Page 36 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

A va's hands were chilled in the water as she separated stems by feel rather than sight.

The sensation grounded her, but this time it felt new and refreshing.

Freesia bobbed against her wrist, its sweet scent rising with each gentle motion.

She arranged the stems in a loose circle on the counter, their cut ends gleaming wet in the soft light that spilled across the workbench.

The shop was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the early hour.

Outside, a light breeze stirred the trees.

Ava stood barefoot behind the counter, her shoes kicked off near the door, apron tied loosely over her sweater dress.

The sleeves were pushed up, exposing goosebumped forearms, but she didn't mind the chill.

The ranunculus felt like velvet against her fingertips as she added them to her arrangement.

They were cream-colored with centers that darkened to amber, like honey crystallizing in sunlight.

These weren't for anyone else. Not an order.

Not a customer request. Not a gesture for someone's celebration or sympathy.

Just for her. It was something she hadn't done since the day after her mother's funeral, when she'd numbly arranged white lilies and pale roses without feeling their texture or scent, without seeing the shapes she was creating.

Today was different.

Today, she chose blooms by instinct, letting her hands remember what her mind had forgotten.

The weight of a hydrangea head, heavy with petals.

The slight resistance of eucalyptus stems as she scored them with her knife.

The way calla lilies—deep purple ones her mother had once called "the drama queens of the flower world"—curved like dancers.

She added a cluster of blue thistle, their spiky texture a counterpoint to the softness surrounding them.

"What would you think of this?" she whispered, not to anyone present, but to the memory of her mother that lingered in the corners of the shop.

Not with grief now, but with a soft curiosity.

The question wasn't laden with the need for approval anymore.

Just acknowledgment of the woman whose hands had taught hers.

Ava remembered watching those hands when she was small, perched on a stool beside the workbench.

Her mother would hum as she wrapped wire around rose stems, strengthening them for wedding bouquets.

Her fingers never seemed to hesitate, moving with a certainty Ava had envied and then finally learned.

She stepped back to study her creation. A cluster of blue thistle here, a surprising pop of coral there.

No rules. No symmetry. Just shape and motion and truly feeling.

The arrangement wasn't perfect as it leaned slightly to one side, and the eucalyptus threatened to overwhelm one corner, but it felt like hers.

The shop didn't feel like a shrine anymore. Or a weight pressing her into someone else's mold. It felt like possibility.

She moved through the space with bare feet and focused fingers, unhurried.

She pulled the dried wreath from the front door with its sun-faded edges crumbling with each touch and replaced it with a new arrangement: simple woven branches, deep red berries, and a spray of lavender tucked just off center.

The berries left tiny smudges of juice on her thumbs, vivid as watercolor.

Something her mother might have raised a brow at. Something Ava loved.

The morning passed in a haze of creation.

She rearranged displays that had remained untouched for days.

Moved the potted plants to catch better light.

Cleared away old inventory that no longer spoke to her vision.

Her body remembered the rhythm of the work—the bend and lift, the reach and turn—but she felt renewed.

At ten-thirty, she poured herself a cup of tea and sat on the bench beneath the mural she and Emerson had painted together.

The lavender field stretched out around her, soothing in its brushstrokes, imperfect and seeming alive.

Her initials and Emerson's sat unobtrusively in the corner, just where they'd placed them.

She held the mug between her palms and watched the steam curl upward.

The heat warmed her face, her skin still slightly damp from working with flowers all morning.

The scent of the mint lemon tea curled in her nose, calming.

The sun had moved higher now, cutting across the floor in wider beams, catching in the brushed metal of the cash register, in the dusty glass of the front windows.

The phone sat beside her, face down. She hadn't checked it since unlocking the shop. Her palms were damp when she picked it up, not with dread, not quite, but with the burden of choice. A few taps opened her email, her thumb hovering over the message from the Seattle studio.

She read it once more, though she had already memorized the words. Their offer was still open. They were excited by her potential. They hoped to bring her on board for the winter season. Her response deadline was today.

Ava set the mug down, the ceramic making a soft clink against the wood.

For a moment, she let herself imagine it again—the white walls of the studio, the sleek arrangements displayed like art, the hush of focused creators building architectural masterpieces from stems and blooms. It was beautiful in its own way.

Challenging. Prestigious. Everything she had thought she wanted.

But it wasn't where she belonged.

She pressed the call button before her certainty could waver. The phone rang twice before a voice answered, bright and professional.

"This is Mara."

"Hi, Mara. This is Ava Bennett." Her voice was steady, clear. "I just—" She paused, adjusted her grip on the phone. "I wanted to thank you for the offer. I appreciate the time your team gave me."

There was a pause on the other end. "Of course. I'll let Dyane know you've decided."

"I'm truly grateful," Ava said, feeling the truth of it. "But I'm going to stay here. In Millfield."

"I see," Mara said, resigned. "Thank you for letting us know. And best of luck with your work there."

A polite goodbye. A click. Silence. Ava set the phone down beside her tea with a soft exhale. It felt like the end of something. But also like the beginning of something else. Not a closing door. Just a decision to walk through a different one.

She rose and crossed to the workbench. Her hands were steady as she chose stems for a final bouquet.

She selected fresh lavender first, its slim stalks fragrant between her fingers.

The buds left a faint purple dust on her skin, a temporary tattoo she'd worn since childhood.

The scent rose around her, as familiar as her own name.

Next came freesia, yellow and delicate, curling like ribbon. She held one to her nose, breathing in its sweet, almost citrusy scent. It reminded her of spring mornings, of renewal. Of beginnings.

And finally, red roses. Not the long-stemmed, Valentine's Day kind.

These had full heads and curled outer petals, like they'd opened just enough to show their hearts but not too much to lose their strength.

Their scent was richer, a contrast to the brightness of the freesia and the herbal clarity of the lavender.

The thorns pressed against her fingers as she handled them, not breaking skin but reminding her they were there.

She trimmed the stems at an angle, giving them fresh cuts to drink water.

One by one, she arranged them in her palm, turning the bundle to check its balance.

The roses formed the center, surrounded by freesia, with lavender creating a frame of purple.

It wasn't a traditional bouquet. Not symmetrical or predictable. But it felt right in her hands.

With careful movements, she wrapped the stems in brown paper, the rough texture catching slightly on her fingertips.

She bound it with twine, pulling the string taut and feeling the resistance as she tied it off.

The small knot felt like punctuation; the end of one sentence but the beginning of another.

She added nothing extra. No card. No ribbon. Just the flowers, chosen and bound with care. Their meaning was in their selection, in their arrangement, and in the hands that had chosen them.

The bell chimed as she stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud. The air was cooler now, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from someone's chimney. She tucked the bouquet in the crook of her arm, its weight familiar and comforting against her chest.

Main Street was quiet for a Monday, just a few people moving along the sidewalks.

Mrs. Peterson swept leaves from her storefront, nodding as Ava passed.

A child on a bicycle wove patterns in the street, his red jacket bright against the fading autumn colors.

She passed Mason's café, catching sight of him inside, bent over the espresso machine.

He looked up, saw her, and gave a small wave. She returned it, then kept walking.

She passed the post office, the bookstore with its window display of new releases.

The hardware store where Emerson bought supplies.

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

Or maybe it was she who had changed, who had finally learned to see what had been there all along.

The walk to the edge of town took longer than she remembered, or perhaps it just felt that way with her heart keeping time in her chest. The bouquet's scent rose around her with each step, lavender and rose mingling in the cool air.

His small house came into view, set back from the road with a maple tree in the front yard.

The leaves had turned a deep crimson, a few still clinging to branches while others carpeted the ground.

Behind the house, the lavender patch had grown since she last saw it.

It was wider now, fuller. It would fade soon with the cold, but today it still held color, still swayed in the breeze like it was breathing.

It reminded her of their mural, she smiled at the irony.

She paused at the edge of his yard, suddenly aware of what she was doing. What she was choosing. The bouquet suddenly felt heavier in her arms, significant in a way she hadn't fully grasped until this moment.

A breath. Another. Then she continued up the path to his porch.

The steps creaked beneath her boots, announcing her presence before she could knock. Ava adjusted her grip on the bouquet, the paper crinkling softly. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of movement. She raised her hand and knocked.

For a moment there was only silence. Then footsteps approached, sounding unhurried. The door opened.

Emerson stood in the doorway, the light from inside casting warm shadows across his face.

He wore an old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine sawdust. A small smear of something dark marked his cheekbone, maybe paint or stain.

His eyes met hers, surprise giving way to something more cautious.

At first, neither of them spoke. The world narrowed to just this—his eyes on hers, the space between them, the bouquet in her hands.

Then his gaze dropped to the flowers.

She held them out to him, the paper crinkling slightly as she extended her arms.

"Hi," she said, the word soft but clear.

He took the bouquet carefully, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer. The brief contact sent a current up her arm, familiar and new all at once. He looked down at the flowers, his expression unreadable as he studied them.

"I'm not here to—" she began, then paused, searching for the right words. "I'm not here to explain why I stayed," she said finally, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady. "I think you already know."

His eyes lifted to hers again, waiting. Patient. A muscle in his jaw worked slightly, the only sign of tension in his otherwise still face.

"I'm here to ask," Ava continued, heart beating against her ribs, "what you want to build next. With me."

The bouquet shifted slightly in his hands, a single freesia petal falling to the porch floor between them. It landed on the weathered wood, bright yellow against gray, like a small declaration.

Emerson's gaze held hers for what felt like forever. Then, slowly, he stepped back from the doorway, just far enough to let her in. The movement wasn't grand or dramatic. Just a simple opening, an invitation without words.

Warmth spilled out from inside from the scent of coffee, wood, and something baking. Home, in its simplest form.

Ava took a breath, feeling the magnitude of the moment, of the choice she freely made. Then she crossed the threshold, the old boards warm beneath her feet.