Page 21 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

"That's what I'm here for," he said, the words coming out more stiffly than he intended. "To fix things."

A flash of something—hurt? regret?—crossed her face, but it was gone before he could be sure. Her fingers tightened around the clipboard she still held, knuckles whitening slightly. "You do that very well."

The words hung between them, layered with meanings neither seemed ready to untangle. Emerson picked up his toolbox, suddenly eager to be outside, away from the confused web of emotions that filled the small space between them. "I'll see you later then."

She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that looked protective, defensive even. "Okay. And Emerson?"

He paused at the door, looking back at her. The morning light caught in her hair, highlighting strands of deep copper among the brown. Despite the careful distance in her posture, there was something in her eyes that made his heart twist—a question, a plea, a confusion that matched his own.

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow," she said softly. "For the canoeing and the bookshop. Is that still...?"

"If you want it to be," he answered, matching her tone.

She nodded, a small, decisive movement. "I do."

It wasn't much, but it was something. It was an acknowledgment that whatever had happened between them, whatever was happening now, hadn't erased the connection they'd been building.

The list was still important. Their plans still mattered.

There was still a tomorrow to consider, even if today felt uncertain.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "Early, like we planned."

"Early," she agreed, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I'll bring the coffee this time."

He returned the smile, though it felt strained around the edges. "Deal."

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped outside, the sound oddly final.

He paused on the sidewalk, half-expecting and hoping, to hear the door open again, to feel her hand on his arm, to turn and find her there with whatever words might bridge the distance that had opened between them overnight.

But the door remained closed. Through the window, he could see her standing where he'd left her, one hand pressed flat against the counter as if needing its support, her gaze fixed on some middle distance he couldn't reach.

Emerson loaded his toolbox into the truck, his movements mechanical as his mind circled back to the night before.

To Ava in his arms, her skin warm against his, her voice whispering his name in the darkness.

To the feeling of rightness, of coming home, that had settled over him as they'd lain together afterward.

Had she felt it too? Or had it been just comfort she sought, connection in the face of chaos, a moment of escape from the decisions weighing on her?

The questions followed him as he drove home, as he carefully packed the flowers for return to the shop, as he moved through the motions of his day with half his mind still back in that candlelit room.

When he returned to Bloom & Vine just after two, Ava was helping a customer, an elderly man picking out an anniversary arrangement for his wife. She smiled at Emerson over the man's shoulder, a genuine smile that reached her eyes, and he relaxed slightly.

"Just in time," she said as the customer left. "The cooler's ready for them."

Together they unloaded the flowers, arranging them carefully in the refrigerated case.

Their hands brushed occasionally, the contact brief heightened with awareness.

Emerson found himself hyperconscious of her proximity, of the scent of her hair, lavender and rain, of the way her fingers moved with practiced efficiency among the blooms.

"They look good," she said, stepping back to survey their work. "No damage from the temporary storage. Thank you for thinking so quickly last night."

"Just doing what needed to be done," he said, closing the cooler door with a soft click. The air between them feeling tense.

The delivery truck arrived then, relieving a little of the tension.

Emerson helped unload, carrying boxes and buckets into the shop while Ava checked them against her order form.

The familiar work filled the silence, gave them something to focus on besides the charged awareness that hummed beneath every interaction.

When everything was unloaded, Emerson found himself lingering, reluctant to leave despite the awkwardness that had settled between them. Ava moved around the shop, opening boxes, sorting stems, her movements efficient but her expression distant, as if part of her was somewhere else entirely.

"I should go," he said finally, when the silence had stretched too long. "Let you get back to work."

She looked up, vulnerability in her eyes before being replaced by the careful composure she'd maintained all morning. "Okay. Tomorrow, then? For the canoeing?"

"I'll pick you up at seven," he confirmed. "If that still works."

"It does." She took a step toward him, then stopped, her hands twisting together in front of her. "Emerson, about last night—"

"We don't have to talk about it," he interrupted, not sure he was ready to hear whatever she might say. Not if it meant dismissing what had happened as a mistake, a moment of weakness, something best forgotten.

"I just wanted to say," she continued, her voice soft but steady, "I don't regret it. I just need some time to... to process everything."

The admission loosened the tightness in his chest. Not regret. That was something, at least. "Take all the time you need, Ava. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, a small smile touching her lips. "Thank you. For understanding."

"Always," he said, meaning it despite the ache of uncertainty that lingered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As he walked to his truck, Emerson felt the weight of the night before, of the morning's careful distance, settling back between his shoulders as he couldn't help but listen to the anxieties in his mind.

He'd meant what he'd said. He would give her all the time she needed.

But the question remained: would time bring her closer to him, or lead her away?

Toward Seattle, toward a future that might not include him at all?

He glanced back at the shop once more before starting the engine.

Through the window, he could see Ava watching him, one hand raised in a small goodbye.

The space between them stretched beyond mere feet and yards, beyond the glass and brick that separated them.

It was a distance measured in decisions not yet made, in words not yet spoken, in futures not yet chosen.

The answer, like so much else, would have to wait for tomorrow.