Page 14 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

"Worth getting up for?" he asked quietly.

She turned to him, her face softened by the dawn light, eyes reflecting the sunrise. "Definitely worth it."

They continued their exploration as the market came fully alive around them.

Ava found her heirloom tomatoes—misshapen, multicolored, nothing like the uniform red spheres in supermarkets.

She selected several, handling them with the care of someone who understood their value.

Emerson bought fresh bread still warm from the oven and a jar of local honey that the vendor promised paired perfectly with it.

By the time they returned to the truck, their arms were full of paper bags containing their treasures—tomatoes, bread, honey, a bunch of dahlias Emerson had insisted on buying when he saw how Ava's eyes lingered on them, a small jar of wild blackberry jam, and two peaches so ripe they perfumed the air around them.

"First item, complete," Ava said as they loaded everything into the back seat. She pulled out her list from her pocket and made a check mark with satisfaction. "Though we still have the festival tonight, so we're doing these out of order."

"What's next after that?" Emerson asked, starting the engine.

"Canoeing on Miller's Pond. And the bookshop in Westdale." She folded the list carefully and tucked it away. "Though I'm not sure when we'll have time. The festival runs all weekend, and the shop's closed Monday for inventory..."

"Wednesday," he said without hesitation. "I can clear my schedule. We could do both in one day."

She looked at him, surprise and something warmer in her expression. "You don't have to do that. I know you have work—"

"I want to," he said simply. "If you want the company."

"I do." She smiled, small but genuine. "Thank you."

They drove back toward Millfield as the day fully emerged around them, fields golden in the morning light.

Emerson felt a contentment he hadn't experienced in a long time—maybe ever.

Something about the quiet of the morning, the simple pleasure of wandering the market, the way Ava's face had lit up at each new discovery.

"We should have breakfast," he suggested as they neared town. "With our market haul. Before the festival setup starts."

"My place is closer," she offered. "I make a decent omelet."

Twenty minutes later, they were in Ava's kitchen.

The space was smaller than he'd expected, but bright and welcoming, with plants on every windowsill and a collection of mismatched mugs hanging from hooks.

Ava moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, slicing tomatoes, whisking eggs, her hair now tied back to keep it out of her way.

Emerson found himself leaning against the counter, watching her work, struck by how natural it felt to be here in this moment. He'd never been inside her house before, yet somehow it didn't feel like crossing a boundary. It felt like a natural progression, a door opening between them.

"Can I help?" he offered.

"You could slice the bread. Cutting board's in that drawer."

They worked side by side in the small kitchen, falling into an easy rhythm. Emerson sliced the bread while Ava finished the omelets, the scent of butter and herbs filling the air. Their elbows brushed occasionally, the contact brief but charged with awareness.

When everything was ready, they sat at her small kitchen table by the window. Sunlight streamed in, catching in the honey jar as Emerson drizzled it over a slice of bread. The first bite was a revelation—the bread still warm and chewy, the honey floral and complex.

"This is incredible," he said, realizing how hungry he was.

Ava nodded, her mouth full of omelet. She'd added the market tomatoes, their flavor intense and nothing like the watery versions from the grocery store. "Worth getting up at an ungodly hour?"

"Without question."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of appreciation.

Emerson found himself studying her house, noting the details—family photos on the refrigerator, a stack of gardening books on the counter, a sweater draped over a chair in a way that suggested it was often left there.

"I like your place," he said. "It feels like you."

She glanced up, a question in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

He gestured with his fork, trying to articulate what he meant. "Warm. Not too fussy. Everything has a purpose but also a story."

Her expression softened. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said about my decorating skills."

"Not just decorating. The whole feeling of it." He felt suddenly self-conscious, worried he wasn't explaining himself well. "My place is functional but it doesn't say much. Yours tells a story."

"I'd like to see it sometime," she said. "Your place, I mean."

The simple request caught him off guard. "It's nothing special."

"I'd still like to see it. The place where you're most yourself."

The idea of Ava in his space—sitting at his kitchen table, looking through his bookshelves, maybe standing on his back porch where he'd planted lavender—created a warmth in his chest that was both pleasant and uncomfortable in its intensity.

"Anytime," he said, meaning it despite the flutter of nervousness the invitation created.

They finished breakfast and cleaned up together, falling into the same easy rhythm they'd established at the shop. Ava washed while Emerson dried, their conversation flowing naturally between festival preparations and observations about the market.

As Emerson placed the last dried plate in the cabinet, Ava checked the time. "We should probably head to the festival grounds. Setup starts at nine."

"I'll drive you to the shop first, so you can get your flowers."

She nodded, gathering her keys and phone. At the door, she paused, turning to face him. "Thank you for this morning. For getting up before dawn and driving to Fairview and... all of it."

"I enjoyed it," he said simply. "More than I expected to."

"Me too." She hesitated, then stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "First item, officially complete."

The spot where her lips had touched his skin seemed to burn pleasantly as they walked to his truck. Emerson found himself touching it absently as he rounded the hood to the driver's side, as if he could preserve the sensation through contact.

The day stretched ahead of them—festival setup, hours of work, crowds and noise and responsibilities. But underneath it all ran the current of something new and fragile taking shape between them. A shared sunrise, a quiet breakfast, a list of experiences waiting to be checked off.

And tonight, under the festival lights, there would be dancing.