Page 9 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening his face in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Now you’ve got more.”

“Great.” She laughed, wiping at her face with her forearm.

“Here.” He set down his brush and stepped closer.

With gentle fingers, he brushed at the smudge near her jaw.

His touch was light, careful, but Ava felt it like a current running through her.

She found herself holding her breath, watching his face as he concentrated on the task.

“Got it,” he murmured, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.

She looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. His eyes were dark in the late afternoon light, intent on her face. She could count the flecks of paint on his t-shirt, smell the faint pine scent that clung to his skin.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

He didn’t step away immediately. His hand lingered near her face, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. For a heartbeat, Ava thought he might lean down, might close the distance between them. Her lips parted slightly, an unconscious invitation.

Instead, he reached past her for his brush, his arm brushing hers in a way that felt deliberate. “The lavender’s looking good,” he said, his voice a touch rougher than before.

They resumed painting, but something had shifted between them. Each movement filled with awareness, each glance holding something unspoken. The playlist continued, one song flowing into the next. Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine” began, the soulful notes filling the shop with longing.

“This one too?” Emerson asked about the music, stepping back to survey their work.

Ava nodded, a smile playing at her lips. “She had eclectic taste. Said you couldn’t paint anything worth keeping without a little soul in the background.”

“Smart woman.”

“The smartest.” Ava dipped her brush in a deep violet, adding detail to a cluster of lavender blooms. The paint clung to the bristles, thick and rich with pigment. “She would have liked you, I think.”

Emerson paused, his brush hovering over the paint tray. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She appreciated people who could build things. Said it was a kind of magic, turning nothing into something.”

He resumed painting, but Ava caught the pleased set of his shoulders, the small smile he tried to hide. “Not magic. Just patience.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

They continued working as the light outside began to soften, golden hour casting long shadows across the shop floor.

The mural was taking shape—not a replica of her mother’s work, but something new that echoed its spirit.

The lavender field stretched toward distant hills, the stalks bending as if caught in a gentle breeze.

Ava had added small details her mother never had—a bee hovering near one bloom, a weathered fence post at the edge of the field.

Emerson had created depth in the background hills, layers of color that gave the impression of distance and space.

Together, they’d built something neither could have created alone.

“This is turning out well, becoming something special,” Emerson said, stepping back to look at the whole wall.

“It is, isn’t it?” Ava stood beside him, surprising herself with the pride she felt. “Different, but good different.”

He nodded, eyes tracing the lines they’d created together. “Sometimes different is exactly right.”

The playlist shifted again, this time to Sam Cooke’s “Nothing Can Change This Love.” The opening notes swelled, rich and warm in the quiet shop.

Ava felt something tug in her chest—memory, yes, but also something newer, something present that made her skin feel too small for the feelings beneath it.

Without thinking, she set down her brush and held out her hand. “Dance with me?”

Emerson looked surprised, then uncertain. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Neither am I,” she admitted. “But mom always said this song demanded movement.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he placed his paint-smudged hand in hers.

Ava led him to the center of the empty shop floor, the newly laid boards smooth beneath their feet.

She placed her free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt.

His hand settled at her waist, light but sure.

They began to move, not really dancing so much as swaying together.

Ava could feel the slight stiffness in his frame, the careful way he held himself, as if afraid to press too close.

But as the music continued, something in him changed.

His hand at her waist became more certain, drawing her a fraction nearer.

The space between them seemed to hum with unspoken words. Each small adjustment—his fingers spreading slightly at her waist, her thumb unconsciously tracing a circle against his shoulder—felt like part of a conversation their bodies were having while their minds caught up.

“See? Not so bad,” she said softly, looking up at him.

His eyes met hers, warm and surprised. “Not bad at all.”

They moved together in the fading light, dust motes swirling around them like slow-motion stars.

Ava felt herself leaning into him, her body finding its place against his as naturally as breathing.

His thumb moved in a small circle at her waist, the gesture so subtle she might have imagined it if not for the warmth spreading through her at his touch.

As the song reached its bridge, Emerson’s hand tightened slightly at her waist. Almost without thought, Ava stepped closer, until there was barely space between them.

Her cheek rested against his chest, and she could hear his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady but quick.

His chin brushed the top of her head, and she felt rather than heard the small sigh that escaped him.

The song spoke of unshakable love, of certainty in an uncertain world.

Ava closed her eyes, letting herself simply feel the solid strength of him against her, the gentle sway of their bodies, the music wrapping around them like a cocoon.

For the first time in months, the ache of loss receded, replaced by something new, happier.

She felt his chest rise and fall with each breath, the slight roughness of his stubble against her temple when he dipped his head. His hand at her back drew her incrementally closer, until she could feel the length of him against her. Not demanding, just present. Real.

As the song began to fade, they slowed but didn’t separate. Ava lifted her head to look at him, finding his eyes already on her face. Something unreadable flickered in their depths. Vulnerability, maybe, or longing. His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes.

“Ava,” he said, just her name, but it held a question.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She felt herself sway toward him, drawn in by the moment. His hand at her waist steadied her, thumb brushing against the small strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up. The contact sent a shiver through her and goosebumps rose along her arms.

The next song began, but neither moved to resume dancing.

They stood in the center of the shop floor, hands still linked, bodies close enough to share warmth.

Emerson’s free hand moved from her waist to her face, fingers gentle as they tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Ava’s breath caught in her throat. She could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, count each eyelash, note the small scar near his eyebrow she’d never noticed before. The world beyond them seemed to recede, leaving only this moment, this man, this unspoken thing growing between them.

“We should probably finish the mural,” Ava whispered, not moving away. “Before we lose the light.”

Emerson nodded, but his eyes remained on her face, as if memorizing its contours. “Probably should.”

Neither moved. The air between them felt thick, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ava’s gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. She saw the moment he noticed, the slight darkening of his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers against hers.

Then, from outside, the sound of a car door slamming broke the spell. Ava stepped back, their hands falling apart reluctantly. The moment slipped away, not quite grasped but not forgotten.

“I’ll get the lights,” Emerson said, his voice rougher than usual.

Ava nodded, turning back to the mural to hide the flush she could feel spreading across her cheeks.

Her heart was still racing, her skin warm where he had touched her.

She picked up her brush, trying to focus on the wall before her, but all she could think about was the feeling of being held in his arms, of almost—almost—crossing a line that had been blurring for weeks.

The overhead lights flickered on, casting the shop in a warm glow. Emerson returned to stand beside her, his own brush in hand. They worked in silence for a while, adding final touches to the mural—highlights on the lavender blooms, shadows beneath the stalks, depth to the distant hills.

His shoulder occasionally brushed hers as they worked side by side, each contact a small reminder of what had almost happened.

Ava found herself hyperaware of his proximity, of the way his hands moved with confident strokes and the concentration in his profile as he leaned in to add detail to a particular section.

“It needs something,” Ava said finally, stepping back to survey their work.

Emerson tilted his head, considering. “A signature, maybe?”

She looked at him, surprised by the suggestion. “I couldn’t. It was her thing.”

“It’s your shop now,” he said gently. “Your wall. Your painting.”

Ava stared at the mural, at the field they’d created together. Not a copy, but an homage. A continuation. She picked up a fine brush and dipped it in dark purple. With careful strokes, she painted her initials in the lower corner: “A.B.”

Then, without hesitation, she offered the brush to Emerson. “You too. You helped create it.”

He looked startled. “I just followed your lead.”

“No,” she said firmly. “We did this together. It wouldn’t exist without you.”

After a moment, he took the brush. His hand was steady as he added his own mark beside hers: “E.R.” The letters stood side by side, not quite touching but belonging to the same space.

Ava felt something catch in her throat at the sight—their initials together, permanent on the wall of her shop.

It felt significant, a declaration of sorts, though she wasn’t sure exactly what they were declaring.

Only that something had been acknowledged, something neither of them had put into words.

“Perfect,” she said softly, reaching out to touch the still-wet paint. A small dot of purple clung to her fingertip, marking her.

The light outside had faded completely now, the shop windows reflecting their own image back at them. Ava could see their silhouettes against the backdrop of the mural—two figures standing close but not touching, surrounded by painted lavender and the warm glow of the shop lights.

“I should probably head out,” Emerson said, though he made no move to leave. “It’s getting late.”

Ava nodded, but found herself reluctant to end the evening. “Thank you. For today. For all of it.”

He met her eyes, his own gaze soft and unguarded. “Thank you for letting me be part of it.”

They cleaned up together, washing brushes, sealing paint cans, returning tools to their proper places. The routine was familiar now, the small dance of sharing space, of working together toward a common goal. When everything was tidy, they stood by the door, both hesitating.

“Will you be at the Harvest Festival next month?” Ava asked suddenly. It was their town’s celebration of summer changing over to fall. “The shop always has a booth. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

Emerson’s smile was slow, transforming his face in a way that made her heart skip. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” She reached out impulsively, squeezing his hand. “Night, Emerson.”

His fingers curled around hers, warm and strong. “Night, Ava.”

After he left, Ava locked the door behind him and returned to stand before the mural.

The lavender field seemed to glow in the dim light, the colors deeper now that the paint was drying.

She traced their initials with her eyes, feeling the weight of what they’d created together, and not just the painting.