Page 13 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

A month later, Ava sat cross-legged on her living room floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes she'd pulled from the hall closet.

Each one contained pieces of her mother—old photo albums with faded corners, recipe cards with splattered stains, Christmas ornaments wrapped in yellowing tissue paper.

She finally felt it was time to start sorting through things.

The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across the hardwood and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air.

She'd been at it for hours, sorting through what to keep, what to store, what to let go.

The process felt both necessary and impossible.

How do you decide which pieces of someone to hold onto?

Her fingers brushed over an old leather journal, its spine cracked from years of use.

She recognized it immediately—her mother's garden diary, where she'd documented every plant she'd ever grown, every season's bloom and fade.

Ava opened it carefully, her mother's handwriting flowing across the pages in blue ink.

Notes about soil conditions and frost dates, sketches of garden layouts, pressed flower petals still holding their color after years between the pages.

Near the back, she found what she'd been thinking about all week—the list. "Someday" written across the top in her mother's bold script, underlined twice.

Below it, items crossed off (Plant climbing roses by the back gate.

Learn to make sourdough bread.) and others still waiting (Take that train to Oregon. See the northern lights.).

Ava ran her finger along the uncompleted items, feeling the indentation of her mother's pen in the paper. All these things left undone. All these experiences they'd never share.

A memory surfaced—her mother sitting at the kitchen table, this same journal open before her, adding something to the list with a smile playing at her lips.

What's that one? twelve-year-old Ava had asked, peering over her shoulder.

Her mother had closed the book with a laugh.

That's between me and someday , she'd said, tapping Ava's nose with her pen.

Without thinking too much about why, she reached for a notepad on the coffee table and began writing. Her own list, not of someday possibilities but of concrete plans. Things to do before making her decision about Seattle. Experiences to have while she still could, in this town, with these people.

1. Visit the sunrise market in Fairview (Mom always talked about their heirloom tomatoes)

2. Go canoeing on Miller's Pond (We always meant to but never made time)

3. Find that old bookshop in Westdale she loved

4. Dance under the lights at the Harvest Festival

She stared at the list, pen hovering. After a moment's hesitation, she added a fifth item:

5. Figure out what I really want

The last one made her smile ruefully. As if she could check that off like buying groceries or mailing a package. But seeing it written down made it feel more tangible somehow, like acknowledging the question was the first step toward finding an answer.

Her phone buzzed beside her, Emerson's name lighting up the screen. Her heart did that little jump it had started doing whenever he called or texted.

"Hey," she answered, leaning back against the couch.

"Hey." His voice was warm through the speaker. "Just checking if you need anything for tomorrow. I'm at the hardware store."

Tomorrow. The Harvest Festival. Where she'd be selling flowers from a booth all day, where Emerson had promised to help. Where there would be dancing under string lights once the sun went down.

"I think I'm all set," she said. "Just finished making up the bouquet samples."

"Alright. I'll be by early to help load up."

There was a pause, comfortable but filled with the unspoken. She could picture him in the hardware store aisle, phone pressed to his ear, probably absently examining some tool or fixture while they talked.

"Actually," she said suddenly, "there is something."

"Name it."

She glanced down at her list, heart thumping. "I made a list. Things I want to do before I decide about Seattle. I was wondering if maybe you'd want to help me with it."

The line went quiet for a moment. She could hear the faint sounds of the store in the background—a cart rolling by, someone asking about paint colors.

"What kind of things?" he finally asked, his voice cautious yet curious.

"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 birds like 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 grow corn 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."

Ava laughed, the sound bright in the early morning quiet. "I like that approach too, sometimes. There's something to be said for just trying and seeing what takes root."

The sun began to rise as they reached the far end of the market, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

They paused to watch, standing shoulder to shoulder as the world transformed around them.

The first rays touched Ava's hair, turning the dark waves to copper and gold at the edges.

Emerson found himself staring, mesmerized by how the changing light revealed new colors in her.