Page 2 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)
E merson stood outside the community center, watching people stream through the glass doors.
Teenagers with earbuds dangling, mothers steering strollers with one hand while balancing coffee with the other, elderly couples with matching windbreakers.
He tugged at the collar of his button-down shirt, the unfamiliar sensation making him feel like an impostor in his own skin.
He’d chosen a blue shirt—not navy, but something lighter that Krysta had once said matched his eyes.
The fabric felt stiff against his shoulders, barely worn.
He’d found it pushed to the back of his closet, still bearing the creases from its last ironing, smelling faintly of cedar from the storage block he’d built last winter.
A gust of wind ruffled his carefully combed hair, and he resisted the urge to run his hand through it. Better to look presentable for once, even if it felt like wearing someone else’s life.
“You actually came.” Krysta appeared beside him, her smile wide as the sky above them. “And you’re wearing something that doesn’t have paint splatter or sawdust on it. I’m actually impressed.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said, following her through the glass doors, the warmth of the building washing over him.
Inside, the community center hummed with nervous energy.
Folding tables lined one wall with sign-in sheets and name tags.
A makeshift photography studio occupied the center of the room—plain white backdrop hung slightly crooked on a metal frame, a few standing lights casting warm pools of illumination, and a teenage girl with a camera around her neck, directing people with surprising authority.
“That’s Natalie,” Krysta said, nodding toward the girl. “Everyone calls her Nattie. She’s got a real eye.”
“For what? Torturing strangers?” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, betraying the knot of tension in his stomach.
Krysta laughed, the sound easy and familiar. “For capturing moments. Real ones.” She handed him a clipboard with a form attached. “Fill this out. I need to help with the sign-ins. Apparently half the town decided to show up today.”
Emerson took the clipboard and retreated to a corner near a potted plant that needed watering. The questionnaire was simple: name, age, occupation, three things he enjoyed. He answered mechanically, the pen scratching against paper.
Emerson Reed. 35. Handyman. Woodworking, hiking, quiet.
He paused at the last word. Quiet. Was that even something people enjoyed? But it was true—he valued silence, the space to hear his own thoughts, the absence of expectations that came with conversation. He left it.
He handed the clipboard back to Krysta, who scanned his answers with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirking at the corners.
"Quiet? That's what you're going with?"
"It's not a dating profile." He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the reassuring shape of his pocket knife, a habit from years of always having tools within reach.
"Thank God for that," she joked. "Just try to enjoy it, okay? It's thirty minutes of your life. Who knows, you might actually connect with someone new."
He nodded, watching as the young photographer arranged her subjects. She worked efficiently, pairing people together seemingly at random, positioning them against the backdrop, then stepping back to observe before adjusting angles and expressions with gentle commands.
"She's good," he admitted, watching as an elderly man and a college student who'd never met laughed together, their initial awkwardness dissolved by whatever the girl had said to them.
"She's going to art school in the fall. Full scholarship." Krysta squeezed his arm. "You're up next. Be nice."
Emerson watched as Nattie finished with a pair of elderly neighbors who'd known each other for forty years but had never had a proper conversation.
The resulting photos showed them laughing, heads bent close, sharing some secret joke that bridged decades of living on the same street without really seeing each other.
"Mr. Reed?" Nattie approached, camera dangling from her neck like an extension of herself. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone twice her age. "You're paired with—" She checked her list, scanning with her finger. "Ava Bennett."
The name was vaguely familiar, stirring something in the back of his mind, but he couldn't place it.
"She runs the flower shop on Main," Nattie supplied, as if reading his thoughts. "Bloom & Vine. The one with the blue awning?"
Now he remembered. The impatiens outside the shop yesterday, petals open to the sun. He'd never been inside, had no reason to buy flowers, but he'd passed it countless times on his way to jobs around town.
"She's just finishing her paperwork," Nattie continued, adjusting her camera strap. "We'll start in five."
Emerson nodded, his stomach tightening like a screw being turned. He scanned the room, searching for someone who might be Ava Bennett, the florist he'd never met.
And then he saw her.
She stood by the window, filling out her form with quick, efficient strokes, the morning light catching in her hair.
Dark waves fell past her shoulders, the color of coffee beans before they're ground.
She wore a green dress that reminded him of new leaves, cinched at the waist with a thin belt, and there was something about the way she held herself—straight-backed but with a certain fragility—that made him think of a sapling bending in the wind but refusing to break.
She looked up suddenly, as if sensing his gaze, and their eyes met across the room. Her expression remained neutral, almost guarded, but she gave a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her form, the pen moving a little faster now.
"That's her," Krysta whispered, appearing at his elbow.
"I figured that out."
"Be charming.”
"I don't do charming."
"Then just be human." She gave him a gentle push forward just as Nattie called them both to the backdrop.
Emerson approached slowly, giving Ava time to finish. Up close, he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the slight tightness around her mouth when she smiled at Nattie. Her nails were short, practical, with tiny traces of green around the edges—working hands.
"Ava, this is Emerson," Nattie said, gesturing between them like a referee at a boxing match. "Emerson, Ava."
"Hi," Ava said, her voice quiet but clear, reminding him of water flowing over stones in a shallow creek.
"Morning," he replied, suddenly aware of his hands. Where did people normally put their hands when they weren't holding tools? They hung awkwardly at his sides, too large and too empty.
"I'm going to have you both stand facing each other," Nattie instructed, positioning them with light touches to their shoulders and elbows. "Just about a foot apart. Perfect."
They stood awkwardly, neither making eye contact. Emerson studied the floor—polished wood that needed refinishing near the edges. He could feel Ava's presence across from him, like standing near a heater you couldn't see.
"So," Nattie said, stepping back, camera raised, "the whole point of this project is exploring connection between strangers. I want to capture something authentic. Just be yourselves."
Emerson glanced at Ava, who looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Her fingers twisted at the hem of her dress, the fabric bunching and releasing in a nervous rhythm.
"Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly," she suggested, her voice soft but steady. "I'm Ava. I run the flower shop on Main."
"Emerson. I fix things around town." He winced inwardly at how basic that sounded.
A small smile flickered across her face, not reaching her eyes but softening them. "What kinds of things?"
"Doors, windows, leaky pipes. Loose boards." He shrugged, feeling the shirt pull across his shoulders. "Anything broken, really."
She nodded, and for a moment, something wistful crossed her expression, a shadow passing over her features like clouds over the sun. "Must be satisfying. Fixing what's broken."
The words felt heavy, as if she were speaking of more than door hinges and cracked windowpanes. Before he could respond, Nattie stepped forward, breaking the moment.
"That's good. Now, could you both turn slightly toward the light? And Emerson, maybe put your hand on her shoulder? Just lightly."
He hesitated, then carefully placed his palm on Ava's shoulder. The fabric of her dress was soft beneath his callused hand, warm from her skin. He felt her tense slightly, a barely perceptible tightening of muscle, then relax, as if she'd reminded herself to breathe.
"Perfect," Nattie said, the camera's shutter clicking in rapid succession. "Now, Ava, look up at him. Like you're about to tell him a secret."
Ava tilted her face up, her eyes meeting his.
This close, he could see flecks of amber in her brown irises, the faint constellation of freckles across her nose that hadn't been visible from a distance.
Something shifted in the air between them—not electricity, nothing so dramatic, but a quieter current, like the moment before rainfall when the air changes pressure.
"Have you two really never met?" Nattie asked, adjusting her lens with a practiced twist. "Millfield isn't that big."
"I don't buy flowers," Emerson said simply, immediately regretting how blunt it sounded.
"And I don't usually need repairs," Ava added, but there was a catch in her voice that made him wonder. Her gaze dropped for a moment, then returned to his face with renewed composure.
"Well, you're naturals together," Nattie said, circling them like a documentary filmmaker. "Now, I want you to stand back-to-back."