A box of impatiens sat on the sidewalk outside Bloom & Vine, their petals open wide like they had nothing to hide.

His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Krysta.

He let it ring twice before he picked up. “Hey.”

“You’re not busy, are you?”

“I’m always busy.”

“Good. Then you can spare thirty minutes for a stranger photo shoot tomorrow.”

He blinked. “A what now?”

“It’s for Natalie Figueroa’s project. She’s pairing strangers for candid portraits. Exploring human connection or something poetic like that.”

“Why me?”

“Because everyone else is busy or allergic to cameras. And because you owe me.”

“For what?”

“For not deleting your dating profile like you swore you would.”

“I never used it.”

“Exactly,” she said, triumphant. “You need to try something outside your wood-and-nails comfort zone. Just thirty minutes. Community center. Ten a.m. I’ll owe you pie.”

He considered arguing. Then didn’t. “Fine.”

“Bless you. And wear something that doesn’t smell like sawdust.”

She hung up before he could ask what, exactly, she meant by that.

That night, Emerson sat on his back porch with a plate of reheated lasagna and the unfinished birdhouse beside him.

The creek behind the property murmured softly, and a breeze stirred the lavender he’d planted just last month—more out of curiosity than intent.

He watched the shadows lengthen across the yard, purple light catching the edge of the grass.

The lavender swaying gently in a light breeze.

He finished his meal, wiped his hands on a folded napkin, then carried the birdhouse into the workshop. He ran his fingers along the edge of the roof, where the grain was just beginning to splinter. It would need a gentle sanding.

Better to focus on what he could build.

Still, his mind tugged at the thought of tomorrow—of standing beside a stranger in front of a camera, being looked at, seen.

Not something he was used to.

Not something he liked.

But he’d said yes.

And Emerson Reed never went back on his word.