Page 5 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

M ain Street was still mostly asleep—just birdsong and a few shopkeepers dragging open awnings. Emerson parked across the street, coffee tray balanced on one knee while he reached for the handle of his toolbox.

Inside the shop, Ava was already at work.

Even through the window, he could tell—her posture focused, the rhythm of her movements smooth and familiar.

She was wearing a soft gray T-shirt and a pair of faded overalls smeared with something green near the thigh.

Her hair was in a braid today, not the usual bun, and for just a second, Emerson let himself watch her before stepping out of the truck.

He crossed the street slowly, savoring the quiet and the smell of bread baking from the café down the corner. When he reached the shop, he knocked once on the door with his knuckle before pushing it open.

The bell gave a soft chime. Ava didn’t look up immediately—she was sorting through a tangle of twine and floral tape on the counter—but when she did, her eyes landed on the coffee tray first, then on him.

“That smells like a bribe,” she said.

“Might be.” He set it down carefully between two glass jars of ribbon. “Mason’s experimenting again. He figured we would be his guinea pigs.”

She pulled one of the cups toward her and lifted the lid, closing her eyes after the first sip. “Lavender and honey. He’s dangerously good at this.”

Emerson took his own, black and steaming, and nodded toward the window trim. “I brought the rest of the supplies. Thought we’d knock it out today.”

Ava followed his glance. “The sage green’s been growing on me. Looks better than I imagined.”

“Told you it would.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You also said navy would be ‘practical.’”

He gave a half-smile. “I’m practical. Doesn’t mean you have to be.”

They worked side by side for the first hour, the kind of easy rhythm that didn’t require endless small talk. Emerson taped the edges of the front windows while Ava watered the buckets and trimmed stems at the prep counter. The scent of eucalyptus and earth filled the shop, grounded and clean.

Occasionally, he’d glance her way—noticing how she tucked her knee under herself when she bent to arrange a bouquet or how, when she was focused, she chewed the inside of her cheek.

At one point, she reached under the counter for a pair of shears and stilled. Her hand brushed something tucked behind a vase. A small, worn recipe card. She pulled it out slowly.

“What’s that?” Emerson asked without turning.

Ava’s laugh was soft, almost startled. “My mom’s handwriting.” She held up the card. “She used to write out notes on whatever paper was nearby like recipes, flower pairings, grocery lists with doodles in the margins.”

She set it on the counter beside her, fingers lingering on the corner like she wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “This one says: ‘Pair lavender with freesia for courage. And always keep chocolate in the back drawer.’”

“She sounds like she knew what mattered,” Emerson said.

“She did.” Ava folded the card and slipped it into the drawer again, carefully, as if tucking it away would keep it from fading.

After Mr. Harmon came and went with his daisies, and the mid-morning crowd thinned, Emerson suggested they take a quick break before painting. Ava gestured toward the back room.

“There’s an old bench back there. It used to be my mom’s favorite reading spot before the pipe burst and flooded everything. I’ve been meaning to sand it down and bring it out front again.”

He followed her through the narrow hallway. The back room smelled less of mildew now and more like lemon cleaner and dried petals. A single window let in filtered light across the worn floorboards.

The bench sat beneath the window, its slats warped and the paint chipped to bare wood in places. Ava ran a hand along the top rail. “She used to sit here with a mug of tea and a pair of scissors, snipping dead blooms and humming. Sometimes she’d forget to open the shop on time.”

Emerson crouched beside the bench, testing its legs. “It’s still solid. Could use a few screws, but the bones are good.”

“That’s just like her, too,” she murmured.

They brought the bench to the front room, set it near the window where the sun filtered through. Emerson got to work with his sander, while Ava sat beside him on the floor, sorting a box of tangled ribbons. “You ever get tired of fixing things?” she asked over the buzz of the sander.

He paused, turned it off, and dusted off the surface. “Sometimes. But there’s satisfaction in it. Broken things make sense to me.”

Ava looked over. “Because it’s clear what needs to be done?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “And because they don’t leave. They don’t wake up one day and decide to be something else.”

She was quiet for a moment. “That sounds like a story.”

“It’s not a new one.”

She nodded, wrapping a piece of navy ribbon around her fingers. “I used to think fixing things was about control. That if I could keep the shop running, if I kept the cooler stocked and the receipts balanced, then everything else would stay still too.”

“And?”

“And life doesn’t care if your cooler’s stocked.”

He smiled faintly. “No. It doesn’t.”

They worked like that for a while—quiet and easy conversation, soft sanding, the occasional thread of warmth running beneath the surface.

By afternoon, the windows were gleaming with their first coat of sage, the bench was restored to a soft honey finish, and the shop smelled like citrus wood polish and iris blooms.

Emerson leaned against the stepladder, sipping water. Ava approached with a rag in one hand, examining a fleck of dried paint on his cheek. “You missed a spot.”

“I thought I had it all.”

She reached up, dabbing gently. “Not quite.” Her fingers lingered.

Their eyes met.

Neither moved.

Then, without warning, she pressed a dab of paint to the tip of his nose.

He blinked in surprise.

“You started it,” she said, stepping back.

“Did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He reached for his brush and, with exaggerated slowness, dipped it in the tray.

Ava’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

But he did. A swift, neat streak across her forearm.

She gasped, mock-offended, and lunged toward him. He caught her wrist mid-swipe, and suddenly they were close—close enough that he could see the flecks of green paint on her jaw, the quick rise and fall of her chest.

Her wrist stilled in his grip.

The air around them shifted.

He felt her breath more than heard it.

Then she pulled back, laughing too loudly, the sound echoing off the windows. He stepped away too, brush still in hand, heart oddly unsteady.

“Heathens,” Ava muttered, wiping her arm. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

He grinned, relieved at her tone even as his skin still felt like it remembered the shape of her wrist.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Customers came in and out, drawn by the floral display Ava had refreshed midafternoon. Emerson replaced a loose bracket on one of the side shelves, then helped her carry a heavy planter from the back to the front stoop.

Around five, with the sun slanting low through the windows, Ava poured them both iced tea and sat on the newly restored bench. Emerson went to join her, the bench creaking softly beneath their combined weight.

“You ever think about leaving Millfield?” she asked after a few sips.

He stared out the front window. A couple walked by, hand in hand, laughing about something small. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “When I was younger, I thought I wouldn’t stay. Thought I’d end up somewhere bigger. Somewhere no one knew me.”

“And now?”

He glanced at her. “I guess I stopped needing to disappear.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable and distanced.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the town flowing around them. A breeze stirred the flowers in the window box, and the sound of a dog barking echoed faintly down the street.

“I found a shoebox under the counter this morning,” she said eventually. “Full of old notes and receipts. One of them was a to-do list titled ‘Someday.’”

Emerson looked at her. “What was on it?”

“Paint the back wall, replant the side garden, take a train to Oregon, learn how to make croissants.”

“Ambitious.”

“She wrote it five years ago.”

Ava turned toward him. “I think I might try. One thing at a time. Maybe not Oregon. But I could repaint the wall.”

He smiled. “I’ll help.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She gave him a little smile, shoulders slouched with relief.

They sat there for some time, watching the sky begin to change colors. Eventually, Emerson stood and brushed off his jeans. “I’ll be back in the morning. We can finish the second coat.”

Ava didn’t move from the bench. She watched him gather his things, her hand resting lightly on her knee.

“You could come earlier,” she said suddenly. “Before we open. Just for coffee.”

He paused, toolbox in hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t smile, but the look in his eyes softened. “All right,” he said with a nod. “Eight o’clock.”

She nodded, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the bench.

“Goodnight, Ava.”

“Goodnight, Emerson.”