Page 7 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

“I don’t know.” Ava bent to pick a wildflower, twirling it between her fingers. The petals were soft, almost velvet against her skin. “Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to remember there are still places in this town I haven’t fully explored.”

She looked up at the mill again, trying to see it through her mother’s eyes. “In Seattle, I’d be working in a sleek studio with concrete floors and glass walls. Nothing like this.”

“Would that be better?” Emerson asked, not challenging, just curious.

“Different,” she said after a moment. “Not necessarily better.”

They spent the next hour wandering the clearing, Emerson pointing out where supports could be added to the mill, Ava identifying flowers she recognized from her childhood.

The conversation flowed easily between them, punctuated by comfortable silences.

By the time they headed back to their cars, the sun was high overhead, and Ava’s phone had several missed calls from Mrs. Connelly about a special order.

“I should get to the shop,” she said reluctantly.

Emerson nodded. “I’ll follow you. Still need to finish the shelving in the back room.”

The drive back to town was quick, the roads familiar beneath her tires. As Ava pulled up in front of Bloom & Vine, she felt a strange mix of emotions—the anxiety of obligations, but also a flicker of possibility that hadn’t been there before.

The afternoon passed in a blur of customers and arrangements.

Emerson worked quietly in the back, the steady rhythm of his hammer a comforting backdrop to the day.

Occasionally their paths would cross—him coming for a glass of water, her retrieving stems from the cooler—and each time, Ava felt a subtle shift in the air between them, as if their conversation that morning had changed something fundamental between them.

By closing time, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. She locked the front door with a sigh of relief, flipping the sign to “Closed.”

“Long day?” Emerson asked, emerging from the back room.

“The longest.” She leaned against the counter. “Three funeral arrangements, a last-minute anniversary bouquet, and Mrs. Connelly changing her mind about colors three times.”

He smiled. “Sounds like you earned a break.”

“What I’ve earned is a glass of wine and a hot bath,” she said, then felt her cheeks warm at the intimacy of the admission.

Emerson’s eyes held hers for a moment before he looked away. “I should head out. Let you get to that bath.”

She nodded, suddenly reluctant to see him go. “Thanks for today. For listening.”

“Anytime.” He gathered his tools, movements efficient and practiced. “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish the shelves.”

“I’ll have coffee waiting,” she promised.

After he left, Ava moved through the shop, turning off lights, checking the cooler temperature, her mind still caught in the quiet exchange of their morning.

There was something about Emerson that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in a long time, maybe ever.

He didn’t try to fix her grief or tell her what to do.

He just listened, offering his own experiences like stepping stones across a river.

At home, she poured herself a glass of wine and ran a bath, adding a handful of dried lavender from the jar she kept by the tub. As she sank into the warm water, her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from an unfamiliar number.

Hey Ava, it’s Nattie! Your photos are ready. They turned out really beautiful. Let me know when you want to pick them up.

Ava stared at the message, remembering the strange intimacy of that day, of standing close to Emerson, a man she hadn't known then, feeling the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, the careful way he'd tucked her hair behind her ear. It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had been just a few weeks.

She set the phone down without responding, sinking deeper into the bath. Tomorrow, she decided. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

The phone's shrill ring jolted Ava from sleep. She fumbled in the darkness, knocking a book to the floor before her fingers closed around the vibrating device.

"Hello?" she mumbled, squinting at the clock. 2:17 AM.

"Ava? It's Mrs. Connelly." The older woman's voice was tight with urgency. "I was driving home from my sister's and saw water coming out from under the shop door. Looks like a pipe burst."

Ava sat up, instantly alert, the words ‘not again’ playing on repeat in her head. "I'll be right there."

She threw on random clothes—jeans, an old sweatshirt, the first shoes she could find—and was out the door in minutes.

The roads were empty at this hour, streetlights casting pools of yellow light on the pavement.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she drove, mind racing with images of ruined flowers, damaged merchandise, the shop her mother had built drowning in the middle of the night.

When she pulled up, Mrs. Connelly was standing on the sidewalk in a bathrobe and rain boots, clutching a flashlight. "I called the water company," she said as Ava approached. "They're sending someone, but it might be an hour."

Ava nodded, fumbling with her keys. When she pushed open the door, water sloshed around her ankles, ice-cold and smelling of rust. The shop floor was covered in at least an inch of water, reflecting the streetlight from outside in eerie, rippling patterns.

"Oh my…" she whispered, wading in.

The source was obvious—a pipe had burst near the back wall, water gushing from a jagged tear in the copper.

The force of it had knocked over buckets and vases, scattering stems and petals across the flooded floor.

The lavender mural her mother had painted was already darkening at the bottom edge as water seeped into the plaster.

"Do you know where the main shutoff is?" Mrs. Connelly asked from the doorway.

Ava shook her head, panic rising in her throat. "I don't—I never had to—"

"I'll call Emerson," the older woman said decisively. "He'll know."

Before Ava could protest, Mrs. Connelly was already dialing.

She spoke briefly, her voice fading as Ava waded deeper into the shop, trying to salvage what she could.

The cooler was still intact, but several arrangements on the lower shelves were submerged.

She lifted them, water streaming from the soaked ribbons and paper.

Less than fifteen minutes later, headlights swept across the front windows. Footsteps splashed through the puddle outside, and then Emerson was there, hair rumpled from sleep, wearing a flannel shirt over a white t-shirt and jeans that looked hastily pulled on.

"Where's the shutoff valve?" he asked without preamble.

"I don't know," Ava said, her voice smaller than she intended.

He nodded once, already moving toward the back of the shop. "I'll check the utility room. It's usually near the water heater."

She followed him, grateful for his calm efficiency. The utility room was a small closet near the bathroom, rarely used and perpetually dusty. Emerson found the valve immediately, turning it with a practiced twist. The rushing water slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

In the sudden silence, Ava became aware of her soaked jeans, the cold water seeping into her shoes, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. "Thank you," she said, her voice catching.

Emerson turned, really looking at her for the first time since he'd arrived. His expression softened. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, then shook her head, then gave a watery laugh. "I don't know. The flowers, the floor—"

"Can be fixed. We'll fix it," he said simply. "One thing at a time."

Mrs. Connelly appeared in the doorway, phone in hand. "Water company says they'll be here in thirty minutes. I can stay if you need me."

"We've got it," Emerson said. "Thanks for calling."

After the older woman left, promising to check in the morning, Emerson and Ava stood in the waterlogged shop, surveying the damage. "First thing," he said, "we need to get this water out before it does more damage to the floors.

He went to his truck and returned with a wet-vac, extension cords, and several large push brooms. Together, they worked in silence, pushing water toward the door, the vacuum humming steadily as it sucked up gallons of water.

Ava moved through the shop, gathering damaged items, sorting what could be salvaged from what was ruined. A box of specialty ribbons was soaked through. A stack of order forms had dissolved into pulp. But the cooler was intact, and most of the inventory above the first shelf had escaped damage.

"It's not as bad as it could have been," she said finally, pushing wet hair from her forehead.

Emerson looked up from where he was examining the burst pipe. "No. The wood floors will need some attention, but they should dry out okay. The pipe's another story."

"Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, but we'll need to replace this whole section. It's corroded all the way through." He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I can get the materials first thing in the morning."

Ava nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by the kindness of this man who had come running in the middle of the night, who was promising to fix what was broken without hesitation.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "For dragging you into this."

Emerson's eyes met hers, steady and warm in the dim light. "You didn't drag me anywhere, Ava. I came because I wanted to help. Well, and Mrs. Connelly."

The simplicity of his statement broke something loose inside her. Before she could think better of it, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still, as if surprised by the contact. Then his arms came around her, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other cradling the nape of her neck. He was warm, solid, smelling of sleep and cedar.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured against her hair.

She nodded against his chest, not trusting her voice.

They stood like that for several heartbeats, the only sound the drip of water from the damaged pipe and their quiet breathing.

His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her ear, a counterpoint to her own racing pulse.

His thumb moved in a small circle at the base of her neck, a gentle, unconscious gesture that made her want to lean further into him.

When she finally pulled back, Emerson's eyes were dark and intent on her face. His hand lingered at her waist, as if reluctant to break contact completely.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For everything."

Something changed in his expression, a vulnerability she hadn't seen before.

He reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.

The moment stretched between them, full of possibilities.

Ava felt her heart hammer against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat.

Then headlights swept across the windows as the water company truck pulled up outside. The spell broke, and Emerson stepped back, his hand falling away from her face.

"I should talk to them," he said, his voice slightly rough. "Find out what they need to do."

Ava nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as the warmth of his embrace faded. "Okay."

She watched him walk to the door, his shoulders straight, movements purposeful.

The water company workers followed him back in, their voices echoing in the damp space as they discussed repairs.

Ava found herself staring at the place where they had stood, at the wet footprints that marked where his body had been pressed against hers.

Something had shifted between them tonight—not just the almost-kiss that hung in the air, but something that felt deeper. The way he had come without question, the way he had held her like she was something precious, the way his eyes had looked into hers...

Earlier at the cemetery, she had told her mother she was tired of waiting, tired of feeling stuck between what was and what could be.

Now, standing in the flooded shop with water still clinging to her clothes, Ava realized she wasn't waiting anymore.

She was moving toward something—or someone—who made staying feel less like an obligation and more like a choice.

And that realization terrified her more than any burst pipe ever could.