Page 27 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)
B y Sunday, the roof was halfway done, the worst leaks addressed, new plywood gleaming pale against the older sections.
The shop hummed with activity on a day she would normally be closed—customers coming and going, workers calling to each other overhead, Ava moving between it all with increasing exhaustion.
Her phone interview with Seattle had gone well. Too well. They’d invited her for an in-person visit on Friday, all expenses paid. A chance to see the studio, meet the team, discuss specifics. She hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Emerson. Especially not Emerson.
She saw him less now, as he’d promised. He came by to check on the work, to consult with Martin, to help move something heavy when needed. But he kept his distance otherwise, no longer helping himself to coffee or offering to stay late. The space between them grew with each passing day.
That afternoon, as she was closing up shop, Krysta appeared, breezing through the door with her usual energy and directness. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, her scarf trailing behind her like a banner of bright color against the shop’s muted tones.
“The roof’s looking good,” she said, glancing upward where the last of the day’s work was winding down. The sound of hammers had given way to the softer scrape of cleanup, voices calling to each other as tools were gathered and ladders secured. “Martin’s crew works fast.”
“They’ve been great,” Ava agreed, wiping down the counter with more focus than the task required. The cloth made soft swishing sounds against the surface, gathering stray leaves and pollen. “Should be done sometime tomorrow if the weather holds.”
Krysta perched on a stool, crossing her legs elegantly as she studied her friend. Her perfume—something citrusy and bright—cut through the lingering scent of sawdust and fresh lumber. “And you? How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” Ava said automatically, continuing to wipe surfaces that were already clean.
“Hmm.” Krysta’s eyebrow arched in skepticism. She reached out and stilled Ava’s hand, forcing her to pause in her nervous cleaning. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding everyone? Because you’re ‘fine’?”
Ava looked up, startled by the directness of the question and the warm pressure of Krysta’s hand on hers. “I haven’t been avoiding people. I’ve been right here, working.”
“Working and hiding,” Krysta corrected gently, releasing Ava’s hand to pick up a stray rose petal from the counter.
She twirled it between her fingers, the deep red a stark contrast against her pale skin.
“I’ve called twice this week. Mason says you haven’t been in for coffee in days.
And Emerson...” She trailed off, watching Ava’s face carefully.
“Well, let’s just say he’s looking about as cheerful as a rain cloud lately. ”
The mention of Emerson sent a pang through Ava’s chest. She resumed wiping, moving to the next counter over. “He’s been busy with other jobs,” she said, the excuse sounding hollow even to her own ears.
“Right,” Krysta said, clearly unconvinced.
She set the rose petal down and followed Ava, leaning against the wall where the mural of lavender fields stretched toward painted hills.
“So it has nothing to do with whatever happened between you two during that storm? Or the fact that Seattle called again?”
Ava’s head snapped up. “How did you know about Seattle?”
“Small town,” Krysta reminded her with a shrug, her earrings catching the light as she moved. “And you were on the phone when I walked by yesterday. Heard enough to put it together.”
Ava sighed, abandoning the pretense of cleaning. She tossed the cloth into a small bucket beneath the counter, the soft splash of water punctuating her surrender. “They want me to visit. End of this week. To see the studio, talk details.”
“And you’re going?”
“I think so. Yes.” Saying it aloud made it more real, more certain. The words seemed to hang in the air between them, taking up space. “I need to see it, at least. Before I decide.”
Krysta nodded, thoughtfully. She reached out and straightened a small vase of carnations, her movements deliberate. “That makes sense. But why the distance from everyone? From Emerson?”
Ava looked away, focusing on a vase of dahlias that needed rearranging. The heavy blooms had shifted during the day, one drooping slightly lower than the others. She adjusted it carefully, the petals velvety against her fingers. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or are you just afraid?”
“Of course I’m afraid,” Ava said, an edge creeping into her voice. She set the dahlia down with more force than intended, the water sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “I’m afraid of making the wrong choice. Of hurting people. Of being hurt.”
“So you’re pulling away to protect yourself,” Krysta observed. She moved closer, her perfume surrounding them both now, a bright contrast to the earthy scent of the flowers. “Are you hiding from a decision or from someone?”
The question hit too close to home, striking at the heart of what Ava had been avoiding acknowledging.
She stared at her friend, unable to formulate a response that wasn’t painfully honest. The shop was quiet now, the workers having left for the day.
Only the faint sounds of traffic outside and the soft hum of the refrigerated case broke the silence.
“I can’t promise him anything right now,” she said finally, the words quiet but clear. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Has he asked for promises?”
“No.”
“Has he pushed you to stay? To choose him over Seattle?”
“No,” Ava admitted, running her finger along the edge of a leaf, feeling its slight serration. “Just the opposite. He said he would wait, if I went.”
Krysta’s eyes filled with understanding that bordered on pity. “Then maybe the person you’re really hiding from is yourself.”
The words hung in the air between them, uncomfortably accurate. Ava turned away, busying herself with the flowers again, rearranging stems that didn’t need rearranging. The familiar task gave her something to do with her hands while her mind processed Krysta’s observation.
“I have a lot going on right now,” she said finally. “The roof, the shop, Seattle. I just need some space to think clearly.”
“Fair enough,” Krysta conceded, recognizing the boundary. She pushed off from the wall, gathering her purse from where she’d set it. “Just don’t push away the people who care about you in the process. That’s all I’m saying.”
After Krysta left, Ava locked up the shop and walked home in the gathering dusk.
The air was cooler now, autumn asserting itself in earnest. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk, crisp and colorful in their dying beauty.
She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, feeling the chill seep into her bones despite the exertion of walking.
As she approached her house, she noticed something on the front step. A small bouquet, wrapped simply in brown paper and twine. No card, no note. Just flowers—wildflowers mostly, with sprigs of lavender woven throughout. The paper was slightly damp from the evening dew, darkening at the edges.
She knew immediately who they were from. Who else would think to bring her lavender?
She picked them up carefully, bringing them to her nose.
The scent was subtle. They would have been gathered today, from somewhere nearby.
The thought of Emerson walking through a field, selecting each bloom with care, arranging them with his callused hands, made her throat tighten.
Had he stood on her porch, debating whether to knock?
Had he hoped to see her, or was he relieved when no one answered?
Inside, she found a mason jar to serve as a vase, filled it with water, and placed the flowers on her kitchen table. The glass was cool and solid in her hands, the water making soft sounds as it rose. When she set the arrangement down, it looked right there, as if it belonged. As if he belonged.
She touched a lavender sprig gently, the small movement releasing more of its scent.
He hadn’t included a note, hadn’t asked for a response.
Just a gift, freely given. No pressure, no expectations.
Just Emerson being Emerson, thoughtful and giving her space while still letting her know he was there.
Her phone sat on the counter, Seattle’s number now programmed into it.
The in-person interview was scheduled for Friday.
Five days from now. A plane ticket waited in her email inbox, a hotel reservation confirmed.
Steps toward a future she still wasn’t sure she wanted, but felt compelled to explore.
She should call him. Thank him for the flowers. Tell him about Seattle. But the thought of hearing his voice, of trying to explain why she’d been pulling away, of possibly hearing the hurt, was too much tonight.
Instead, she took a shower, letting the hot water wash away some of the day’s tension.
Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and wrapping her in temporary warmth.
She stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it drum against her shoulders, easing some of the tightness there.
As she dried off, her phone buzzed with a text notification.
Not Emerson, as part of her had hoped, but the bank.
Final loan documents had finished processing and were ready for her signature.
Another piece of business to handle. Another practical step forward while her heart remained stuck in indecision.
She fell into bed exhausted, hair still damp against the pillow. The scent of lavender followed her from the kitchen, subtle but persistent, a reminder of what—of who—waited for her decision. It mingled with the clean smell of her shampoo as she drifted into troubled dreams.