Page 37 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

E merson's home was smaller than Ava had imagined, worn in the way of places that had been lived in rather than merely occupied.

The front room opened directly into a kitchen with wooden countertops burnished by years of use, their edges softened by time and care.

Books lined one wall—woodworking manuals with dog-eared pages, nature guides marked with pressed leaves, and to her surprise, several poetry collections with cracked spines.

A half-carved wooden bird sat on the coffee table, tools arranged in a precise semicircle beside it, as if paused midway through.

The space smelled of cedar and coffee and, faintly, of the lavender he'd planted outside, as if the scent had followed him in on his clothes and settled into the fibers of the furniture.

The silence between them felt heavy but not suffocating.

Emerson still held the bouquet, his fingers careful around the stems as if they might disappear if he gripped too firmly.

The paper crinkled softly as he moved to set it on the small dining table near the kitchen.

A beam of late afternoon sunlight caught the flowers, illuminating the deep red of the roses, the purple of the lavender, the bright yellow of the freesia—colors suddenly more vibrant against the muted tones of his home.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, his voice quiet in the stillness.

"No," Ava said, finding her own voice. "Thank you."

Her eyes traveled around the room, absorbing the details of his life.

A framed photograph of him and Mason from years ago, both younger, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grins wide and unguarded.

A bookshelf with carefully arranged tools, each one in its place, handles facing the same direction.

A blue mug on the counter, half-full of coffee gone cold.

Everything neat but lived-in. Comfortable, warm.

"I'm not here to explain why I stayed," she said, her voice soft in the quiet room. "You already know."

Emerson nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. The caution in his expression hadn't fully retreated, but something else had joined it. Hope, perhaps. Or the beginning of belief.

He gestured toward the couch, an invitation.

She sat, the cushions giving slightly beneath her weight, the fabric worn soft at the edges.

He settled beside her, not touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, could see the fine sawdust clinging to his sleeve, the small scar near his eyebrow she'd noticed that first day in Nattie's studio.

"Seattle wasn't what I expected," she began, her hands resting in her lap. "The studio was beautiful, but in a cold way. Everything was white, precise and perfect."

She remembered the preserved moss bin she'd touched in the materials library, how stiff it had felt against her fingers, treated to maintain its color at the expense of its natural texture. How the whole place had felt like that, preserved rather than living.

"I kept looking for something that wasn't there," she continued. "Some warmth or connection or... life. The designs were incredible. Architectural. Innovative. But they didn't feel like they were meant to be held or touched or even really seen up close. Just admired from a distance."

Emerson listened, his eyes steady on her face.

His hands rested on his knees, the knuckles slightly rough from work, a small nick on his thumb that hadn't been there when she'd left.

She found herself wanting to reach for them, to feel their familiar texture against her skin, but she held back.

There were things that needed saying first.

"I realized I was chasing distance instead of purpose," she said. "Running from grief instead of building something new from it." A small smile touched her lips. "My mother would have hated that studio. All that white. No music. No one talking while they worked."

The corner of Emerson's mouth lifted slightly. "Not exactly Bloom & Vine."

"No," she agreed. "Not at all." She took a breath, gathering her courage for what came next. "I'm not staying because I'm afraid to leave, Emerson. I'm staying because I want to live, not just survive. I'm staying because this is where I want to build something. With you."

His eyes widened slightly, the only indication that her words had affected him. He was still holding himself carefully, as if afraid to believe too quickly, to hope too much.

"I saw your letter," she confessed quietly.

Now his visage changed, vulnerability flashing across his features before he could mask it. A muscle in his jaw tightened, then released. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"I know. I'm sorry. I went to your workshop to leave coffee, and it was there, with my name on it." She hesitated, her fingers twisting together in her lap. "I shouldn't have read it. But I saw my name, and then..."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. She noticed they were perfectly still, the way they got when he was concentrating on something delicate or difficult. "What did you think?" he asked finally, in a whisper.

"It wrecked me," she admitted. "In the best possible way. It reminded me what real love sounds like. My mom never had that for me to see." She paused, her throat suddenly tight. "No one's ever seen me the way you do, Emerson. Not even my mother. Or even myself."

He looked up at that, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.

His careful restraint gave way to vulnerability.

"I never expected this," he said, gesturing between them.

"You. Us. I've never been good at... letting people in.

" His voice was rough, as if the words were being pulled from somewhere deep.

"But you made it feel possible. Like a language I could learn, besides fixing things. "

Ava felt warmth blossoming in her chest. "I think we've been learning it together."

Emerson nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "I meant what I wrote," he said. "About waiting, if that's what you needed. About wanting your happiness more than my comfort."

"I know you did." She reached across the space between them, her fingers finding his hand.

His skin was warm against hers, calluses a bit rough, familiar yet somehow new in this context, in his home.

"But I don't want you to wait anymore. I'm here because this is where I want to be. Where I choose to be."

His fingers curled around hers, the gentle pressure an affirmation. The touch sent a current of warmth up her arm, settling somewhere beneath her ribs. She glanced down at their joined hands, at the contrast between her smaller fingers and his larger ones, at how naturally they fit together.

"And the shop?" he asked. "What will you do with it?"

"Make it mine," she said simply. "Not just my mother's legacy, but my own vision too. Traditional and modern, both together." She smiled. "And maybe something with the mill, eventually. A studio space, perhaps. For workshops, for more experimental designs."

"The bones are good," he said, echoing what he'd told her weeks ago. "Worth building on."

"That's what I realized in Seattle. That some foundations are worth keeping.

Worth transforming into something new." Her thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand, feeling the slight roughness of his skin, the strength beneath.

"I want to build something, Emerson. Not just maintain what was, but create what could be. "

He nodded, understanding. "And I want to help you build it. Whatever shape it takes."

The simple promise in his voice made her heart swell. There was no pressure in his words, no expectation that she would stay exactly as she was or become something she wasn't. Just acceptance of who she was now, who she was becoming, and a desire to be part of that journey.

"I think I've been falling in love with you since that first day," she said softly. "When we were strangers pretending not to be."

His eyes darkened at her words, the caution finally leaving. His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, reminding her of that photo session. His touch light against her skin, spreader more warmth in its wake. "I know exactly what you mean."

The moment stretched between them, full of possibilities they could chose.

The scent of lavender from the bouquet drifted through the room, mingling with the cedar and coffee notes of his home.

Outside, the light had begun to change, the late afternoon sun casting longer shadows across the floor.

A clock ticked somewhere in the kitchen, marking seconds that seemed to stretch and compress all at once.

Ava found herself leaning toward him slightly, drawn by the intensity in his eyes, by the pressure of his hand around hers. His gaze dropped to her mouth for a brief moment before returning to her eyes, a question in the look.

Her heart beat faster as she closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that felt like finally finding home.

His hand cradled her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a gentleness that made her want to melt.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, a relearning of each other after the distance that had grown between them.

But then it was like a dam broke. Emerson's arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer as the kiss transformed from question to answer.

Ava's hands found his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of him beneath her palms, the slight roughness of his flannel shirt against her skin.

He tasted of coffee and something uniquely him, warm and real and present in a way that made her heart race.

When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, his forehead rested against hers for a moment, their breath mingling in the small space between them. His eyes, when they met hers again, were dark with want but also held a certainty.