Page 32 of Hooked on Emerson
Ava worked frantically, moving inventory away from the worst areas, covering shelves with plastic sheeting Emerson had pulled from his truck. Water dripped onto her hair, her shoulders, soaking through her shirt in places. The sound of it hitting the buckets created a chaotic, arrhythmic percussion throughout the shop.
"The cooler," she gasped suddenly, remembering tomorrow's orders. "If water gets into the electrical—"
They rushed to the large floral cooler along the back wall. Sure enough, water was beginning to seep down the wall behind it, inching toward the power cord and outlet. Emerson immediatelyunplugged it, while Ava began pulling out the arrangements they'd need to deliver the next day.
"We can store these at my place," he said, already gathering armfuls of flowers. "My refrigerator's not ideal, but it's better than letting them warm up here."
Ava nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. They made three trips to his truck, loading the most urgent orders into the cab where they'd be protected from the rain. By the third trip, they were both soaked through, hair plastered to their foreheads, clothes clinging to their skin.
Back inside, the situation had worsened. The leak above the counter had grown, water now streaming rather than dripping. The bucket beneath it was nearly full, water sloshing over the sides with each new contribution from above.
Ava emptied it quickly, replacing it with a larger container. Her hands shook slightly, adrenaline and growing despair making her movements less precise than usual. When she straightened from dumping the bucket for the third time, she found Emerson watching her, concern evident in his eyes even in the dim candlelight. It had taken him a while to get home through the storm, to carry in all the flowers to his fridge, and the return drive. But he came back, not letting her be by herself in this disaster for long.
"We've done what we can," he said gently. "The rest will have to wait until the storm passes."
She nodded, knowing he was right but unable to accept it fully. This shop, this space that had been her mother's pride, that she'd worked so hard to restore after the pipe burst, was once again being violated by forces beyond her control. It felt personal somehow, as if the universe was determined to wash away every trace of what she and her mother had built.
"Maybe," she said, voice cracking slightly, "But I'm not leaving."
Emerson didn't argue. He simply nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Then I'll stay too."
They moved to the small seating area near the front window, the only corner of the shop that seemed relatively dry. The candles cast long shadows on the walls, their flames dancing with each draft that found its way through the old window frames. Outside, the storm continued unabated, wind and rain and intermittent flashes of lightning transforming the familiar street into wild and unrecognizable terrain.
Ava hugged her knees to her chest, trying to ignore the dampness of her clothes, the chill that had begun to settle into her bones. Beside her, Emerson sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched out before him, apparently unbothered by his own soaked condition.
"I'm sorry," she said after a while, the words almost lost beneath the storm's noise.
He turned to her, brow furrowed. "For what?"
"For insisting we stay. For..." She gestured vaguely at the shop, the buckets, the water-stained ceiling.
"None of this is your fault, Ava."
"Isn't it?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended. "I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of this place. I'm the one who inherited it, who promised to keep it going."
Emerson was quiet for a moment, studying her face in the flickering candlelight. "Your mom wouldn't blame you for a storm."
"No, but she would have been better prepared." Ava's voice caught on the words. "She would have had the roof properly repaired before storm season, would have had a contingency plan for the flowers, would have—"
"Been human," Emerson interrupted gently. "Just like you are. Just like we all are."
A particularly loud crack of thunder made the windows rattle in their frames. Ava flinched, then let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "I'm not doing a very good job of being human right now."
"I disagree." Emerson shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. "Being human means having limits. Means not being able to control everything. Means sometimes just sitting in a leaky shop during a storm, doing the best you can."
The simple truth of his words broke something loose inside her. Tears welled up, spilling over before she could stop them. She turned her face away, embarrassed by the sudden surge of emotion, but Emerson's hand found hers in the semi-darkness, his fingers wrapping around hers with gentle pressure.
"It's okay," he said softly. "It's just me here."
Just me. As if he were nothing special, just some guy who happened to be caught in a storm with her. Not the man who had rebuilt her shop piece by piece, who had danced with her beneath festival lights, who had told her he was falling in love with her. Not the man whose presence had somehow become as essential to her days as the sun rising.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted, her voice breaking. "With the shop. With Seattle. With any of it."
A tear slid down her cheek, then another, mingling with the rainwater that still dampened her skin. Emerson's thumb brushed them away, the gesture so tender it made her want to cry harder.
"Maybe being lost isn't the worst thing," he suggested, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "Maybe it's just part of finding a new path."
She looked at him then, really looked at him. His hair was darker when wet, curling slightly at the temples. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, catching the candlelight like tiny stars. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to the contours of hisshoulders and chest. But it was his eyes that held her—steady, patient, filled with something extra that made her breath catch.
