Page 33 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“Lucas.” She says my name like it holds the answer to a question she’s been asking herself. “I remember everything about this dock. Every stone you taught me to skip. Every time you caught me before I fell. The day when I thought you were going to kiss me, right before your dad called...”

My pulse quickens. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about us. The good and the bad. The almost moments and the missed chances.” Her free hand comes up to touch my face, her fingers cool against my skin. “I’ve spent two years trying to date other guys and comparing them all to you. None of them ever measured up.”

She shakes her head slightly, a rueful smile curving her lips. “They didn’t understand why I color-coded my calendar. Or why I had to organize the silverware drawer by size and function. Or why I kept a baseball jersey that was three sizes too big.”

The sun paints rippling patterns on the water, but I can’t look away from her face. From the woman who’s always seen the real me, who makes me brave enough to be that person again.

“Emma.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “I’m done pretending. Done running. Done letting fear of expectations keep me from what I really want.”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, I kiss her slow and deep, pouring everything we’ve left unsaid into the connection. When she sighs against my lips, the last piece of a puzzle I’ve been working on for years finally slides into place.

Her hands slide up my arms to my shoulders, fingers threading into my hair. She tastes like coffee and somethingsweet – probably the pastry Sophie packed. But mostly, she tastes like Emma, like finding home after wandering too long.

A fish jumps nearby with a splash, startling Emma. I catch her reflexively, steadying her against me.

“Some things never change,” she murmurs against my lips. “You’re always there to catch me.”

“Always will be.” I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.

Her answering smile radiates such joy it warms me from within.

We spend the rest of the morning being decidedly unprofessional—sharing Sophie’s picnic, competing at stone skipping (again), finding shapes in clouds like we used to. No meetings, no expectations, no carefully maintained boundaries.

I discover that Emma has started a small garden on her apartment balcony, that she’s teaching herself piano on a keyboard app, that she still alphabetizes her spice rack but now has enough spices to make it worthwhile. She learns that I’ve taken up running since New York, that I still can’t stand olives despite repeated attempts, that I kept a folder of articles about her market predictions during our time apart.

“You did not,” she says, incredulous, when I admit this last part.

“I did. Asked Sophie to send me anything that mentioned your work. I have a collection of Walker Enterprises newsletters featuring your sustainable analytics reports.”

“That’s a little stalker-ish,” she teases, but her pleased smile tells a different story.

When lunch is over and we’ve exhausted our stone-skipping abilities, we wander along the wooded path that circles the lake. Emma points out wildflowers I would never have noticed, explaining which ones are native and which are invasive with the same enthusiasm she brings to market projections. I find myselfwatching her face more than the flowers, captivated by how her eyes light up when she shares knowledge she’s passionate about.

We end up beneath the old oak tree, the same one where I’d helped her study for exams years ago, where we’d shared countless conversations throughout our lives. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves creates shifting patterns across her skin as she settles on the grass, leaning back against the massive trunk.

“This place hasn’t changed,” she says softly, patting the spot beside her in invitation.

I sit next to her, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Some things shouldn’t.”

She leans her head against my shoulder, and we sit in comfortable silence, just being together without the need to fill the space with words.

Just us.

Finally, we are brave enough to be real together.

Chapter Twelve

Emma

I’ve reorganized my desk three times this morning and still can’t focus. Every time I try to concentrate on work, my mind drifts back to the lake. To Lucas’s words. To the way he looked at me like I was precious and terrifying all at once.

“I missed you. Missed the way you saw through every act, every pretense.”

His voice echoes in my memory, soft and certain in the morning light, sending a flutter through my chest. I keep thinking about how different he looked in casual clothes instead of his suits—relaxed and authentic in a way he rarely gets to be at the office. How natural it felt to skip stones together as if no time had passed. The gentle pressure of his fingers intertwined with mine as we walked along the dock.

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