Page 41 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

S aturday morning dawned clear and crisp, perfect weather for the reopening.

Ava arrived at the shop before sunrise, her stomach fluttering with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

The sky to the east was just beginning to lighten, a pale wash of pink and gold against the deep blue of night.

Her breath formed small clouds in the cool air as she unlocked the door.

The new sign hung proudly above, the name burned into the wood in Emerson's precise hand, lavender carved around it as if hugging the letters. The wood gleamed with a finish that would protect it from weather while enhancing the natural grain. Another piece of him, embedded in her world.

Inside, everything was ready. The new display tables gleamed in the early light, arranged to create a natural flow through the space.

Fresh flowers filled the cooler, their colors vibrant against the glass—deep burgundy dahlias, golden chrysanthemums, pale pink roses, and sprays of eucalyptus creating a palette that bridged seasons.

Workshop materials were stacked neatly on the restored bench, handouts printed on the same cream paper as the business cards, tied with twine and sprigs of dried lavender.

The shop felt alive in a way it hadn't for months, maybe years.

Ava moved through the space, making small adjustments—turning a vase slightly to catch the light better, straightening a stack of cards, brushing an invisible speck of dust from a shelf.

Not out of anxiety, but from the desire to present this new vision exactly as she'd imagined it.

She paused before the lavender mural, their initials still side by side in the corner. She touched the paint lightly, feeling its subtle texture beneath her fingertips, and smiled.

The bell above the door chimed, and she turned to see Emerson entering, carrying two cups of coffee and a small white box that she knew contained pastries from Mason's café.

He looked rested, his hair still damp from a morning shower, his eyes warm as they took in the sight of her standing beneath the mural.

"Morning," he said, his eyes taking in her nervous energy with understanding. "Everything looks perfect."

"Thanks to you," she replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. The warmth of the cup seeped into her hands, calming her. The rich aroma rose with the steam, promising comfort and energy. "I couldn't have done this without you."

He shook his head slightly, setting the pastry box on the counter. "You would have found a way. But I'm glad I could be part of it."

They shared breakfast in the quiet shop, sitting on the bench beneath the lavender mural, their shoulders touching as they ate.

The pastries were still warm, flaky and buttery, leaving crumbs on their fingers and the napkins spread between them.

Ava felt herself relaxing, the nervous energy transforming into anticipation.

This wasn't just a reopening; it was a statement about who she was and what she wanted to create.

"I have something for you," Emerson said as they finished their coffee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with twine in a way that echoed the workshop materials. The paper crinkled softly as he held it out to her.

"What's this?" Ava asked, surprised.

"A reopening gift," he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice that she rarely heard. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, a tell she'd come to recognize. "Just a small thing."

She unwrapped it carefully, the paper crinkling softly beneath her fingers.

Inside was a small wooden box, similar to the one she'd found in his workshop that day, but smaller, designed to fit in the palm of her hand.

The wood was polished to a warm glow, with a delicate inlay of lavender on the lid, each tiny petal and leaf precisely placed.

She could almost feel the hours of work in its smooth surface, the care in each detail.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, running her finger along the inlay, feeling the slight difference in texture where the different woods met.

"Open it," he urged softly, his eyes never leaving her face.

She lifted the lid, the hinges moving silently, crafted with the same precision as everything he made. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, was a key. Simple, newly cut, gleaming in the light.

"To the mill," Emerson explained, watching her face.

His eyes held a both certainty and vulnerability making her heart swell.

"I spoke with the owner yesterday. He's willing to sell, and the price is reasonable.

Not as a gift," he added quickly, seeing her expression.

"As an investment. In us. In what we're building together. "

Ava stared at the key, her heart racing with emotion.

It wasn't just metal and teeth and grooves.

It was the physical manifestation of dreams taking shape.

It was Emerson believing in her vision enough to make it tangible, to turn sketches into reality.

"Emerson," she whispered, not trusting her voice with more.

"We can take our time," he continued, his hand finding hers. His palm was warm against hers, anchoring her as the significance of the moment washed over her. "Start small, like we discussed. But I wanted you to know it's real. It's happening."

She closed her fingers around the key, feeling its solid weight in her palm. "Thank you," she said finally, looking up at him. "For believing in this. In me."

His eyes focused on her face, full of certainty. "Always."

The moment was interrupted by a knock on the door.

They looked up to see Mrs. Connelly peering through the glass, pointing emphatically at her watch, silver bracelets jangling on her wrist. It was almost opening time, and a small crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk, their breath forming clouds in the cool morning air.

Some carried coffee cups from Mason's, others chatted in small groups, all waiting for the doors to open.

Ava slipped the key and box into her pocket, its weight a new and comforting presence against her hip. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded to Emerson. "Ready?"

"Ready," he echoed.

Together, they moved to the door. Ava turned the sign from "Closed" to "Open" and unlocked the door, pushing it wide to welcome the town into the transformed space. The bell chimed merrily as people streamed in, exclamations of delight and surprise filling the air.

"It's gorgeous!"

"I love the new color!"

"Those display tables are exquisite!"

The shop filled with voices and movement, with the rustle of jackets and the click of shoes on the freshly finished floor.

The scent of coffee and autumn air followed the customers in, mingling with the floral fragrances that defined the space.

Light poured through the windows, catching in glass vases and illuminating the vibrant blooms on display.

Mrs. Connelly bustled in first, of course, immediately taking credit for the curtains while admiring everything else. "Didn't I tell you the cream would be perfect? And look how it catches the light!" Her voice carried above the general murmur, drawing smiles from those nearby.

Mason followed with a tray of coffee samples, setting them up on a small table Emerson had built specifically for refreshments. "On the house," he announced, "in honor of the reopening. And I've got a standing order ready whenever you need it, Ava."

Krysta arrived with a photographer from the local paper, directing him to capture the best angles of the renovated space. "Make sure you get the mural," she instructed, "and those display tables. Emerson's craftsmanship deserves recognition."

Ava moved through the crowd, greeting customers old and new, explaining the workshop program, taking orders for special arrangements. The nervousness had completely disappeared, replaced by a confidence that she was exactly where she belonged, doing exactly what she was meant to do.

"This workshop idea is brilliant," Mrs. Peterson said, examining the handout Ava had given her. "Teaching us to make our own arrangements rather than just buying them ready-made. It's like you're sharing your mother's legacy while creating something new."

"That's exactly what I hoped for," Ava replied, touched by the woman's understanding. "Honoring tradition while exploring new directions."

Emerson stayed nearby, not hovering but around, helping with heavier items, answering questions about the woodwork, supporting without overshadowing. They moved in tandem, anticipating each other's needs without having to ask, the rhythm between them now as natural as breathing.

By mid-morning, the workshop was about to begin.

Ten participants gathered around the large workbench at the back of the shop, eager to learn Ava's techniques for blending tradition and modern.

The surface was laid with individual work stations—scissors, wire, tape, and a bucket of fresh stems for each person.

The scent of the flowers intensified as people handled them, releasing their natural oils and fragrances.

Emerson helped distribute materials, his hands gentle as he passed out the delicate blooms and foliage.

Ava watched him explaining to an elderly man how to hold the shears for the cleanest cut, his patience evident in the careful demonstration.

She warmed with pride at the sight, and felt even more sure about the path they were forging together.