Page 28 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

M onday brought more work on the roof, more customers in the shop, more texts from Seattle about the upcoming visit. Ava moved through it all on autopilot, smiling when required, making floral arrangements, answering questions about the repair work with calm efficiency.

The shop was unusually busy again, customers drawn in by curiosity about the roof work or simply needing to order flowers for dinner parties and special occasions.

The bell chimed constantly, each sound making her look up with a mixture of hope and dread.

But Emerson didn’t come by. She told herself it was because it was Monday, because he had other commitments, because Martin didn’t need consultation today.

But she knew it was more than that. He was still giving her the space she’d silently requested, stepping back as she pulled away.

By closing time, her feet ached from standing and her mind was numb with exhaustion. She locked the door with a sense of relief, flipping the sign to “Closed” with more force than necessary. The shop fell silent, the absence of customers and workers creating a vacuum that pressed against her ears.

The flowers on her kitchen table greeted her when she returned home that evening, still fresh, still fragrant.

Still unanswered. She touched a petal gently, the velvet softness a contrast to her work-roughened fingers.

She wondered what he was doing tonight. If he was thinking of her.

If he regretted giving her his heart when hers was still so uncertain.

Tuesday was her day off, the shop closed for a blessed respite from the constant activity that week.

It was spur of the moment but no orders were due.

She slept late, something she rarely allowed herself, then spent the morning cleaning her house with single-minded focus.

The rhythmic swish of the broom against the floor, the sharp scent of lemon cleaner, the satisfying gleam of freshly wiped surfaces—physical work to quiet the mind, to postpone decisions for a few more hours.

By afternoon, restlessness drove her out. She found herself walking toward the edge of town, toward the old mill she’d shown Emerson weeks ago. The place her mother had dreamed of turning into a greenhouse. The place where Emerson had said the bones were good, worth saving.

The path was overgrown, branches catching at her sleeves as she made her way through the underbrush. Fallen leaves crunched beneath her boots, releasing a musty, earthy scent with each step. The air was cooler here, shaded by trees that had yet to fully surrender their foliage to autumn’s demand.

The mill looked different in the autumn light—more weathered, vulnerable.

Leaves had collected against its foundation, golden and crimson against the faded wood.

The windows were mostly broken, jagged shards of glass still clinging to some frames like reluctant teeth.

She stepped inside through the door that hung crooked on its hinges, the wood groaning in protest as she pushed it wider.

Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that streamed through broken windows, swirling in lazy patterns as her movement disturbed the still air.

The floor was solid beneath her feet despite years of neglect, testament to the quality of its original construction.

A bird had made a nest in one corner of the rafters, now abandoned as the season changed.

Despite its disrepair, the space held promise. She could see it as her mother had with glass walls letting in light, tables of seedlings stretching in rows, the scent of growing things filling the air. A place of creation and nurturing. A greenhouse, a workshop, a new beginning rooted in the past.

But she could also see it through new eyes, her own.

Not just a greenhouse but a studio. A place for experimentation, for pushing boundaries, for combining the traditional floristry she’d learned from her mother with the modern aesthetics she admired in places like Seattle.

A middle path, perhaps. A both/and rather than either/or.

Emerson’s words from the pond came back to her: Maybe it’s not about either/or but both/and. Maybe it’s about finding a way to honor different parts of yourself.

She sat on an overturned crate, its rough surface catching slightly on her jeans.

A beam of sunlight fell across her lap, warming her despite the chill in the air.

She watched the light shift as the sun began its descent, dust particles floating through the golden rays like tiny constellations.

The mill creaked around her, speaking in the language of old buildings—settling, breathing, remembering.

She’d been so focused on the binary choice of whether to stay or go, Millfield or Seattle, that she’d missed the possibilities in between.

The chance to create something new from the foundations of the old.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibration jarring in the quiet space.

Martin, with an update on the roof. Nearly done, just finishing touches tomorrow.

It had taken a little longer than planned, but at least the shop would be sound again, water-tight, protected.

Ready for whatever came next, whether that was her continued ownership or a sale to someone new.

As she walked back toward town, the question that had been haunting her for weeks shifted slightly in her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t just about where she belonged, but about what she wanted to create. What mark she wanted to leave. What legacy, her own and not her mother’s, she wanted to build.

The answers weren’t clear yet, but the questions themselves felt different. More spacious. More her own.

Wednesday morning found her back at the shop early, before Martin’s crew arrived for their final day of work.

The space felt different somehow—lighter, more open, despite nothing having changed inside.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that the roof would soon be secure, that the buckets could be put away, that one source of anxiety was nearly resolved.

Sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching in the glass vases and creating small rainbows on the walls.

The air smelled fresher, the lingering mustiness of the leaks beginning to fade.

She opened windows to let in the cool morning breeze, the white curtains billowing gently inward like sails catching wind.

She was arranging a display of autumn flowers when the bell chimed.

Emerson stepped inside, his presence filling the space in that quiet way of his.

He looked tired, shadows under his eyes suggesting his weekend had been as restless as hers.

His flannel shirt was slightly rumpled, as if he’d grabbed it from the back of a chair rather than the closet.

“Morning,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Martin said they’re finishing up today.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, setting down the vase she’d been working with. The glass made a soft sound against the wooden counter. “Almost done.”

The air between them tense with the unspoken. She wanted to thank him for the flowers, to explain her distance, to tell him about Seattle. But the words tangled in her throat, caught in the web of her own confusion.

“I got your flowers,” she said finally. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “I’m glad you liked them.”

Another silence, this one more charged than the last. Ava’s fingers twisted in her apron, seeking something to do, somewhere to look besides his face and the careful neutrality he was maintaining.

The morning light caught in his hair, highlighting strands of gold among the brown.

He needed a haircut, she noticed absently.

It was longer than when they’d first met, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

“I’m going to Seattle,” she said suddenly, the words rushing out before she could reconsider. “On Thursday. They want me to visit the studio on Friday, see the space, meet the team.”

Emerson’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a brief shadow of pain quickly controlled. “That’s good,” he said, his voice steady. “It’ll help you decide.”

“It’s just a visit,” she clarified, though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to. “Not a commitment. Just exploring the option.”

He nodded again. “Makes sense. You should see it before deciding.”

His reasonableness, his continued support despite her pulling away, made something twist painfully in her chest. It would be easier if he fought it, if he asked her to stay, if he gave her a reason to be angry or defensive.

But that wasn’t Emerson. He wouldn’t use his feelings as a weapon or a chain.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, moving toward safer ground. She picked up a stray leaf from the counter, turning it between her fingers. “About the mill. The one I showed you, that my mom wanted to turn into a greenhouse.”

Interest sparked in his eyes, genuine despite the tension between them. “What about it?”

“I’ve been wondering if it could be something else. Something new and different. Not just a greenhouse but a studio space. For experimentation, for workshops, for creating something that’s, well, my own.” The leaf crumbled slightly between her fingers, releasing a faint green scent.

The idea was still forming as she spoke it, taking shape in the saying. A possibility she hadn’t fully considered until now.

“It would need a lot of work,” Emerson said, but there was no discouragement in his tone. Just practical consideration. He moved closer, leaning against the counter, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “But the structure is sound. It could be transformed.”

“Would it be worth it, do you think?” she asked, realizing as she said it that she was asking about more than just the building.

His eyes met hers, steady and clear. “I think anything that matters is worth the work. The question is whether it matters to you.”

The words hung between them, layered with meaning beyond the mill, beyond the greenhouse idea. Ava felt something shift inside her, a small clarification in the fog of her uncertainty.

“I need to figure that out,” she said quietly. “What matters most. What’s worth building, worth fighting for.”

Emerson nodded, accepting her words for what they were. They weren’t a decision, but a step toward one. “Seattle will help with that, I think. Seeing the alternative, the other path.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I hope so.”

The bell chimed as Martin entered, breaking the moment between them. He stomped his boots on the mat, leaving small clumps of dirt despite the effort. “Morning, folks. Ready for the final push?”

Business resumed with final inspections, payment arrangements, cleanup plans. Emerson stayed to consult and ensure everything was completed to his exacting standards, but the personal conversation was over, pushed aside by practical matters.

As he was leaving, he paused at the door, looking back at her with eyes that seemed to see more than she sometimes wanted to reveal. The morning light caught him in profile, illuminating the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows.

“Safe travels, Ava,” he said simply. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The door closed behind him before she could respond, the bell’s chime fading into silence. She stood for a long moment, staring at the space where he had been, feeling his absence more acutely than she had allowed herself to these past days.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

The words echoed in her mind as she returned to her flowers, her hands moving automatically among the stems and blooms. The chrysanthemums were stiff and resistant, their stems woody, requiring her sharpest shears.

The marigolds left a faint stain on her fingers, earthy and bitter.

The thing was, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for anymore. Freedom? Purpose? A chance to prove herself? Or something simpler, but more—a place to belong, a person to belong with, a life built on choice rather than obligation?

Seattle would help clarify some of that, perhaps.

Seeing the studio, meeting the people, imagining herself in that sleek, modern space.

But other answers wouldn’t be found there.

They were here, in Millfield, in the shop her mother had built, in the mill that waited for transformation.

In Emerson’s warm presence and patient heart.

The roof was repaired now, sound and secure. The shop was whole again, ready for rain or shine, for keeping or selling. One problem solved, while the larger questions remained.

As she arranged the last of the autumn flowers, their colors vibrant against the newly repaired walls, Ava was realizing that the choice before her had changed.

It was no longer just about staying or going, Millfield or Seattle.

It was about what she wanted to build, and who she wanted to build it with.

About whether some foundations were worth keeping, worth transforming, worth the work of making something new from something old.

That night, she packed a small suitcase for Seattle, laying out clothes for the interview, checking the weather forecast, making sure her travel documents were in order. The practical tasks of preparation kept her hands busy while her mind continued to circle the same questions.

On her kitchen table, the bouquet from Emerson had begun to dry, the petals curling slightly at the edges, but the lavender remained vibrant, its scent growing stronger as it aged.

She touched it one last time before going to bed, the dried flowers making a soft rustling sound beneath her fingers.

Tomorrow, she would board a plane to Seattle, leaving everything behind—the shop, the town, the man who gathered wildflowers for her without expecting thanks.