Page 7 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

Through my open door, I hear a muffled laugh from the direction of Emma’s office, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a stack of papers hitting the floor.

Some things never change.

And some things—like the way my heart still races when Emma Hastings smiles at me—probably never will, no matter how professional we pretend to be.

The moment breaks, reality intruding with all its demands. Garrett appears in my doorway again, tablet in hand. “Mr. Walker, the board secretary would like to confirm your presentation time.”

I straighten my tie and face him. “11 AM.”

Emma’s Project Phoenix analysis is already taking shape in my mind. They expect the prodigal son to fail and the reformed party boy to slip back into his old habits.

My father’s words from graduation day echo:“Do you have the heart for this business?”

Looking at the Johnson contract, the Project Phoenix proposal, and Emma’s outlined path forward, I finally understand what he meant. This isn’t just about proving myself or saving an account. It’s about building something meaningful and sustainable—not just for the bottom line but for the people who depend on Walker Enterprises and the future we could create together.

I’m going to prove them wrong.

Even if it means maintaining unwelcome boundaries with the one person who’s always seen past my carefully constructed facades.

Even if it means pretending I don’t notice how that navy dress brings out the gold flecks in her eyes or how her presence in my office feels more right than any corner office view of Central Park ever could. But maintaining that pretense would prove more challenging than I anticipated.

I’m a professional, after all.

God help me.

Chapter Four

Emma

“You’ve got this,” I mutter to myself, straightening my blazer for the hundredth time. “You are a competent professional who didn’t spend twenty minutes this morning practicing how to say ‘integrated sustainable analytics platform’ without squeaking.”

My reflection in the conference room window looks skeptical. Probably because she knows I’m lying. It was closer to forty-five minutes, and I still stumbled over the phrase “proprietary forecasting model.”

I’m early for the board meeting, using the time to set up my presentation and triple-check my Project Phoenix materials. The new blazer (picked out by Sophie, along with strict instructions not to “Emma it up”) is still pristine. My hair is behaving foronce, and I haven’t tripped over anything in at least two hours. By my standards, this is practically a miracle.

I shuffle through my notes one more time, remembering James Walker’s voice the first time I presented to the board. “Stand tall, speak clearly, and remember—they’re more afraid of your data than you are of them.” He’d believed in me even when I’d knocked over his coffee during my interview. Now, his son is about to watch me pitch the future direction of their family company. No pressure.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway breaks my concentration.

“Talking to yourself?”

I spin around to find Natalie leaning against the doorframe, looking effortlessly put together in a way I’ve never managed to achieve. She holds out a paper cup like a peace offering.

“I brought you coffee. Decaf.”

“You’re a goddess.” I make grabby hands at the cup. “But why decaf? I need all the caffeine I can get. The Johnsons represent 40% of our renewable energy contracts. If we lose them to Brighton—“

“Because regular coffee plus your natural nervous energy equals that time you tried to explain market segmentation to the board and talked so fast they had to play the recording at half speed to understand you.”

“That was one time!” I protest but accept the decaf gratefully. “And in my defense, I had three espressos that morning, and we were introducing our first solar integration platform.”

“Exactly.” Natalie drops into one of the conference room chairs, eyeing my presentation materials. “So, what’s the strategy? Beyond trying not to get distracted by how good the new CEO looks in his suits?”

I choke on my coffee, feeling it burn down the wrong pipe as I sputter and cough. “I have never—“

“You mentioned it twice yesterday. And once this morning when you were reorganizing the supply closet by carbon footprint ratings.”

“I was organizing by efficiency metrics,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks heat up. “The suit comment was simply an objective appreciation of professional attire.”

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