Page 20 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

E merson woke to a soft gray light filtering through the windows.

For a moment, he didn't recognize his surroundings.

The angle of shadows, the distant drip of water, and the weight and warmth pressed against his side were all unfamiliar.

Then memory returned in a rush of images and sensations.

The storm. The leaking roof. Ava in his arms, her skin warm against his in the candlelight.

He turned his head carefully, not wanting to disturb her.

She slept curled against him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her dark hair spilling across the makeshift bedding.

The drop cloths had twisted around them during the night, partly covering her shoulder and leaving one foot exposed to the morning chill.

Her features were softened by sleep, the worry line that often appeared between her brows completely smoothed away.

Something tightened in his chest. The urge to protect, to care for, to simply be near.

He'd meant what he'd said at the festival.

He was falling in love with her, had been falling since that first day with Nattie's camera between them.

Maybe even before that, in some way he couldn't explain, as if his heart had been waiting for her before he even knew she existed.

But what did last night mean to her? The storm, the vulnerability, the way she'd reached for him in the darkness... Was it comfort she'd sought? Connection in the chaos? Or something else, something that might last beyond the rain?

He eased himself away from her carefully, retrieving his clothes from where they'd been scattered.

His jeans were still damp, uncomfortable against his skin as he pulled them on.

His shirt was better, having dried somewhat during the night.

The floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he padded quietly to the front of the shop to check the damage.

Morning revealed what the darkness had hidden.

Water stains spread across the ceiling like maps of unknown countries.

Buckets and containers stood in puddles where they'd overflowed.

The floor near the counter had begun to warp slightly, the wood swelling where water had pooled.

Not as bad as the pipe burst had been, but still a significant setback after all their work.

Emerson found the small electric kettle they kept for tea and coffee, pleased to discover it still worked despite the power outage.

The electricity must have been restored sometime during the night, though the shop remained quiet except for the steady drip from the ceiling.

He filled the kettle and set it to boil, measuring coffee grounds into the French press Ava kept on a shelf near the sink.

The familiar routine steadied him. Measure, pour, wait, press.

Simple actions requiring just enough attention to quiet the questions circling in his mind.

What happens now? Where do we go from here?

The rich scent of coffee filled the small space, grounding him in the present moment rather than an uncertain future.

He heard movement from the back room—the soft sounds of Ava waking, of fabric shifting, of bare feet on wooden floors. He poured two mugs of coffee, adding a splash of cream to hers the way he'd seen her do countless mornings.

She appeared in the doorway, fully dressed now, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. There was something in her expression he couldn't quite read—a guardedness that hadn't been there in the darkness, a careful distance already forming between them.

"Morning," he said, offering her a mug. "Power's back on."

"Thanks." She took it, her fingers careful not to brush against his. "How bad is it?"

He knew she meant the shop, not what had happened between them, though the question could have applied to either. "Not great. But fixable."

She nodded, moving past him to survey the damage.

Her shoulder almost touched his as she passed, but not quite, the space between them deliberate in a way that made his stomach tighten.

She sipped her coffee, her face composed as she took in the water stains, the warped floorboards, the overflowed buckets.

"I should get a broom, start mopping up," she said, her voice steady and practical. No mention of the night before, of skin against skin, of whispered words in the darkness.

"I'll help." He set his coffee down, searching her face for some hint of what she was feeling. "Ava—"

"Thank you," she interrupted, her eyes meeting his briefly before sliding away. "For… staying."

The word hung between them, inadequate for what they'd shared yet somehow all she seemed willing to offer. Emerson felt something in his chest tighten, a pressure that wasn't quite pain but bordered on it.

"Of course," he said, matching her tone though it cost him to do so. "That's what friends do."

Friends. The word felt wrong in his mouth, too small for what they'd become to each other.

He almost winced as it left his lips, like swallowing something bitter and trying not to show it.

But he wouldn't push, wouldn't demand more than she was ready to give.

He'd meant what he'd said about not wanting to be the reason she stayed if staying wasn't what she truly wanted.

Last night hadn't changed that, regardless of how much it had meant to him.

They worked side by side throughout the morning, emptying buckets, mopping floors, assessing damage.

The familiar rhythm they'd established over weeks of working together remained, but something had changed.

There was a new awareness that made each accidental touch, each shared glance, more meaningful.

At one point, their hands brushed as they both reached for the same bucket. Ava pulled back as if burned, a flush creeping up her neck. Emerson pretended not to notice, though the small rejection lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.

"The roof's going to need professional work," Emerson said, examining a particularly bad leak above the register. "Beyond what I can fix with patches."

Ava nodded, wringing out a mop into a bucket of gray water. "I figured as much." A strand of hair had escaped her bun, curling against her cheek. He fought the urge to reach out and tuck it back, remembering how freely he'd touched her just hours before.

"I know a guy in Fairview. Does good work, fair prices." He pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "I can call him today if you want."

She hesitated, something flickering across her face too quickly to read. A shadow passed behind her eyes, like a door quietly closing. "Let me think about it. It's a big expense."

The words themselves were reasonable, practical even. But there was something in her tone, a hesitation that made him wonder if she was thinking about Seattle again. About leaving. About whether it made sense to invest in repairs if she wasn't going to stay.

"Sure," he said, pocketing his phone again. "No rush."

But there was, wasn't there? A deadline looming that neither of them had mentioned this morning. The Seattle offer that needed an answer. The decision that would determine not just her future but, in some way, his as well. At least, the future he'd begun to imagine with her in it.

By midday, they'd cleaned up the worst of the water damage. The floor was dry, if still slightly warped in places. Buckets remained positioned beneath stubborn leaks, but the dripping had slowed to an occasional pat rather than the steady rhythm of the night before.

Emerson watched as Ava called the florist supply company to order replacements for the stock that had been damaged.

She stood with her back to him, one hip leaned against the counter, fingers idly tracing the edge of an order form as she spoke.

Her voice was professional and efficient as she listed items and quantities, yet there was a weariness in the slope of her shoulders that made him want to cross the room, to press his palms against that tension and ease it away.

Instead, he gathered his tools, packing them methodically into his toolbox.

Each wrench, each screwdriver, each measuring tape returned to its proper place, the familiar routine steadying him when nothing else seemed certain.

The metal clinked softly against metal, the sound oddly final in the quiet shop.

He felt Ava watching him from across the room, though every time he glanced up, she seemed absorbed in some task, like adjusting a flower arrangement, straightening a stack of order forms, wiping an already clean counter. The careful dance of avoidance was becoming its own kind of intimacy.

"I should check on those flowers," he said finally, closing the toolbox with a definitive click. "Make sure they're okay in my refrigerator."

Ava looked up from the clipboard where she'd been inventorying damage. "Right. Of course."

"Do you want to come with me?" The question slipped out before he could consider it fully. "We could bring them back here, now that the power's on. Or..." He trailed off, leaving the alternative unspoken.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he'd come to recognize as a sign of uncertainty. "I should stay here. There's still so much to do, and the delivery truck is coming at three."

"Right." He nodded, accepting the gentle rejection for what it was. The weight of his toolbox seemed to increase in his hand, heavy with more than metal and wood. "I'll bring them back then. Before three."

"Thank you." She set down the clipboard, taking a step toward him and then stopping, as if unsure of the appropriate distance to maintain. "For everything. Really."

There was genuine gratitude in her voice, warmth in her eyes despite the careful space she kept between them. But something was missing—the openness they'd shared in the darkness, the vulnerability that had made last night more than just physical connection.