Page 17 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he 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, but filled 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 premature evening 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.

Ava worked frantically, moving inventory away from the worst areas, covering shelves with plastic sheeting Emerson had pulled from his truck.

Water dripped onto her hair, her shoulders, soaking through her shirt in places.

The sound of it hitting the buckets created a chaotic, arrhythmic percussion throughout the shop.

"The cooler," she gasped suddenly, remembering tomorrow's orders. "If water gets into the electrical—"

They rushed to the large floral cooler along the back wall. Sure enough, water was beginning to seep down the wall behind it, inching toward the power cord and outlet. Emerson immediately unplugged it, while Ava began pulling out the arrangements they'd need to deliver the next day.

"We can store these at my place," he said, already gathering armfuls of flowers. "My refrigerator's not ideal, but it's better than letting them warm up here."

Ava nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. They made three trips to his truck, loading the most urgent orders into the cab where they'd be protected from the rain. By the third trip, they were both soaked through, hair plastered to their foreheads, clothes clinging to their skin.

Back inside, the situation had worsened. The leak above the counter had grown, water now streaming rather than dripping. The bucket beneath it was nearly full, water sloshing over the sides with each new contribution from above.

Ava emptied it quickly, replacing it with a larger container.

Her hands shook slightly, adrenaline and growing despair making her movements less precise than usual.

When she straightened from dumping the bucket for the third time, she found Emerson watching her, concern evident in his eyes even in the dim candlelight.

It had taken him a while to get home through the storm, to carry in all the flowers to his fridge, and the return drive.

But he came back, not letting her be by herself in this disaster for long.

"We've done what we can," he said gently. "The rest will have to wait until the storm passes."

She nodded, knowing he was right but unable to accept it fully.

This shop, this space that had been her mother's pride, that she'd worked so hard to restore after the pipe burst, was once again being violated by forces beyond her control.

It felt personal somehow, as if the universe was determined to wash away every trace of what she and her mother had built.

"Maybe," she said, voice cracking slightly, "But I'm not leaving."

Emerson didn't argue. He simply nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Then I'll stay too."

They moved to the small seating area near the front window, the only corner of the shop that seemed relatively dry.

The candles cast long shadows on the walls, their flames dancing with each draft that found its way through the old window frames.

Outside, the storm continued unabated, wind and rain and intermittent flashes of lightning transforming the familiar street into wild and unrecognizable terrain.

Ava hugged her knees to her chest, trying to ignore the dampness of her clothes, the chill that had begun to settle into her bones. Beside her, Emerson sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched out before him, apparently unbothered by his own soaked condition.

"I'm sorry," she said after a while, the words almost lost beneath the storm's noise.

He turned to her, brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For insisting we stay. For..." She gestured vaguely at the shop, the buckets, the water-stained ceiling.

"None of this is your fault, Ava."

"Isn't it?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended. "I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of this place. I'm the one who inherited it, who promised to keep it going."

Emerson was quiet for a moment, studying her face in the flickering candlelight. "Your mom wouldn't blame you for a storm."

"No, but she would have been better prepared." Ava's voice caught on the words. "She would have had the roof properly repaired before storm season, would have had a contingency plan for the flowers, would have—"

"Been human," Emerson interrupted gently. "Just like you are. Just like we all are."

A particularly loud crack of thunder made the windows rattle in their frames. Ava flinched, then let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "I'm not doing a very good job of being human right now."