Page 8 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he ruined floor had to be torn up. Ava watched as Emerson knelt beside the damaged section near the back wall, running his hand along the warped wood.

Three days since the pipe burst, and the shop still smelled faintly of damp and mildew despite the industrial fans he’d brought in.

The summer humidity wasn’t helping either.

“It’s worse than I thought,” he said, looking up at her. “Water got underneath, buckled the subfloor.”

Ava nodded, chewing her lower lip. Another expense, another delay. “How long will it take to fix?”

“Two days, maybe three.” He stood, brushing wood dust from his knees. “The good news is we can salvage most of the original boards. Just need to dry them out, plane them down.”

She glanced at the wall where her mother’s mural had been. The water damage had crept up nearly a foot from the bottom, blurring the delicate brushstrokes of lavender into a murky smudge. Elaine’s signature—a small, flowing “E.B.” in the corner—was now barely visible.

“And the wall?” she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.

Emerson followed her gaze, his expression softening. “We’ll have to replace the damaged drywall. But...” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was thinking, maybe instead of trying to restore it, we could paint a new one.”

“I’m not an artist.”

“Neither am I. But we could try. Together.” He shrugged, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his way of making big offers seem casual. “Even if it’s not the same, it would be something of yours.”

Ava looked at the wall again, trying to imagine a blank canvas where her mother’s work had been. It hurt, the idea of covering it up. But there was something appealing about creating something new in its place, something that honored memory without being bound by it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s try.”

The next morning, Emerson arrived earlier than usual.

Ava was already there, sorting through the day’s flower shipment.

She’d borrowed space at the back of Mason’s café to fulfill orders while the shop floor was being repaired, but she still came each morning to process deliveries and check on progress.

Emerson set a cardboard tray of coffee on the counter, along with a paper bag that smelled of cinnamon. “Breakfast,” he said simply. “Figured it might be a long day.”

“Thanks.” She reached for the coffee, their fingers brushing briefly.

The small contact sent a ripple of warmth up her arm, a reminder of that night when she’d been wrapped in his embrace, his heartbeat steady against her cheek.

They hadn’t spoken about that moment, or the almost-kiss that followed, but it lingered between them like a conversation waiting to happen.

They worked side by side through the morning, Emerson tearing up the damaged floorboards while Ava prepared the wall for painting.

The rhythm they’d established over the past weeks had deepened, becoming something familiar and comforting.

They moved around each other easily, anticipating needs, passing tools without having to ask.

By noon, the floor was clear, and the damaged section of wall had been cut away and replaced with fresh drywall. Emerson stood back, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Ready for primer?”

Ava nodded, setting down the sanding block she’d been using.

Her arms ached pleasantly from the morning’s work, and her hair was tied up in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to curl against her neck.

She felt grounded in her body in a way she hadn’t in months—present, alive, connected to the space around her.

“I brought something,” she said, crossing to her bag near the counter. She pulled out a small sketchbook, its edges worn from handling, the binding loose from years of use. “Found it in a box of mom’s things. It’s her designs for the original mural.”

Emerson came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He smelled like cedar and clean sweat, familiar and somehow comforting.

She opened the sketchbook, revealing pages of delicate pencil drawings—sprigs of lavender, studies of light and shadow, notes on color mixing scrawled in her mother’s familiar handwriting.

“These are beautiful,” he said softly, leaning closer to see the details.

“She wasn’t trained or anything. Just had a natural eye.” Ava turned the pages slowly, her fingers tracing her mother’s handwriting in the margins. “I was thinking we could use these as a guide. Not copy exactly, but an interpretation.”

Emerson’s eyes met hers, warm and understanding. “I like that idea.”

They spent the afternoon prepping the wall.

The primer went on first, its chemical smell sharp in the air.

Emerson opened windows to let in the spring breeze while Ava rolled the white coating onto the fresh drywall.

The texture was rougher than she expected, catching at the roller and creating a soft scraping sound that echoed in the empty shop.

After the primer dried, they applied a base coat of soft blue-gray that reminded Ava of early morning mist. The work was peaceful, the scratch of rollers against drywall and the occasional drip of paint into the tray the only sounds.

Emerson moved with surprising grace for a man his size, his strokes even and careful.

“You’ve done this before,” Ava observed, watching him edge around a power outlet with steady hands.

“My mom liked to redecorate.” A small smile touched his lips. “Every spring, like clockwork, she’d decide some room needed a new color. I was her helper from the time I could hold a brush.”

“I didn’t know that about you.”

He shrugged, that familiar gesture. “Not much to tell. Just a kid with a paintbrush, following instructions.”

“Still. It’s nice to imagine,” she said, resuming her own section of the wall. “Little Emerson with paint in his hair, trying to stay in the lines.”

His laugh was soft, almost surprised. “Who says I stayed in the lines?”

She glanced at him, catching a glimpse of something playful in his eyes that made her heart skip. “Fair point. You don’t strike me as a rule-follower.”

“Depends on the rules,” he said, his voice dropping a notch lower. “Some are worth following.”

Their eyes held for a moment. Then Ava turned back to the wall, her cheeks warm. “Like ‘don’t drip paint on the new floor’?”

“Exactly like that,” he agreed, the tension between them softening into something easier.

By late afternoon, the base coat was dry enough to begin the actual mural.

Ava set up her mother’s sketchbook on a small easel, open to a detailed drawing of lavender stalks bending in a breeze.

She’d mixed paints according to the color notes in the margins—soft purple, deeper violet, the bright green of new stems.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” she admitted, staring at the blank wall. “I’ve never painted anything more complicated than a fence.”

Emerson considered the wall, then her, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe we start with what we know. The horizon line, the basic shapes. We can build from there.”

He picked up a piece of chalk and handed it to her. “Show me where the field begins.”

Hesitantly, Ava approached the wall. After a moment’s thought, she drew a gentle curve across the lower third. “Here, I think. With hills rising behind.”

Emerson nodded encouragingly. “And the stalks?”

She made a few quick strokes, vertical lines rising from the horizon. “Like this. Clustered in groups, some taller than others.”

“Good.” He stepped closer, his hand coming up to guide hers. “And maybe some movement, like they’re swaying.”

His fingers were warm against hers, steadying as they traced a curved line together. The chalk dust settled on both their skin, a pale connection. When he stepped back, Ava found herself missing his proximity, the solid presence of him beside her.

“See? You know more than you think,” he said.

She looked at the rough outline they’d created. It wasn’t her mother’s work, it couldn’t be, but it had potential. It was a start.

“Let’s put on some music,” she suggested suddenly. “Mom always painted to music.”

She connected her phone to a small speaker she kept behind the counter, scrolling through playlists until she found one labeled “Mom’s Painting Mix.” The first notes of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” filled the shop, warm and nostalgic.

“This was one of her favorites,” Ava said, returning to the wall. “She said it reminded her of being young.”

Emerson smiled, picking up a brush. “Good choice.”

They worked in companionable silence as the music flowed around them.

Ava started with the background, broad strokes of purple and blue blending into a twilight sky.

The paint was cool and slick against her brush, clinging to the wall in satisfying stripes of color.

Emerson focused on the lower section, laying in the foundation of the lavender field with careful precision.

His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked, occasionally stepping back to check his progress before leaning in again.

Occasionally their arms would brush as they moved, or one would step back to let the other reach a particular spot. Each contact felt deliberate, even when it wasn’t—a quiet acknowledgment of shared space, of growing comfort.

As the music shifted to something slower, Ava found herself following its rhythm with her brush strokes.

The lavender took shape beneath her hands—first the stalks, then the delicate blooms, each touch of the brush building something new.

Beside her, Emerson added depth to the field, his larger hands creating sweeping movements that somehow matched her smaller, more detailed work.

“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” Emerson said after a while, his voice low beneath the music.

“Where?” Ava raised her hand, inadvertently adding another smudge to her skin.