Page 24 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

“But that’s just it,” she said, frustration edging into her voice. “How do I separate what I want from what everyone else wants for me? From what I think I should want?”

“By listening to yourself. By getting quiet enough to hear your own voice beneath all the others.”

She smiled ruefully. “Is that why you brought me to the middle of a pond? For the quiet?”

“Maybe.” He returned her smile, grateful for the momentary lightening of the mood. “Or maybe I just wanted to spend time with you without a leaky roof or nosy neighbors interrupting.”

They laughed together, the sound carrying across the water, disturbing a heron that had been fishing nearby. It rose with languid grace, wings spread wide against the blue sky, and glided to the opposite shore.

“We should probably head back soon,” Ava said after a while, though she made no move to get up. “If we want to make it to the bookstore.”

Emerson nodded, gathering the water bottles and tucking them back into his pack. They retraced their steps to the canoe, settling into their seats with more confidence than before. The paddle back was easier, their strokes synchronized, the canoe cutting smoothly through water.

As they approached the dock, Emerson shifted to secure the boat and climbed out first, offering his hand to help Ava onto the dock.

This time, she didn’t let go immediately.

Her fingers remained wrapped around his for a moment longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that still hummed between them despite the uncertainties.

The drive to Westdale was quiet but more comfortable than the drive earlier, the tension of the previous day somewhat eased by their conversation on the pond.

The landscape rolled by—fields giving way to forests, small towns appearing and disappearing as they followed the winding county road.

Ava leaned her head against the window, watching it all with a contemplative expression.

“So, this bookstore,” Emerson said as they entered Westdale, a town slightly larger than Millfield but with the same small-town charm. “Any idea where it is?”

Ava pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Mom’s notes say it’s on Oak Street. ‘The one with the green door and cats in the window.’“

They found it easily enough with its narrow storefront wedged between a bakery and an antique shop. The door was indeed green, though faded with age and weather, and a large tabby cat dozed in the bay window, surrounded by stacks of books that looked as if they might topple at any moment.

A bell jingled softly as they entered, the sound almost lost in the hushed atmosphere of the shop.

The scent of old paper and leather bindings enveloped them, along with a hint of cinnamon from a candle burning somewhere out of sight.

Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, creating narrow aisles that wound through the space like a maze.

The lighting was soft, amber-tinted, giving everything a gentle, aged quality.

An elderly man appeared from behind a tall shelf, peering at them over wire-rimmed glasses. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice as soft as the shop itself. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Just browsing,” Ava replied with a smile. “My mother used to come here. She always spoke highly of your collection.”

The man’s eyes brightened. “A returning customer, then, in spirit if not in person. Please, take your time. The cats may join you, they’re the true proprietors. I merely handle the transactions.”

As if on cue, the tabby from the window stretched and leapt down, padding over to wind around Emerson’s legs. He bent to scratch behind its ears, earning a throaty purr of approval.

“You’ve been chosen,” the shopkeeper noted with amusement. “That’s Dickens. He’s very particular about his humans.”

Ava watched the interaction with a soft smile, her eyes warming at the sight of Emerson crouched down, gently stroking the cat’s fur.

It was such a simple thing, this moment of connection with an animal, yet it revealed something essential about him—his gentleness, his patience, the careful attention he paid to living things.

They separated to explore the shop, Dickens trailing after Emerson like a furry shadow.

Ava wandered through the literature section, fingers trailing along spines, occasionally pulling a volume out to examine its cover or read a passage.

Emerson found himself in a corner dedicated to woodworking and craftsmanship, leafing through a book on traditional joinery techniques.

Time slipped by unnoticed, the quiet of the shop broken only by the occasional turning of pages, the soft footfalls of cats moving between shelves, the distant chime of the door as other customers came and went.

It was peaceful, this shared solitude, each absorbed in their own exploration yet aware of the other’s presence nearby.

Emerson glanced up from his book to find Ava standing motionless in an aisle, a small volume open in her hands, her expression one of surprised recognition. He approached quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever moment she was having.

“Find something?” he asked softly when he reached her side.

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “It’s a book of poetry. My mom had a copy, but I never saw her read it. I had seen a bookmark in it just before she died, only halfway through. I never did find it.” She held it out so he could see the cover. “And here it is.”

Emerson looked down at the slim volume—”Wild Geese and Other Poems” by Mary Oliver. The cover showed a simple illustration of birds in flight against a watercolor sky. “Are you going to get it?”

“I think I have to.” She closed the book carefully, holding it against her chest. “It feels like... I don’t know. Like finding a piece of her I didn’t know was missing.”

He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. “Let’s find you a few more, while we’re here. Make it worth the trip.”

They spent another hour browsing, occasionally sharing discoveries or reading passages aloud to each other.

Ava found a cookbook featuring lavender and other edible flowers that made her laugh with delight.

Emerson selected a novel he’d been meaning to read for years but never found the time for.

By the time they approached the counter, they each had a small stack of books—treasures discovered in the quiet of this hidden shop.

The shopkeeper wrapped their purchases in brown paper tied with string, an old-fashioned touch that seemed perfectly in keeping with the atmosphere of the place. “You’ll come back, I hope,” he said as he handed Ava her change. “Both of you.”

“We will,” she promised, though Emerson caught the slight hesitation in her voice, the shadow that crossed her face at the commitment to a future that still felt uncertain.

Outside, the afternoon had turned golden, the sun slanting through the trees lining the street. They walked back to the truck in companionable silence, their paper-wrapped packages tucked under their arms, shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigated the narrow sidewalk.

“Hungry?” Emerson asked as they reached the truck. “There’s a place at the edge of town that’s supposed to have great pie.”

Ava nodded, a smile lighting her face. “I could definitely eat pie. Mom always said bookstore browsing works up an appetite like nothing else.”

The diner was a chrome-and-red-vinyl affair, straight out of the 1950s and proud of it.

They found a booth by the window, setting their books on the seat beside them.

A waitress with impressive hair and a name tag reading “Dot” brought them menus and coffee without being asked, as if she’d been expecting them all day.

“Pie’s fresh,” she announced. “Apple, cherry, or blackberry. The blackberry’s my recommendation, picked the berries myself.”

“Blackberry for me then,” Ava said. “With ice cream, if you have it.”

“Wouldn’t serve it without,” Dot replied with a wink. “And you, handsome?”

“Apple, please,” Emerson said. “Also with ice cream.”

“Coming right up.” She swept away, leaving a trail of floral perfume in her wake.

Ava laughed softly, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug. “I think she likes you.”

“Just being friendly,” Emerson said, a slight flush coloring his neck. “Small town hospitality.”

“If you say so.” Her eyes sparkled with teasing warmth, the most relaxed he’d seen her since before the storm. “Though I can’t blame her. You are handsome.”

The compliment caught him off guard, especially after the careful distance she’d maintained. “Thank you,” he said simply, not sure how else to respond.

Dot returned with their pie, the portions generous and steaming, vanilla ice cream already melting at the edges. “Enjoy, lovebirds,” she said with another wink before bustling off to greet new customers.

“Lovebirds,” Ava repeated softly, her eyes on her pie rather than Emerson. “She assumes we’re together.”

“People usually do,” Emerson replied, trying to keep his tone light. “Since Nattie’s photos, especially. Mrs. Connelly’s not the only matchmaker in town.”

A small smile played at the corners of Ava’s mouth. “Does it bother you? People assuming?”

“No,” he said honestly. “Does it bother you?”

She considered the question, fork poised above her pie. “Not as much as it maybe should. Given everything.”

The admission hung between them, neither quite sure what to do with it. Finally, Emerson took a bite of his pie, the sweet-tart flavor of apples and cinnamon filling his mouth. “This is good,” he said, changing the subject to safer ground. “Worth the drive alone.”

Ava followed his lead, sampling her own dessert with appreciative noises. “Definitely worth it. Though I think the bookstore was my favorite part, finding that piece of my mom.”

“That’s what was on your list, right? Finding that bookshop she loved?”

“Yes. And now I understand why she loved it so much.” She took another bite, closing her eyes briefly in enjoyment. “It felt like somewhere time doesn’t quite reach. Like you could stay for hours and emerge to find only minutes had passed. Or vice versa.”

Emerson nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. “Places like that are rare.”

They finished their pie before continuing the drive back home. It was quieter than the journey out, but it was a peaceful quiet, filled with the satisfaction of a day well spent, of items checked off a list, of memories made together regardless of what came next.

As the familiar outlines of their town appeared on the horizon, Ava spoke again, her voice thoughtful. “Just one item left on my list now.”

“Figure out what you want,” Emerson said, remembering.

“Yes.” She looked out the window, watching Millfield grow closer. “The hardest one.”

“You’ll know,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “When it’s time to decide, you’ll know what’s right for you.”

She turned to look at him, vulnerability in her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you,” he said simply. “Even in the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve seen how you face things. Head on, even when it’s difficult.”

The words seemed to settle something in her. She nodded, a small smile touching her lips before she turned back to the window. They drove the rest of the way in silence, the day’s shared experiences playing on repeat in his mind.

When he pulled up in front of her house, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that reflected in her windows. Ava gathered her books and backpack, then hesitated, one hand on the door handle.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile, turning to face him fully.

“It was my pleasure,” Emerson replied, meaning it completely despite the ache in his chest from the uncertainties of what came next.

She nodded, her eyes holding his for a long moment. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. But he remained silent, letting her set the pace, respecting the space she seemed to need.

“Goodnight, Emerson,” she said finally, her voice soft in the gathering dusk.

“Goodnight, Ava.”

She slipped out of the truck, closing the door with a gentle click. He watched as she walked up the path to her front door, books clutched to her chest, hair catching the last light of day. At the door, she turned and raised her hand in a small wave before disappearing inside.

Emerson sat for a moment longer, the engine idling, his hands resting on the steering wheel.

Through her front window, he could see her silhouette as she moved through the house, the brown paper package of books still clutched to her chest. Tomorrow was Friday.

The deadline for her decision about Seattle.

The culmination of her list, of their time together, of whatever had been growing between them since that first day in Nattie’s photo session.

With a sigh, he put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.

The poetry book she’d found—her mother’s unfinished reading—rested on the passenger seat where she’d left it, forgotten in the moment of goodbye.

He glanced at it, at the birds in flight on the cover, and wondered which way Ava would fly.