Page 26 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“I seem to recall my entire shirt being purple.”

“It was a good color on you!”

We’re laughing now, and I realize we’ve drifted closer together. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo and see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough that it would be so easy to just lean down and...

Someone knocks on the door, and we jump apart—time for another round of maintaining professional distance.

But maybe, that distance doesn’t have to be as cold and empty as I’ve been making it. Maybe there’s a middle ground between inappropriate workplace romance and the arctic professionalism I’ve been clinging to.

I just have to find it before I lose her completely.

***

The night air buzzes with weekend energy at O’Sullivan’s as our team claims the large corner booth. Three hours into our celebration, I’m questioning every decision that led to this moment—precisely the seating arrangement that puts Emma right next to me. For efficiency in reviewing implementation schedules, I’d said. Professional reasons.

There’s nothing professional about how her thigh keeps brushing mine every time she reaches for her drink, sending sparks through me that have nothing to do with static and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been this close to her in days.

The bar’s familiar atmosphere—dark wood, soft lighting, and the faint mix of spilled beer and fresh lemon polish—creates an intimacy that office conference rooms can’t match. The team is relaxed, celebratory, and excited about beating Brighton’s timeline. And Emma...Emma’s slowly unfurling again, the stiff formality melting away with each laugh.

“To beating Brighton’s integration timeline!” Mike from R&D raises his glass, his enthusiasm making the ice clink. “And to Emma’s color-coded sustainability matrices!”

“Don’t encourage her,” Natalie laughs, nudging Emma’s shoulder. “She’ll start color-coding the bar menu next.”

“Actually,” Emma starts, pulling out her phone, that familiar spark of enthusiasm lighting her eyes, “if we organized drink orders by efficiency metrics—”

Before I can think better, I cover her hand with mine and lower the phone. “Maybe we should save the organizational strategies for Monday?” The touch sends a jolt up my arm, and I know I should pull away. Maintain distance. Stay professional.

I don’t.

“A bit reckless of me,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes. “Mixing drinks and data analysis.”

“Not reckless, just enthusiastic.” The words slip out before I can stop them, my fingers lingering on hers for a moment too long. “It’s one of the things I—the company—values most about you.”

I catch myself, but the slip feels significant. A crack in the CEO mask I’ve been wearing so carefully. Emma notices, her eyeswidening slightly before a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“Speaking of enthusiastic,” Natalie cuts in with a knowing smirk, “remember that time Emma tried to explain market segmentation to the board after three espressos?”

“They had to play the recording at half speed,” I grin, turning toward the group but letting my shoulder press against Emma’s. “Though not as memorable as the printer incident.”

“That was one time!” Emma protests and the familiar indignation in her voice makes my heart ache with how much I’ve missed this – missed us, the easy way we’ve always fit together. “And it really was making demon noises.”

“It was out of toner.”

“Because demons stole it.”

Her laugh vibrates through where our shoulders touch, and for a moment, I forget why I’ve been keeping my distance. Forget about the board, professional boundaries, and everything else, except how right this feels. How natural. How much better both of us are when we’re not hiding behind corporate masks.

The team tells stories of past project victories and office mishaps, and with each passing minute, Emma and I drift closer together, both physically and emotionally. When Mike mentions Brighton’s latest PR disaster—the botched product launch that made headlines a few months ago—Emma and I exchange a knowing glance, remembering how we’d predicted that exact outcome over late-night spreadsheets two years ago.

Her thigh brushes mine when she reaches for her glass, and neither of us pulls away. The contact lingers, deliberate in its casualness.

I notice a pattern forming: whenever someone mentions Project Phoenix, her eyes find mine, that silent communication we’ve always had returning with startling ease. It’s our old shorthand—the raised eyebrow when Thompson exaggerates hisrole, the subtle eye-roll when marketing concerns are brought up for the third time. We’re finishing each other’s thoughts before they’re spoken, anticipating objections before they’re raised.

Two years of absence falls away in minutes, our professional synchronicity revealing what neither of us has acknowledged aloud—that some partnerships can’t be replicated, no matter how long you spend running from them.

For a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded bar, and that there’s a world outside the bubble we’ve created. I’m leaning in, drawn by the magnetism that’s always existed between us, when—

“Lucas?”

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