Page 18 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

"I disagree." Emerson shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. "Being human means having limits. Means not being able to control everything. Means sometimes just sitting in a leaky shop during a storm, doing the best you can."

The simple truth of his words broke something loose inside her. Tears welled up, spilling over before she could stop them. She turned her face away, embarrassed by the sudden surge of emotion, but Emerson's hand found hers in the semi-darkness, his fingers wrapping around hers with gentle pressure.

"It's okay," he said softly. "It's just me here."

Just me. As if he were nothing special, just some guy who happened to be caught in a storm with her.

Not the man who had rebuilt her shop piece by piece, who had danced with her beneath festival lights, who had told her he was falling in love with her.

Not the man whose presence had somehow become as essential to her days as the sun rising.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted, her voice breaking. "With the shop. With Seattle. With any of it."

A tear slid down her cheek, then another, mingling with the rainwater that still dampened her skin. Emerson's thumb brushed them away, the gesture so tender it made her want to cry harder.

"Maybe being lost isn't the worst thing," he suggested, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "Maybe it's just part of finding a new path."

She looked at him then, really looked at him.

His hair was darker when wet, curling slightly at the temples.

Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, catching the candlelight like tiny stars.

His shirt was soaked through, clinging to the contours of his shoulders and chest. But it was his eyes that held her—steady, patient, filled with something extra that made her breath catch.

"How do you always know what to say?" she asked, voice barely audible above the storm.

A small smile touched his lips. "I don't. I just say what I think. What feels true."

Another leak started somewhere behind them, the sound of water hitting metal joining the symphony of the storm.

Neither moved to address it. In that moment, the shop, the storm, the whole world beyond their small circle of candlelight seemed to recede, becoming background to the essential fact of them, here, together.

"I'm scared," Ava whispered. "Of making the wrong choice."

Emerson's hand tightened around hers. "You don't have to figure it all out alone, Ava. Whatever you decide, you don't have to do it alone."

The words hung between them, simple but profound. You don't have to do it alone. How long had she been carrying the weight of decision by herself? Since her mother's diagnosis? Since the funeral? Since forever?

"I'm not very good at letting people help," she admitted.

"I've noticed," he said, the gentle teasing in his voice making her smile despite her tears. "Stubborn."

"Independent," she corrected, wiping her cheek with her free hand.

"That too." His smile faded, replaced by something more serious. "But even independent people need connection sometimes. Need to be seen. Understood."

The way he said it—need to be seen—made her think of the bracelet he'd given her, of his note about wanting her to have something that was just hers. He had seen her from the beginning, had recognized the weight she carried, the struggle to find her own path while honoring what came before.

Without thinking, she reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against her skin. His breath caught, his eyes darkening as they held hers. Something shifted between them, the air in the small space becoming thick with unspoken words, with possibility.

"Emerson," she whispered, his name a question and an answer all at once.

He didn't move, though she could feel the tension in him, the careful restraint as he waited for her to decide what happened next. Always giving her the choice, always letting her set the pace. Even now, with desire evident in the way his pulse jumped beneath her fingers, he waited.

Slowly, deliberately, Ava leaned forward until her lips brushed his, the contact light as a whisper.

She felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the momentary stillness of him as he processed what was happening.

Then his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, gentle but certain, and he was kissing her back.

The first touch was tentative, exploratory. A question being asked and answered. His lips were warm despite the chill of the room, soft against hers in a way that made her heart race. She tasted rain on his skin, and beneath it, something that was uniquely him, warm and clean and real.

When they broke apart, his eyes searched hers, looking for confirmation, for certainty. "Ava," he said, her name rough in his throat. "Are you sure?"

In answer, she kissed him again, deeper this time.

Her fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as the kiss transformed from question to statement.

His arms encircled her waist, drawing her against him until she could feel the solid warmth of his body through their wet clothes, the steady beat of his heart against her own.

The storm continued around them, rain lashing the windows, thunder rolling overhead, but it seemed distant now, part of another world.

In this one, there was only the circle of candlelight, the sound of their breathing, the feeling of finally, finally acknowledging what had been growing between them for weeks.

Emerson's hand traced the curve of her spine, coming to rest at the small of her back.

His touch was both reverent and certain, as if he'd been imagining this moment for a long time but still couldn't quite believe it was happening.

When they separated again, his eyes were dark with want, but he made no move to deepen the contact further, still allowing her to lead.

"I've been thinking about this," she admitted softly. "About you."

"So have I," he said, his thumb brushing her lower lip, the touch sending shivers down her spine. "More than I should admit."

She smiled at that, some of the tension breaking. "How much more?"

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in the dim light. "Enough that I should probably be embarrassed."

"Don't be." She leaned in, her lips finding the spot just below his jaw, feeling his pulse quicken beneath her touch. "I've been thinking about it too."

His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until she was practically in his lap. "Ava," he breathed, her name a prayer and a plea. "If we don't stop now—"

"I don't want to stop," she whispered against his skin. "Not tonight."

The words hung between them. Not tonight. Not a promise of forever, not a decision about staying or going, just this moment, this connection, this choice to be together while the storm raged outside.

Emerson studied her face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he nodded, his expression solemn despite the desire evident in his eyes. "Not here," he said, glancing around at the damp shop floor, the buckets catching leaks, the precarious candles. "Come with me."

He stood, offering his hand. Ava took it without hesitation, letting him lead her through the shop toward the back room.

They passed beneath the lavender mural they'd painted together, its colors muted in the candlelight but still vibrant, still theirs.

His thumb traced small circles against her palm as they walked, a tiny, intimate gesture that felt more significant than it should have.

The back room had been transformed in recent weeks—floor repaired, walls freshly painted, new shelving half-installed along one wall. But it was still a utilitarian space, meant for storage and work, not for what they were considering.

Emerson must have seen the question in her eyes.

"Wait here," he said, disappearing into the small utility closet.

He returned moments later with a stack of clean drop cloths, the kind used to protect floors during painting.

With efficient movements, he spread them over the floor in the corner farthest from the leaks, creating a makeshift pallet that was surprisingly soft when Ava knelt on it to test.

"Not exactly romantic," he said, a hint of apology in his voice.

Ava looked around at the candlelit room, at the rain-streaked windows and the man standing before her, uncertainty and desire warring in his expression. "I disagree," she said softly. "It's perfect."

She held out her hand, and he took it, joining her on the improvised bed.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the magnitude of what they were about to do settling between them.

Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the room in stark white before plunging it back into golden candlelight.

In that flash, Ava saw everything—the tenderness in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands, the raw vulnerability of wanting something so much it hurts.

Then Ava reached for the hem of her damp shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid movement.

The air was cool against her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and shoulders.

She felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed not just physically but emotionally.

This wasn't just about desire or physical connection.

It was about trust, about choosing to be seen, about letting someone in behind the careful walls she'd built.

Emerson's gaze traveled over her, taking in the curve of her shoulders, the lace of her bra, the way the candlelight cast shadows across her skin. His expression was one of wonder, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words simple but filled with conviction.