Page 35 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

Love crept in when I wasn’t looking. The words resonated inside her, true in a way that made her breath catch.

That’s how it had happened for her too. It wasn’t in a lightning strike of revelation, but in the accumulation of small moments.

Coffee delivered without asking. A shelf built to the perfect height.

The way he listened, really listened, when she talked about her mother.

The gentle touch of his hand at the small of her back as they moved through a crowded room.

The sound of a truck engine approaching snapped her back to the present.

She carefully refolded the letter, her fingers lingering on the creases, and placed it exactly as she had found it in the velvet-lined interior.

She closed the box with gentle hands, the lid settling with a soft, precise click.

She stepped away from the workbench, heart hammering against her ribs, unsure whether to stay or flee.

But the truck passed by, not Emerson’s after all. She exhaled slowly, gathering herself. She couldn’t be here when he returned, not now, not after reading words she wasn’t meant to see yet. She needed time to process, to find her own words in response.

She left a note beside the coffees— Just wanted to say I’m back. Talk soon. —A —and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her. The morning had warmed considerably, the dew burning off the grass, the sky a clear, endless blue above Millfield.

Ava drove slowly through town, her mind full of Emerson’s words.

They seemed to overlay the familiar landscape with new meaning.

The hardware store where he bought supplies for her shop repairs.

The bench in the square where they’d sat eating ice cream after the final roof inspection.

The spot where they’d stood during the Harvest Festival, his hand warm against the small of her back as the band played.

In Seattle, everything had been sleek and polished, designed rather than evolved.

The design studio’s white walls and concrete floors had felt sterile, the arrangements displayed like museum pieces rather than living things.

There had been a coldness to the perfection, a distance that she’d felt but couldn’t name until now.

She parked outside the floral shop, her shop, studying it with fresh eyes.

The blue awning her mother had chosen years ago.

The sage green trim she and Emerson had painted together.

The window boxes filled with autumn flowers that someone had watered in her absence, the blooms still vibrant and healthy.

Through the glass, she could see the lavender mural they’d created, its colors softened by distance but still as vibrant in her mind.

It was her mother’s shop, yes. But it was becoming hers too, transformed by her choices, her vision, her work alongside Emerson. Not an inheritance but a foundation, something to build upon rather than simply maintain.

She didn’t go inside, yet. Instead, she continued on, retracing the steps of the list she’d made before deciding about Seattle.

First to Miller’s Pond, the surface glassy and still in the morning light.

She walked to the small dock where she and Emerson had launched the canoe that day, the wood warm beneath her shoes.

The memory was so vivid she could almost feel the gentle rock of the boat beneath her, hear the soft splash of paddles entering water.

Would you wait? she had asked him here, voice barely above a whisper. If I went to Seattle, if I tried it for a few months... Would you still be here?

Yes , he had answered simply. I would wait .

When she’d asked why, his response had been equally straightforward: 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 same sentiment echoed in his letter, in his certainty that her happiness mattered more than his comfort. In his willingness to let her go if that’s what she needed, to stay rooted if that’s what she chose.

From the pond, she drove to the town square, where the festival had been held.

The space was empty now, just a few benches and the gazebo where the band had played.

But she could still see it transformed by string lights, still feel Emerson’s arms around her as they danced, still hear his voice saying, I think I’m falling in love with you.

She sat on a bench, letting the sun warm her shoulders.

The folder from the design studio was still in her car, the formal offer inside.

Everything she had thought she wanted: prestige, challenge, independence, a chance to prove herself beyond the boundaries of Millfield.

The studio’s Creative Director had called her traditional work “exceptional” but had been more interested in her experimental pieces, the ones that pushed boundaries.

In the studio’s white gallery space, with its concrete floors and precise lighting, she’d felt a flicker of excitement at the possibilities.

But it had been tempered by something she couldn’t name then, a hollowness, an absence.

Now, sitting in the familiar square where generations of Millfield residents had gathered, she understood.

What had been missing was connection. Roots.

A sense of belonging not to a place merely, but to a community with history and a future that included other people who mattered.

And Emerson. The man who fixed broken things and saw possibility where others saw only damage. Who had been falling in love with her even as she’d been planning to leave. Who had written his heart into a letter he hadn’t sent, then tucked it into a beautiful box he’d made with his own hands.

She continued her journey to the edge of town where the old mill stood, its weathered structure a testament to time and neglect.

Pushing open the crooked door, she stepped inside.

The space was as she remembered but now she saw it through new eyes with her own vision.

A studio, perhaps, where she could experiment with designs that bridged traditional and contemporary.

A workshop where she could teach others.

A place where she could honor her mother’s legacy while creating something uniquely hers.

The bones are good , Emerson had said when she first showed him this place. Worth saving . He’d seen the potential in this forgotten building, just as he’d seen it in her shop after the storm, in her when she was still raw with grief and uncertainty.

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 afternoon approached.

As she sat in the quiet mill, Ava finally understood what had been missing in Seattle, what the sleek studio with its white walls and architectural arrangements couldn’t offer.

It wasn’t just Emerson, though he was certainly a significant part of it.

It was a sense of belonging. Not the kind that trapped or confined, but the kind that rooted and nourished, that provided a foundation for growth rather than a ceiling that limited it.

She’d been so afraid of staying because she thought it meant surrendering to someone else’s life, carrying on her mother’s legacy at the expense of her own dreams. But what if staying could be a choice rather than a default?

What if belonging somewhere, to someone, wasn’t a limitation but an expansion?

Emerson’s letter had crystallized something she’d been circling for months: she wasn’t afraid of failing in Seattle or succeeding in Millfield.

She was afraid of allowing herself to truly belong, to commit, to build something lasting in a world where everything, everyone, could be lost in an instant.

Her mother’s death had taught her that painful lesson.

But Emerson had shown her another truth. That building was worth the risk. That connections, even temporary ones, gave life meaning. That love wasn’t about possession or permanence, but about supporting each other’s growth, whatever form it took.

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

The words from his letter echoed in her mind as she made her way back toward town.

The sun was beginning its descent now, casting long shadows across the familiar streets.

She passed the hardware store, the town square, the café again.

Mason waved from inside, and she returned the gesture with a smile that felt lighter than any she’d worn in months.

There was one more place she needed to visit before finding Emerson. One more piece of her journey to complete before she could tell him her decision.

The cemetery was quiet in the late afternoon light, the old oak trees casting dappled shadows across the neatly trimmed grass. Ava made her way to her mother’s grave, the path familiar beneath her feet. Twenty-three steps past the old oak, then left at the granite angel with the chipped wing.

Her mother’s headstone was simple, the granite polished and clean. She knelt beside it, placing her hand on the cool stone. “I’m back,” she said softly. “I went to Seattle, saw the studio. It was everything I thought I wanted.”

Birds called to each other in the trees overhead. A gentle breeze stirred the grass around the headstone, carrying the scent of earth and the last wildflowers of the season.

“But I realized something while I was there. Something important.” She traced her mother’s name with her fingertip, feeling the carved letters beneath her skin. “I don’t have to leave to find myself. I’ve been here all along, becoming who I’m meant to be, right where you planted me.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t the painful ones of grief.

They felt cleansing, releasing. “I’m not staying because I’m afraid to leave, or because it’s what you would have wanted.

I’m staying because I choose to. Because this is where I want to build my life, my future.

With the shop, with the mill maybe. With Emerson. ”

The name felt right on her lips, solid and true. “You would have loved him, Mom. He fixes things, builds things. Sees the potential in what’s broken or forgotten.” Her voice softened. “He’s seen me that way too, even when I couldn’t see myself clearly.”

She sat in silence for a while, watching the light change as the sun dipped lower toward the horizon.

There was peace here now, not just grief.

The understanding that her mother’s absence didn’t mean her influence was gone.

It lived on in Ava’s hands as they arranged flowers, in her appreciation for beauty in unexpected places, in her growing certainty about where she belonged.

When she finally stood, brushing grass from her knees, she felt lighter. Ready. The decision she’d made in Seattle felt more certain than ever, rooted now in a deeper understanding of what she truly wanted, what would truly fulfill her.

It was time to find Emerson. To tell him everything—about Seattle, about his letter, about her choice. To see if the certainty she felt was mirrored in his eyes. To begin building something together, something neither of them could create alone.

As she walked toward the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Emerson, sent just moments ago:

Found your note. When did you get back? Can we talk?

Ava smiled, typing a quick response:

Just now. Yes. I’m on my way to you.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and quickened her pace, heading toward her car.

The town spread before her, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.

Her town. Her home. Not because she had inherited it, but because she had chosen it.

Because here, in this place, with these people—with him—she could grow roots and wings at the same time.

The road back to his workshop felt both familiar and new, each turn bringing her closer to a future she was finally ready to embrace. As she pulled up to the familiar converted garage, she saw him standing in the doorway, waiting, his tall frame silhouetted against the warm light inside.

Her heart quickened as she stepped from the car. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither moved. Then Emerson took a single step forward, his expression full of hope and uncertainty, of questions not yet asked but hanging in the air between them.

Ava closed her car door and took a deep breath, preparing to bridge the space between them—not just the physical distance, but all the unspoken words, the choices made and unmade, the future waiting to be built together.