Page 5 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

I turned them down to come home and prove myself here instead, a decision Garrett clearly thinks was a mistake, especially since our tech division is investing heavily in research with no immediate returns.

“I have a meeting with Ms. Hastings in thirty minutes,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Her Project Phoenix analysis—our comprehensive restructuring plan for integrating sustainable technology—might provide the innovative strategy we need—”

“With all due respect, Mr. Walker,” Garrett interrupts, “we need more than theoretical strategies. We need results. The board meets in two hours, and the Johnson contract renewal will be voted on tomorrow. Your father would never have let things deteriorate to this point. He understood the importance of traditional client relationships.”

The implied criticism is clear. Dad would have wined and dined with the Johnsons, relying on decades of golf games and charity galas to smooth things over. But that approach alone won’t work in today’s market, where clients demand real-time data and AI-driven insights.

“I’m aware of what my father would have done.” The words come out sharper than intended. I take a breath, centering myself. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Garrett. I’ll handle it.”

He lingers in the doorway, his gaze settling on the framed photo on my desk—Dad and me at my business school graduation before everything changed. Before I decided I needed to prove myself elsewhere. Before his illness made every choice more complicated.

In the photo, Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, his pride evident despite his attempt at a stern expression.“You’ve got the brains for this business,” he’d told me that day, “but do you have the heart?”

A few months later, we were arguing about expansion strategies, and I was booking a one-way ticket to New York, determined to build my success without his shadow.

“The vote won’t just be about the Johnson contract,” Garrett says with calculated precision. “The board is watching how you handle this crisis. It could impact other decisions, including the proposed reorganization of the tech division.”

Project Phoenix. He doesn’t say it, but the threat is clear. If I lose the Johnsons, I’ll lose any chance of advancing the innovations we desperately need.

A knock on my door frame interrupts the standoff. “Your nine o’clock is here,” my assistant announces.

I glance at my watch, surprised to find it’s already time. “Send her in.”

Garrett exits with a final pointed look as Emma appears in my doorway. My professional composure wavers momentarily. She’s wearing a navy dress that makes her look elegant and approachable. Her chestnut hair is tamed into some kind of twist that probably has a fancy name. No coffee stains in sight. The only hint of her usual chaos is a pencil stuck through her bun at a rakish angle.

The transformation strikes me—not just from Friday’s collision but from the grad student I’d known before I left. She carries herself with a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, a subtle authority born from proving herself in my absence.

“Good morning, Mr. Walker,” she says formally, but I catch a slight tremor in her voice. Her eyes flick to Garrett’s retreating figure, then back to me. “I have the Project Phoenix analysis you requested.”

“Please, sit.” I gesture to the chairs across from my desk, painfully aware of the space between us. Three days ago, we were falling over each other in the hallway. Now we’re doing this careful dance of professionalism, which feels wrong in ways I can’t quite explain.

Emma perches on the edge of her chair like she’s ready to bolt, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.

“I spent the weekend refining the implementation strategy,” she says once we’re alone. “The framework was in Friday’s reports, but I’ve added detailed sustainability metrics and integration timelines. And I might have found something interesting in the Johnson data.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite my best efforts. “No gravity-related incidents while working?”

“I took precautions.” The tiniest hint of her usual spark shows through. “Fewer opportunities for disaster when working from home. Usually.”

Just like that, the tension cracks. I can’t help but laugh, remembering countless incidents from our shared past. “Still finding trouble in unlikely places, I see.”

“Trouble finds me,” she corrects, relaxing slightly. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Like that time with the sprinkler system?”

“That was Sophie’s fault!”

“And the incident with Mrs. Robinson’s garden gnomes?”

“Those gnomes were asking for it. They had suspicious faces.

For a moment, we’re just us again—Lucas and Emma, trading familiar banter across years of shared history. Then my eyes land on the Johnson contract on my desk, and reality crashes back in.

“Right.” I straighten in my chair and watch Emma’s smile fade as she does the same. “What did you find?”

She nods, her professional demeanor returning as she pulls up data on her tablet with practiced precision. “I’ve been cross-referencing Johnson’s engagement patterns with our tech division’s research timeline. The decline started exactly when Brighton announced their merger with SolarTech.”

Emma stands, moving to the side of my desk to share her screen. Her light, floral perfume—reminiscent of summer—drifts over as she leans to point out specific data points. I force myself to focus on the numbers, not how close she is or how natural it feels to have her in my space.

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