Page 34 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he familiar roads of Millfield welcomed Ava home as she drove through the outskirts of town.

The early morning light spilled over the fields and storefronts, catching in the dew that still clung to grass and windowpanes.

She’d left Seattle the evening before, her flight landing late, opting to stay at an airport hotel rather than drive back in the dark.

But she’d been up with the sun, eager to return, drawn back by a clarity that had finally settled in her heart.

She hadn’t told anyone she was coming home early. Not Krysta, who had texted daily for updates. Not Mrs. Connelly, who was checking on the shop. And especially not Emerson, until she knew exactly what to say and how to explain the journey she’d taken, both physically and emotionally.

The town was just beginning to wake as she drove down Main Street.

A few early risers walked dogs or collected newspapers from porches.

The hardware store owner swept his sidewalk, nodding to her as she passed.

Everything looked the same, yet somehow different, as if she were seeing it through new eyes.

She parked outside Mason’s café, where a light was already on. Through the window, she could see him arranging pastries in the display case, moving with the efficiency of someone who’d performed the same ritual for years.

The bell above the door announced her arrival, and Mason looked up in surprise. “Ava! Thought you were in Seattle until tomorrow.”

“Came back early,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips. “Needed to get home.”

Something in her tone must have given her away because Mason’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Decided against the big city, did you?”

“Something like that.” She glanced at the pastry case, still being filled with the day’s offerings. Cinnamon rolls steamed gently, their spiced scent mingling with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. “Could I get two coffees to go? One black, one—”

“Latte with an extra shot,” Mason finished, his smile widening. “For you and Emerson.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she nodded. “Is he at his workshop already? It’s early.”

“Always is.” Mason began preparing the drinks, the espresso machine hissing and steaming. “Man works sunrise to sunset these days.” He glanced up from the portafilter he was filling. “Been quiet too. More focused on work than conversation, again.”

“Quiet even for Emerson?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

Mason gave her a look that saw right through her casual question.

“Let’s just say he’s been spending more time at the workshop than the café.

And when he does come in, he glances at your shop every time he passes the window.

” He handed her the black coffee. “Not that I’ve been watching or anything. ”

The idea that Emerson had withdrawn further in her absence created a small ache beneath her ribs. She paid for the coffees, adding a generous tip to Mason’s jar.

“Good to have you back,” he said, sliding the latte across the counter. “Town’s not quite the same without you.”

“It’s good to be back.” The words felt right in her mouth, honest in a way that surprised her.

As she reached for the door, Mason called after her. “And Ava? Whatever you decided, I really hope it makes you happy.”

She turned back, catching the genuine care in his face. “I think it will.”

Coffee in hand, she drove to the edge of town where Emerson’s workshop stood, a converted garage behind his modest house. As she approached, she noticed his truck was gone. The workshop door was closed, no lights visible through the small windows.

She hesitated, uncertain. Should she wait?

Come back later? The decision was made for her when she tested the door and found it unlocked, his usual practice when he stepped out briefly and didn’t want anyone waiting for him outside the whole time.

Maybe he’d gone for supplies and would be back soon.

Inside, the workshop smelled of cedar and varnish.

Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, illuminating particles that danced in the beams. The space was as ordered as ever with tools hung on pegboards in meticulous arrangements, wood sorted by type and size, projects in various stages of completion set on workbenches.

Ava set the coffees on a small cleared space, her fingers trailing along the edge of a half-finished bookshelf.

The wood was smooth beneath her touch, sanded with Emerson’s characteristic patience and attention to detail.

She recognized the piece as something he’d mentioned for Mrs. Connelly’s guest room, a project he’d been planning when she left for Seattle.

She moved deeper into the workshop, letting her fingers brush against the surfaces.

The solid workbench worn smooth from years of use.

The handle of a plane. Cool metal against her skin.

A scrap of sandpaper still bearing the curve of his fingers.

Being here felt intimate, almost like being allowed to read his thoughts.

A sound outside made her turn, heart quickening, expecting to see his truck pulling up.

But it was just the neighbor’s cat, stretching in a patch of sunlight that had crept across the threshold.

She exhaled slowly, suddenly aware of how tense she’d become at the thought of facing him before she’d gathered her thoughts.

As she turned back, her eyes caught on something new on the main workbench.

A wooden box, about the size of a book, its surface polished to a warm honey glow.

The craftsmanship was exquisite, with delicate inlay work creating a pattern of lavender sprigs along the edges.

It was almost finished, just waiting for a final coat of varnish.

Curious, she moved closer. The box seemed to draw her, its beauty both simple and profound.

A gift for someone? A commission? The lid was slightly ajar, as if Emerson had been interrupted while working on it.

Without thinking, she lifted it, admiring the smooth action of the hidden hinges he’d crafted with such care.

Inside, a folded piece of paper lay against the velvet-lined interior. Her name was written on the outside in Emerson’s neat, blocky handwriting.

Ava.

She froze, suddenly aware she was intruding on something private.

Her pulse quickened, a flush warming her cheeks.

She shouldn’t look. This wasn’t meant for her eyes—at least not yet.

But her name, written in his hand, drew her like a magnet.

With trembling fingers, she lifted the letter, the paper cool and slightly textured against her skin.

She unfolded it carefully, the soft crinkle loud in the quiet workshop.

Ava,

I’m not sure if I’ll ever give you this letter. Maybe it’s just for me, a way to sort through things I’m not good at saying out loud. But if you’re reading it, I found the courage somewhere.

I keep thinking about that first day, when Krysta dragged me to Nattie’s photo session. I went just to stop Krysta’s nagging. I didn’t expect anything to come of it. Certainly didn’t expect you.

You looked nervous that day, with your hands twisting the hem of your dress. But there was something in your eyes, a strength I recognized right away. You were carrying so much, but you were still standing. Still moving forward. I admired that immediately.

Then somehow, weeks passed, and I found myself at your shop each morning. First fixing things, then just being there. Being near you. I told myself it was because the work wasn’t finished. But the truth is, I kept finding new things to repair because I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you.

I’ve never been good with words. I fix things, build things. That’s the language I know. But with you, I’ve wanted to find the right words. To tell you how you changed something in me, woke up parts I thought had gone dormant years ago.

The night of the storm, when everything was chaos and water was coming through the roof, you looked at me like I was an anchor in the middle of it all. No one’s ever looked at me that way before. Like I was necessary. Essential. It terrified me and gave me hope all at once.

I don’t know what you’ll decide about Seattle. I meant what I said and I want you to choose what’s right for you, not what’s right for me or anyone else. Your happiness matters more to me than my own comfort. That’s new for me too.

I think that’s what love is, though. Not the desperate need I once thought it was, but this quiet certainty that your joy matters more than my fear of losing you.

Love crept in when I wasn’t looking. Not in grand gestures or dramatic moments, but in mornings with coffee and shared work.

In the way you hum when you arrange flowers.

In how you touch the lavender mural when you think no one is watching.

If you go to Seattle, I’ll still be here. Not just waiting, but living, working, building something worth coming back to, if that’s what you choose someday. And if you stay, I’ll be here too, helping you build whatever you dream of, however you want to transform the shop or the mill or your life.

Either way, I’m yours, Ava. I think I have been since that first day, when we were strangers pretending not to be.

~Emerson

The words blurred as tears filled her eyes.

She blinked them away, not wanting to mar the paper with their evidence.

She read it again, then a third time, each reading revealing new layers of the man who had written it.

His careful handwriting, his measured words, his exposed heart laid bare on the page.

He hadn’t sent it. Hadn’t given it to her before she left. But he’d written it, had placed it in this beautiful box he’d crafted with his own hands. Had he meant to give it to her when she returned? Or was it, as he’d said, just for himself, a way to process feelings he struggled to express aloud?