Page 30 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“And some things do.” I step closer, drawn by the genuine warmth in his eyes, the Lucas I remember shining through without the CEO mask he’s been wearing. “Like how you don’t have to maintain professional distance here. No board members watching, no competitors lurking, just...”

“Just us,” he finishes softly.

This kiss is different from last night’s desperate connection. Where that one was fueled by frustration and defiance, this one is slow, sweet, full of years of almost-moments and missed chances. His hands frame my face like I’m something precious while mine find their way into his hair—something I’ve wantedto do since he came back. He tastes like the sauce he’s been sampling, rich, warm, and perfect.

When we part, he keeps me close, pressing his forehead to mine. “I’ve missed you. Not just since last night. Since I left for New York. Every success, every achievement felt hollow because I couldn’t share it with you.”

The confession catches me off guard with its rawness, its vulnerability. This is the Lucas I’ve been waiting to see again—the one who says what he means, who doesn’t hide behind corporate jargon or professional distance.

“I kept your jersey,” I confess in return, offering my own vulnerability. “The blue one from your senior year baseball team. It’s tucked in my drawer between sustainability journals.”

His laugh rumbles through where our chests touch. “I know. Sophie mentioned you sleep in it sometimes.”

“I’m going to kill her.” The threat lacks any real heat.

“Don’t.” His eyes soften. “I like knowing some part of me stayed with you.” He kisses me again, quick and sweet. “Even if it was just ratty baseball gear.”

A timer dings, making us both jump. Lucas curses and rushes to rescue a pan of garlic bread from the oven. The moment breaks, but the connection between us remains—a tangible thread spanning the distance between us.

“Still a hero,” I tease, remembering all the times he’s saved me from office disasters. “Even in the kitchen.”

“Only for you.” He sets the bread aside and pulls me back into his arms, as if he can’t bear to maintain distance even to save dinner. “Though maybe we should establish a safety perimeter around open flames.”

“That fire was Sophie’s fault! She’s the one who said flambé was just fancy French for ‘add more brandy.’”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, and I feel that familiar tug in my chest—the one that’s been there sincehe returned. Here, in Sophie’s kitchen with sauce bubbling and bread cooling and no professional boundaries between us, everything feels possible.

I study his face, noting the differences from the Lucas I used to know. The slight creases around his eyes, the sharper definition of his jaw, the confidence that comes from proving himself in New York. But also the familiar crooked smile, the way one corner of his mouth lifts slightly higher, the dimple that appears only when he laughs without restraint.

“Stay for dinner?” he asks softly.

“Is that a professional invitation, Mr. Walker?”

“Not even slightly, Ms. Hastings.” He steals another kiss. “Though I wouldn’t mind hearing what other rules you’d like to break.”

From somewhere in the house, Sophie yells, “The food better not be burning! And the wine I took was the good stuff, so you two better be making progress on all this unresolved tension!”

We break apart laughing, and Lucas returns to his sauce while I set the table, falling into an easy rhythm together. I’ve never been domestic—my apartment is a chaotic mix of sustainability journals, takeout containers, and half-started organizational projects—but with Lucas, setting a simple table feels significant. Like we’re building something together, one small action at a time.

“You know,” I say as I fold napkins, trying to shape them into perfect triangles and failing, “we still haven’t talked about what this means. For work, for us, for—”

“Emma.” He catches my hand, stilling my nervous folding. “Can we just... be here? Now? No work, no complications, just us figuring out what we want?”

I look at him—really look at him. At the boy who taught me to drive stick shift when I was in high school and he was home from college, and the man who came back to prove himself. Atsomeone who makes me feel both chaos and calm, both brilliant and safe. Someone who sees my color-coding obsession and klutzy moments not as flaws but as endearing parts of me.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Just us.”

His answering smile is worth every professional boundary we’re breaking.

We work in comfortable silence, me setting the table while Lucas finishes dinner. It feels natural like we’ve been doing this for years instead of dancing around each other at the office.

“This reminds me of that summer before you left,” I say, folding another napkin. “When everything seemed simpler.”

Two summers ago, just after I’d graduated and started full time at Walker Enterprises. Lucas was already VP of Operations, but he’d made time to help me settle in. After discovering my diet consisted mainly of ramen and cereal, he’d insisted on teaching me basic cooking skills. We’d spent weekend afternoons in his kitchen, progressing from scrambled eggs to actual meals. I’d watched his confident movements, memorizing not just recipes but the way his hands moved and how he bit his lip when concentrating.

“You weren’t that bad.” His lips twitch with amusement. “Though maybe stay away from flambé techniques.”

“That fire was—”

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