Page 43 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

A va bent over the copper vessel, tucking the last anemone stem into place, her fingertips brushing against the cool metal.

The deep indigo petals stood in stark contrast to their dark centers, like eyes peering out from delicate faces.

She stepped back, examining the arrangement from different angles, making small adjustments until the balance felt right.

February's unexpected thaw had brought customers into Bloom & Vine all afternoon.

Outside, puddles reflected the pale blue sky, winter's grip loosening just enough to remind everyone that spring waited beneath the snow.

Inside, the shop hummed activity—Mrs. Peterson deliberating between birthday arrangements while a couple browsed the Valentine's display near the front window.

"What do you think about this one, Claire?" The man held up an arrangement of ranunculus and eucalyptus. "Or is it too simple?"

"It's perfect," the woman replied, her fingers lightly touching a petal. "Sometimes simple is better."

Ava smiled to herself, remembering similar conversations with Emerson. How many times had he said almost those exact words? Sometimes simple is better. His workshop philosophy applied to life as well—build with intention, let the materials speak, don't overcomplicate what works naturally.

The radio played softly in the background, strings and piano filling the spaces between conversations.

The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the earthy smell of potting soil and the citrus notes of the cleaning solution she'd used that morning, creating the distinctive atmosphere that had become the shop's signature.

"I've decided on this one," Mrs. Peterson announced, gesturing to an arrangement of ranunculus and hellebores in a ceramic vessel Emerson had commissioned from a potter in Westdale. The muted colors—dusty rose, pale green, and the barest hint of plum—suited the season's transition.

"For your granddaughter, right?" Ava carefully wrapped the base in thick paper, securing it with twine. The paper crinkled pleasantly beneath her fingers, a sound as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. "How old is she this year?"

"Sixteen," Mrs. Peterson said with a sigh that contained both pride and wistfulness. "Going on thirty, if you ask me. But she still loves getting flowers, thank goodness. Some things don't change."

"And some things should never change," Ava agreed, handing over the wrapped arrangement. The weight transferred between them—flowers passed from her hands to another's, the way they had been for generations in this shop and would continue to be.

Mrs. Peterson tucked the flowers carefully against her coat. "The shop looks wonderful, by the way. Your mother would be so proud to see what you've done with it."

"Thank you," Ava said, the words no longer bringing the sharp pain they once had. Over four months since the reopening, and grief had softened into something she could carry more easily—a companion rather than a burden. "I think she would be, too."

As Mrs. Peterson left, the bell above the door chimed brightly.

Ava glanced at the clock—almost closing time.

The winter days still ended early, darkness falling by five despite the recent thaw.

She began her end-of-day routine, straightening items that didn't need straightening, adjusting the cooler temperature for overnight, tallying the day's sales in the leather-bound ledger she still preferred over digital records.

Her fingers traced the column of figures, adding them with practiced ease.

The shop had thrived since reopening in October.

The emergency wedding that had disrupted their carefully planned day had turned into their best advertisement—the grateful bride had shared photos everywhere, bringing new customers from neighboring towns.

The workshop series had expanded, with sessions now booked weeks in advance.

Even the Seattle design studio had reached out about a potential collaboration, sending a congratulatory arrangement when they'd heard about the shop's renewed success.

Ava walked through the space, absorbing how different it looked now, reflecting the changes of recent months.

New display tables Emerson had built housed seasonal items, like the amaryllis in various stages of bloom, arrangements that spoke of winter's subtle beauty rather than fighting against it.

A bulletin board near the counter showed photos from recent workshops, faces bright with accomplishment as they held their creations.

The lavender mural remained, of course, their field stretching toward painted hills, their initials still side by side in the corner.

She paused to look at it, remembering the day they'd created it together—the music playing softly, the way Emerson's hands had moved with surprising delicacy for their size, the dance they'd shared afterward.

And on a small table near the window, architectural drawings of the mill renovation were displayed, inviting customers to glimpse the future.

The renovation had begun in January, starting with structural repairs.

They'd spent weekends there, bundled against the cold, Emerson reinforcing beams while Ava sketched plans for the space.

They'd shared thermoses of hot coffee and dreams of summer workshops beneath the restored skylights.

As the last customers left, Ava locked the door behind them, flipping the sign to "Closed" with a satisfied exhale.

The winter light was fading now, the shop windows reflecting the interior rather than showing the street outside.

She caught her own image—hair pulled back in a loose bun, cheeks flushed from the day's work, a smudge of pollen on her apron.

She looked tired but content in a way she hadn't been a year ago.

The sound of a key in the back door made her smile. Emerson. He'd been at the mill all day, installing insulation before the next cold snap arrived. The door opened and closed with a soft thud, followed by the familiar cadence of his footsteps solid against the wooden floor.

"In here," she called, though he always knew where to find her.

He appeared in the doorway, cheeks reddened from the cold, a dusting of sawdust clinging to his flannel shirt.

His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his hands through it repeatedly while working.

The sight of him still made her heart quicken, even after months of waking up beside him, of building a life together day by day.

"Busy day?" he asked, his voice warm in the quiet shop.

"Steady," she replied, moving toward him. Her fingers reached out to brush sawdust from his shoulder, the flannel soft beneath her touch. "Valentine's orders starting to come in. And three signups for next week's workshop."

He caught her hand as she reached him, his fingers curling around hers with familiar ease. His palm was rough from work but warm despite the February chill. "I finished fixing the walls in the main room," he said. "And the electrician can start on Monday."

"Ahead of schedule," Ava noted, pleasure warming her voice. "At this rate we might open by May instead of June."

"That's the plan." He released her hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering against her cheek.

The simple touch still sent warmth through her, a reminder of how easily they had learned each other.

"Though I'm not sure the floor will be ready by then.

The boards I ordered from Fairview are delayed. "

Ava leaned into his touch, her body recognizing his in the most basic way. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

His smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way she'd come to cherish. "Yes, we do."

The moment stretched comfortably between them. Outside, the light continued to fade, the shop windows becoming mirrors that reflected their figures standing close together. Emerson's hand moved to her waist, drawing her nearer until she could feel the warmth of him through their layers of clothing.

"I ran into Nattie today," he said, his voice casual though something in his tone caught Ava's attention. "At the hardware store. She's home from college for the weekend."

"How is she?" Ava asked, remembering the young photographer who had brought them together with her stranger session months ago. "Still taking beautiful photos?"

"She is. In fact," he continued, his thumb tracing small circles against her waist, "I asked her if she'd come by tomorrow. To take some photos of the shop for your website and social media. Professional ones, not just the ones Krysta snaps with her phone."

Ava raised an eyebrow, surprised. "That's thoughtful. But I didn't think you liked being photographed."

"I don't, usually." His fingers tapped a light rhythm against her hip, a subtle tell she'd learned to recognize when something was on his mind. "But these are important."

"For the business?"

"For us," he said simply. His eyes held hers, something in their depths she couldn't quite read. Certainty and nervousness? That didn't seem possible from steadfast Emerson. "To mark how far we've come."

Ava studied his face, noting the slight tension around his mouth, the way his eyes didn't quite meet hers. Something was happening beneath the surface of this conversation, but she trusted him enough not to push. "Alright. What time?"

"Noon. When the light's best," he said. His hand found hers again, squeezing gently. "Wear something you love."

The request was unusual enough to pique her curiosity further, but she nodded, understanding this was something he needed to unfold in his own time. "I will."