Page 6 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he morning was less humid and the dew still clung to the grass and stone of the cemetery like it couldn’t bear to let go.

Ava walked slowly between the rows of headstones, a small bundle of lavender and white roses clutched in her hand.

The wet grass soaked the hem of her jeans as she moved through the silence.

She knew the path by heart now. Twenty-three steps past the old oak, then left at the granite angel with the chipped wing. The route had become as familiar as the walk to the shop, though she’d only been making it for three months.

Her mother’s headstone was simply polished granite with her name and dates. Below that, a single line: “She grew beauty everywhere she went.” Ava had chosen the words herself, had spent days turning phrases over in her mind until she found something that felt true without being a cliché.

She crouched down, brushing away a few fallen leaves from the base of the stone. “Morning, Mom,” she said softly, laying the flowers against the cool surface. “Brought you something from the shop.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but Ava had grown used to it.

She settled onto the grass, not caring about the dampness seeping through her clothes.

“The shop’s looking better,” she continued.

“You wouldn’t believe what a difference new paint makes.

And the electrical is finally fixed. No more flickering lights when we run the cooler and the register at the same time. ”

A light breeze stirred the trees overhead, almost as if her mom was talking back to her, giving her approval.

“Emerson’s been helping. Remember Mrs. Connelly talking about the handyman who fixed her porch light?

That’s him.” She plucked a blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers.

“He’s patient. Quiet. Fixes things without making a big deal about it. ”

She paused, listening to the distant sound of a lawn mower starting up on the far side of the cemetery. “I found your list yesterday. The ‘Someday’ one.” Her voice caught slightly. “You never told me about wanting to go to Oregon.”

The headstone remained silent, the granite cool and impersonal beneath her fingertips. A chickadee landed on a nearby branch, its call piercing the stillness before it fluttered away.

“I keep thinking about what you’d want me to do. Stay and keep the shop going? Or...” She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. “Or maybe it’s time for something else. Something new.”

She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky.

The mist was beginning to burn off, patches of blue appearing between the clouds.

“Seattle called again. The floral design studio. They still want me for that apprenticeship.” She sighed.

“It feels like betrayal, even thinking about it. But staying feels like I’m just waiting. For what, I don’t know.”

A car door slammed somewhere beyond the cemetery gates, the sound jarring in the quiet.

“I miss you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I miss knowing what to do next.”

She sat there for a long while, watching the shadows shift across the headstone as the sun climbed higher. Eventually, she stood, brushing grass from her jeans. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised, touching the top of the stone once more before turning away.

As she walked back toward the entrance, she noticed a figure standing near the iron gates. Tall, familiar, hands tucked into his pockets. Emerson. Her steps faltered for a moment, but she continued forward, trying to compose her face into something less raw.

“Hey,” she said as she approached.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, respectful of the space around them. “I was on my way to the shop and saw your car.”

She nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I come here most Thursdays before work.”

“I can go,” he offered immediately. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“No, it’s fine.” She glanced back toward her mother’s grave, now just one of many in the distance. “I was just leaving.”

They walked together toward the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt charged with something she couldn’t quite name.

“Do you want to get coffee?” Emerson asked suddenly. “Before heading to the shop?”

Ava looked up at him, surprised by the offer. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. “That would be nice.”

They drove separately to Mason’s café, meeting at the door. The morning rush had passed, leaving only a few tables occupied. There was a woman typing furiously on a laptop and two elderly men hunched over a chess board, their gnarled fingers hovering over pieces while deep in competitive thought.

Mason waved from behind the counter. “The usual?”

“Please,” Emerson called back, guiding Ava toward a table by the window with a light touch at her elbow that she felt even through her jacket.

They settled across from each other, the small wooden table between them. Emerson didn’t push her to talk, just sat quietly, his eyes occasionally meeting hers with a patience that made her chest ache.

Mason brought their drinks; a black coffee for Emerson, a latte with an extra shot for Ava. “You two fixing up the whole town, or what?” he asked, setting down the mugs. “Mrs. Connelly can’t stop talking about the flower shop’s transformation.”

“Just a few repairs,” Emerson said with a shrug.

“Well, it looks good.” Mason clapped Emerson on the shoulder. “Nice to see you spending time somewhere besides your workshop.”

After he walked away, Ava wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “Is that true? You don’t get out much?”

Emerson’s mouth quirked. “I get out. Just usually with a toolbox.”

She smiled faintly, taking a sip of her coffee. The warmth spread through her chest, a momentary comfort. “I get it. The shop’s been my whole world for so long, sometimes I forget there’s anything else.”

They fell silent again, but Ava could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing against her. Finally, she set her mug down. “I was telling her about Seattle,” she said quietly. “The floral design studio that offered me an apprenticeship back in January.”

Emerson’s facial expression remained neutral, but she caught the slight tightening of his fingers around his cup. “That sounds like a good opportunity.”

“It is. Was.” She traced the rim of her mug with her index finger, feeling the smooth, warm ceramic. “I turned it down when she got sick. Thought there’d be time later for... well, whatever comes next.”

“And now?”

She met his eyes. “Now I don’t know if I’m staying because I want to or because I’m afraid to leave.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s a hard line to figure out.”

“Yeah.” She took another sip, grateful for his lack of platitudes. “The thing is, I love the shop. I do. But I don’t know if it’s enough anymore. If this town is enough.”

“What would be enough?” he asked, his voice gentle.

The question caught her off guard. She’d been expecting encouragement to stay, to honor her mother’s legacy.

But instead, he was asking what she wanted.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Something different. Something that’s mine, not an inheritance.

A chance to figure out who I am without all the expectations weighing on me. ”

Emerson nodded, understanding in his eyes. “My dad left when I was twelve,” he said after a moment. “Just packed up one night and disappeared. For years, I kept thinking he’d come back. Kept his tools in the garage, his chair at the table.”

Ava watched his face, the careful control as he shared this piece of himself.

“One day, I realized I was living in a house full of ghosts,” he continued. “Not just his, but the ghost of who I thought I’d be when he came back.” He met her eyes. “It took me a long time to understand that waiting isn’t living.”

The words settled between them, ringing with truth.

“How did you stop waiting?” she asked.

“I started building things.” A small smile touched his lips. “Started fixing what I could. Figured out that even if I couldn’t control who stayed, I could control what I created.”

She nodded, understanding washing through her. “That’s why you’re so good at it. The fixing.”

“Practice,” he said with a shrug. “Lots of broken things in this world.”

They finished their coffee in silence, the ache in Ava’s chest slightly lighter. As they stood to leave, Emerson hesitated.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’d be good anywhere. Here or Seattle, or somewhere else entirely.”

The simple faith in his words caught her by surprise, warming her from the inside out. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Outside, the day had brightened, the light humidity replacing the dew. They walked toward their cars, shoulders occasionally brushing.

“I’ll meet you at the shop?” Emerson asked.

“Actually,” Ava said, “would you mind if we took a detour first? There’s something I want to show you.”

Twenty minutes later, they stood at the edge of a small clearing behind the town’s old mill. Wildflowers dotted the tall grass, and a narrow creek wound through the center, its water clear and swift.

“My mom used to bring me here when I was little,” Ava said, picking her way through the grass. “She’d collect wildflowers and teach me their names. Buttercup, Queen Anne’s lace, black-eyed Susan.”

Emerson followed, his footsteps careful. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s on the ‘Someday’ list too.” She gestured toward the old mill. “She wanted to turn it into a greenhouse. Said the light was perfect.”

They moved closer to the building, its weathered boards and broken windows speaking of decades of neglect. Emerson ran a hand along the exterior, testing the stability of the frame. “It’s still solid,” he said. “Needs a lot of work, but the bones are good.”

Ava smiled at the familiar phrase. “That’s what you said about the bench.”

“It’s true of most things worth saving.” He stepped back, surveying the structure. “You thinking of picking up where she left off?”