Page 22 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)
T he sound of Emerson's truck faded slowly, the engine's rumble dissolving into the quiet afternoon.
Ava stood unmoving until she could no longer hear it, until she was certain he was truly gone.
Only then did she let out the breath she'd been holding back, her shoulders dropping as the careful composure she'd maintained all morning began to crumble.
The silence of the empty shop pressed against her, broken only by the occasional drip of water into a bucket and the soft tick of the clock behind the counter. She moved to the front window, watching the space where his truck had been, her fingertips resting lightly against the glass.
What had she done? Last night played through her mind in vivid detail.
The storm, the leaking roof, the candlelight catching in Emerson's eyes as he'd looked at her.
The feeling of his hands, gentle but sure, as they'd moved over her skin.
The way he'd whispered her name like a prayer, like something precious.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions that had kept her distant all morning. It wasn't regret. She'd meant what she'd said about that. Being with Emerson had felt right, natural, as if they'd been moving toward that moment since the day they met.
But in the cold light of morning, reality had reasserted itself. The leaking roof. The damaged shop. The Seattle offer still waiting for an answer. The fact that she still didn't know what she truly wanted, what path was truly hers rather than one she'd inherited or accepted out of obligation.
And now there was Emerson to consider. Emerson, who fixed things with careful hands and few words. Emerson, who had told her he was falling in love with her. Emerson, whose body against hers had felt like coming home to a place she hadn't known she was missing.
How could she make a decision about Seattle now, with this new complication? How could she leave, knowing what they could be together? And yet, how could she stay without knowing if it was what she truly wanted, or if it was just the easier path, the safer choice?
Ava moved through the shop, straightening displays that didn't need straightening, wiping surfaces that were already clean.
The physical activity helped quiet her racing thoughts, gave her something to focus on besides the memory of Emerson's hands, his lips, the solid warmth of his body against hers.
A droplet of water fell from the ceiling, landing with a soft pat on her shoulder.
She looked up at the water stain spreading across the ceiling tile, dark and ominous.
Another repair needed. Another decision to make.
Fix it properly, or patch it temporarily?
Invest in the future of this space, or prepare to leave it behind?
Her eyes fell on the mural they'd painted together, the lavender field stretching toward distant hills.
Their initials sat side by side in the corner, a small declaration neither had acknowledged directly but both had recognized as significant.
She approached it slowly, drawn by the memory of creating it together, of the music playing softly in the background, of dancing in this very spot with his arms around her.
Her fingers traced the edge of the mural, feeling the slight texture of the paint beneath her fingertips.
The brush strokes were visible up close.
Some were bold and confident (his), others more delicate and detailed (hers).
Together, they'd formed something neither could have created alone.
Just as they'd rebuilt the shop after the pipe burst, just as they'd weathered last night's storm side by side.
But was it enough? Was the connection they'd formed through work, through shared purpose and the gradual opening of their guarded hearts, enough to base a future on? Or was it just another form of staying safe, of choosing the familiar over the unknown?
Her fingers found their initials in the corner. A.B. and E.R. Side by side but separate, just like they were now. She traced the letters slowly, remembering how it had felt to add them, to make that small declaration of connection.
Ava's phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking her reverie. She pulled it out, expecting a customer or perhaps Emerson texting about tomorrow's plans. Instead, it was a reminder she'd set months ago: "Seattle decision deadline: Friday."
Friday. The day after tomorrow. After the canoeing, after the bookshop, after the completion of her list. The timing felt deliberate somehow, as if the universe were ensuring she had all the information, all the experiences, before making her choice.
Without thinking too deeply about why, she opened her browser and typed in the name of the floral design studio in Seattle.
The website loaded quickly, sleek and modern with high-contrast photos of architectural arrangements, minimalist bouquets, innovative installations.
Nothing like the homey, personal style of Bloom & Vine.
Nothing like the work she'd been doing her whole life.
The images were beautiful in their stark simplicity, yet strangely cold. No dried flower wreaths or hand-painted signs, no weathered buckets filled with seasonal blooms. No evidence of the human touch, the personal connection that had defined her approach to flowers since childhood.
Would she fit there, in that world of concrete floors and glass walls? Would she find fulfillment in creating those stark, dramatic pieces that looked more like art than traditional floristry? Would she make friends, build connections, find a new home among strangers?
And what would she be leaving behind? The shop her mother had built. The town that knew her history. The friends who had supported her through grief and beyond. And Emerson. Steady, patient Emerson, who looked at her like she was something precious, something with worth.
Her finger hovered over the "Contact Us" button, the decision momentarily crystallizing into this single action. To press it would be a step toward leaving. To close the browser would be a step toward staying.
A drop of water fell onto the screen, startling her. She looked up, realizing she'd moved beneath another leak. The ceiling above her was darkening, moisture gathering at the center of the stain. Another drop fell, this one landing on her cheek like a cold tear.
Ava wiped it away, looking from the phone in her hand to the mural on the wall, to the shop around her with its buckets catching leaks, its flowers waiting to be arranged, its history and possibilities.
Simply set the phone down on the counter, leaving the page open but taking no action.
Not yet. Tomorrow there would be canoeing on Miller's Pond, the bookshop in Westdale, the completion of her list. Tomorrow there would be Emerson with his warm presence, gentle hands, and eyes that saw her more clearly than anyone ever had.
She picked up a broom and began to sweep, finding comfort in the familiar motion, in the quiet scrape of bristles against wood. The rhythm helped quiet her mind, allowed her to simply be in this moment, in this space that had shaped her life for so long.
As she worked, her eyes kept returning to the phone on the counter, to the Seattle website still open on the screen.
To the sleek designs so different from her own, to the future they represented.
The unknown, challenging, new. Her gaze then shifted to the mural, to the lavender field she and Emerson had created together, to the initials side by side in the corner.
To all it represented. Connection, healing, the possibility of roots that grew deeper rather than spread wider.
The ceiling dripped steadily into a bucket near the counter, a rhythmic reminder of work still to be done, of decisions still to be made.
Ava swept another section of floor, moving closer to the mural with each stroke.
When she reached it, she paused, broom still in hand, and looked up at the painted lavender bending in an invisible breeze.
In the quiet of the empty shop, with water still dripping from a damaged roof and her heart still aching with uncertainty, Ava reached out once more to touch the initials in the corner.
Her fingertip traced the E.R. slowly, lingering as if the connection to the paint might somehow connect her to him as well.
The bell above the shop door chimed, startling her from her thoughts. She turned, half expecting—hoping—to see Emerson returning, some reason found to come back to her. Instead, Mrs. Connelly bustled in, umbrella in hand though the rain had long stopped.
"Just checking to see how you weathered the storm, dear," the older woman announced, eyes already taking inventory of the buckets and water stains. "Oh my. Looks like that roof finally gave up the ghost."
Ava's hand dropped from the mural, the moment broken.
She straightened, composing her features into something resembling normal.
But her phone still sat on the counter, the Seattle website still open, the decision still waiting to be made.
And her fingertips still tingled from tracing his initials, from that small, private link to the man who had become so much more than just the handyman who fixed things.