Page 32 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

As Erika outlined the details of schedule, compensation, and expectations, Ava found her attention drifting.

Through the windows, she could see clouds gathering on the horizon, the earlier sunshine giving way to Seattle's more characteristic gray.

The city's sharp edges seemed to soften slightly, the glass and steel mellowing in the diffuse light.

Back in the conference room, Dyane presented a formal offer. The terms were generous, better than Ava had expected. A decent stipend, housing assistance for the first month, mentorship from senior designers, the possibility of contributing to major installations almost immediately.

"We're impressed with your potential," Dyane said, sliding a folder across the table. "Your technical skills are solid, and your eye for composition is excellent. With the right guidance, we believe you could become a significant contributor to our team."

"Thank you," Ava said, accepting the folder. The paper was heavy, expensive, with the studio's logo embossed in silver. "This is a wonderful opportunity."

"Take the weekend to consider," James advised. "We don't expect an immediate answer. But we would need to know by Monday if you're accepting, as we have other candidates to consider if you decline."

Ava nodded, tucking the folder into her bag. "Of course. I appreciate the time to reflect."

"One more question, if I may," Dyane said, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Your shop in Millfield, what would happen to it if you accepted our offer?"

The question caught Ava off guard, though it shouldn't have. It was the practical consideration that had been hanging over her decision all along.

"I would need to make arrangements," she said carefully. "Either find someone to manage it in my absence or... consider other options."

"Selling, perhaps?" James suggested. "It might be cleaner, less complicated."

"Possibly," Ava acknowledged, though the word felt wrong in her mouth, like a lie she was telling herself. "I haven't decided yet."

Dyane nodded, apparently satisfied. "Well, as I said, take the weekend. Seattle has much to offer. Perhaps explore the city, get a feel for what life might be like here. We can connect on Monday for your decision."

The meeting concluded with handshakes and professional smiles. Mara appeared to escort Ava back to the reception area, her heels clicking sharply on the polished floor. At the elevator, she handed Ava a sleek business card with the studio's logo.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," she said, the words practiced, impersonal. "We hope to welcome you to the team soon."

The elevator doors closed, and Ava was alone for the first time since arriving at the studio.

She leaned against the wall, suddenly tired.

The interview had gone well. Better than well, really.

They wanted her. They saw potential in her work, believed she could contribute to their prestigious studio.

It was everything she had hoped for when she'd first considered applying.

So why did she feel this hollow ache in her chest, this sense of something not quite right?

Outside, the weather had turned. Rain fell in a gentle mist, coating the sidewalks and streets with a slick sheen that reflected the city lights.

Ava pulled her jacket tighter around herself, grateful she'd packed an umbrella.

She opened it with a soft whoosh, the fabric expanding like a protective wing above her head.

The hotel was six blocks away, a walk that would have been pleasant in better weather.

Now, it felt like a trudge through a city that seemed increasingly alien.

The buildings loomed overhead, much taller than anything in Millfield.

People rushed past, heads down, shoulders hunched against the rain, no one making eye contact or offering the casual greetings that were customary back home.

A man in a business suit bumped into her without a word of apology, his attention fixed on his phone.

A woman swerved around her, coffee clutched in one hand, expression closed and distant.

In Millfield, even strangers nodded hello.

Mason knew everyone's coffee order by heart.

Mrs. Connelly stopped to chat whether you had time or not.

By the time she reached the hotel lobby, Ava's shoes were damp and her spirits lower than they had been all day. The concierge glanced up as she entered, giving her a professionally blank smile.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Bennett. How was your meeting?" he asked, not really expecting or waiting for an answer as he retrieved her key card.

"It went well, thank you," she replied, but he had already turned his attention to the next guest.

In Millfield, the question would have been genuine. Mrs. Connelly would have wanted details. Krysta would have studied her face for the truth behind her words. Emerson would have simply looked at her, those warm eyes seeing straight through any pretense to what she really felt.

Her room was on the twelfth floor, high enough to offer a view of the city but not as spectacular as the one from the studio.

Inside, she kicked off her shoes and hung her damp jacket in the bathroom to dry.

The room was pleasant enough. It was clean and modern with a large bed, a desk, and a small sitting area by the window.

Generic hotel art hung on the walls, inoffensive landscapes in muted colors.

Nothing personal, nothing distinctive. A place to sleep, not a place to live.

Ava moved to the window, watching the rain trace patterns down the glass. The city spread before her, a jumble of buildings and lights now blurred by the weather. In the distance, she could just make out the Space Needle, its distinctive silhouette a reminder that she was far from home.

Home. The word caught in her mind. Was Millfield still home? Had it ever truly been hers, or had she just inherited it along with the shop, along with her mother's life and choices?

She dug through her suitcase, looking for something comfortable to change into. Her fingers brushed against the envelope she'd packed almost as an afterthought, the photographs from Nattie's stranger session. She pulled it out, setting it on the desk while she changed out of her interview clothes.

The envelope was creased from being packed, the corners worn from handling.

It carried a faint scent of the shop—flowers and wood polish, with a hint of the lavender they'd used in the mural.

She hadn't noticed it before, but now, in this scentless hotel room, it was unmistakable. A piece of home she'd carried with her.

In soft leggings and an oversized sweater, she felt more like herself again. She ordered room service—a simple dinner of soup and bread, nothing fancy—and settled at the desk with the envelope. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it, sliding out the glossy prints of her and Emerson.

It was the final photograph that held her attention now, as it had in the shop before she left.

The one where they looked at each other as if falling in love.

Ava studied Emerson's face in the image.

His eyes were soft, focused entirely on her with an intensity that seemed impossible for someone who had just met her.

Her own expression surprised her now, seeing it with fresh eyes. There was wariness there, certainly, she'd been guarded then, still raw from her mother's death and unsure of her path. But there was also a spark of something like hope.

They hadn't been strangers, not really. Not in the ways that mattered. Something had recognized something, soul to soul, before names were exchanged or histories shared.

Ava's fingers traced the outline of Emerson's face in the photograph, feeling the glossy surface warm beneath her touch.

She remembered the warm, secure feel of his hands that day.

How his touch had sent an unexpected current through her, how she'd been both relieved and disappointed when the session ended and they returned to their separate lives.

A strange thought came to her. In that moment, had they been strangers pretending to be lovers, or lovers pretending to be strangers? The connection had been real, whatever they'd called it.

A knock at the door startled her from her reverie. Room service had arrived. She set the photograph aside, answering the door and accepting the tray with a quiet thank you.

"Enjoy your evening," the server said, already turning away.

"You too," Ava replied to his retreating back.

The soup steamed gently, the scent of herbs and vegetables filling the impersonal room with a touch of comfort.

She ate by the window, watching the city lights emerge more clearly as the rain lessened.

The soup was good, not exceptional but satisfying.

The bread was crusty on the outside, soft within, reminding her of Mason's cafe back home.

She wondered if Emerson was there now, having coffee after finishing a job, perhaps glancing at her empty shop as he passed. Was he thinking of her? Would he wonder how the interview had gone? Would he hope for her success, even if it meant her leaving?

I would wait , he had said at Miller's Pond, when she'd asked if he would still be there if she went to Seattle. Because what I feel for you isn't conditional on you staying. It's not about where you are. It's about who you are.

The memory of his words, spoken with such certainty, made her throat tighten. No one had ever loved her like that, so unconditionally, unselfishly, without demands or expectations.