Page 29 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“About my brother’s kiss at O’Sullivan’s?”

I nearly drop the wine, a flush creeping up my neck. “How did you—”

“Natalie texted me. Also, you have that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘Lucas Walker kissed me senseless, and now I don’t know whether to swoon or hide in the supply closet’ look.” She takes my wine, ushering me inside. “It’s very similar to the look youhad when you were a freshman and my twenty-year-old brother taught you to drive stick shift.”

That memory makes me grimace. Back then, Lucas—a junior in college and already interning at Walker Enterprises—had patiently shown seventeen-year-old me how to work the clutch of his beloved first car, his hand covering mine on the gearshift, both of us pretending not to notice the electricity between us. “That’s when you know to shift,” he’d said, voice suddenly husky. “When you feel that vibration.”

“I did not—” I stop short in the kitchen doorway, all protests dying in my throat.

There he is. His sleeves rolled up as he stirs something that smells amazing, wearing jeans and a soft gray henley that transforms him from polished CEO to the guy who used to sneak me extra cookies during high school study sessions. His hair is slightly disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it—a nervous habit I’ve witnessed since his college days.

The domesticity of the scene catches me off guard. I’ve seen Lucas in boardrooms, formal events, and even casual gatherings, but rarely like this. Relaxed. At home. Being himself without an audience to impress or a role to play.

“Emma.” He looks up, spoon freezing mid-stir. “I didn’t... Sophie didn’t mention...”

“Surprise!” Sophie chirps, not even trying to hide her matchmaking grin. “Since you’re both hopeless at talking about anything that matters at the office, I figured neutral territory might help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take this excellent wine—” she grabs a bottle from her counter “—and be somewhere else for at least an hour. Try not to burn down my kitchen while figuring out your feelings.”

“That was one time!” Lucas and I say in unison, then catch each other’s eyes and laugh.

Just like that, the tension breaks. A shared memory flickers between us:

Sophie’s twenty-second birthday, four years ago. The three of us in the Walker kitchen, attempting to make flambéed bananas for her celebration cake. Lucas had come home for the weekend from his final year of business school. I remember how he kept stealing glances at me instead of watching the pan (something Sophie later teased him about relentlessly). Following Sophie’s enthusiastic encouragement, I’d poured far too much rum into the mixture.

“A little more,” Sophie had insisted, grinning. “It needs to really flame.”

And flame it did. The resulting fireball had licked the kitchen ceiling, leaving a permanent scorch mark that James Walker had simply shaken his head at. We’d ended up ordering takeout and eating it on the floor of the kitchen while Sophie declared it her “best birthday ever”—not despite the disaster but because of it.

That night had crystallized our bond, the three of us laughing until our sides hurt, still smelling of smoke and singed hair. It was the first time I’d felt like I truly belonged with the Walkers, not just as Sophie’s friend or the promising intern, but as someone who mattered to them all—especially to Lucas.

I move to the counter, inhaling deeply. “Whatever you’re making smells incredible.”

“Mom’s marinara recipe.” He adds a pinch of something to the pot. “I always make it when I need to think. Something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, getting all the timing right.”

“Like organizing sustainability metrics?” I tease gently.

His smile reaches his eyes in a way I haven’t seen at the office in weeks. “Something like that.” He hesitates, then adds, “I didn’t know Sophie invited you. Not that I’m not glad she did, but if this is awkward after last night...”

“You mean after you kissed me senseless and then ran away?”

The spoon clatters against the pot. “Emma—”

“I’m not sorry it happened,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before my courage fails. “Even if the timing was terrible and Clara’s appearance complicated everything and—”

“I’m not sorry either.” He turns to face me fully, his expression open in a way it hasn’t been since he returned. “About the kiss. I’m sorry about running away. And about maintaining professional distance all week when all I really wanted...”

He trails off, but his eyes drop to my lips, and suddenly, the kitchen feels very warm. The simmering sauce, the lingering scent of garlic and herbs, his proximity—all of it wraps around us like a cocoon, separating us from the outside world and its complications.

“What did you want?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger, tracing down my cheek. “You have flour on your nose.”

“I do not. I haven’t even touched anything yet.”

“Still finding trouble in unlikely places.” His thumb brushes across my nose, and my pulse quickens at his touch. “Some things never change.”

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