Page 38 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“You looked pretty connected in those magazine photos,” she admits quietly, vulnerability finally showing through. “Like you belonged in that world. With her.”

So that’s it. I see it now—the insecurity Clara deliberately planted with her “provincial” comments. The idea that Emma somehow doesn’t measure up to Manhattan socialites and corporate dynasty expectations.

“I tried to belong there,” I say softly. “I wore the right suits, said the right things, dated the right people. And I was miserable.” I reach for her hand, grateful when she lets me take it. “I wanted to be with the girl who used to steal my fries while explaining market trends. Who made me laugh when I was drowning in expectations. Who still sees the real me, even when I’m trying too hard to be the perfect CEO.”

“Lucas...” She squeezes my hand, but uncertainty still lingers in her eyes. “Clara’s exactly what a CEO’s partner should be. Polished, connected, strategic. I organize staplers by their emotional energy and trip over my feet during presentations.”

“And you’re brilliant and authentic and see patterns no one notices.” I tug her closer, needing her to understand. “Clara saw Walker Enterprises as a business asset. You see it as a home. You care about the people, the work, the legacy—not because of what it can do for you, but because you believe in it.”

A small smile tugs at her lips. “Even with Clara and Brighton Analytics complicating things?”

“Especially then.” I brush my thumb across her knuckles. “Have dinner with me tonight? My place this time, not Sophie’s kitchen. No business talk, no complications. Just us.”

“You sure you want to risk my chaos around your kitchen?”

“Pretty sure I’ve always liked your chaos.” I grin at her blush. “Seven o’clock? I promise no corporate mergers or matchmaking sisters.”

Her laugh, bright and genuine, feels like finding something I didn’t know I’d lost. “Deal. Though maybe keep the fire extinguisher handy. Just in case.”

***

The doorbell chimes at precisely seven o’clock. When I open the door, professional Emma has vanished completely. She stands on my porch in jeans and a soft sweater, wine in hand and nervous anticipation in her eyes. Everything I want is right here.

Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with slight nervousness, and that telltale furrow between her brows that appears when she’s overthinking something. She’s brought not just wine but also a small container of homemade cookies that are slightly burned around the edges.

“I tried to bake,” she admits sheepishly. “It turns out ovens have very specific timing requirements that don’t align with distractions.”

The fact that she tried—that she cared enough to make something despite her notorious kitchen disasters—stirs something deeper than Clara’s expensive gifts ever managed.

“Your porch has a swing,” she says, following me inside, her eyes lighting up with that particular Emma enthusiasm that makes ordinary things seem magical. “Perfect for cloud-watching.”

“I remember someone teaching me that skill.” I take the wine, letting my fingers brush hers. “Though you always did make up your constellations.”

“I did not make them up!” She protests, following me into the kitchen. “The Analytics Cluster is a legitimate pattern. Just because traditional astronomers haven’t recognized it yet doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Dinner is easy—pasta and conversation flow naturally. Emma perches on my kitchen counter while I cook, stealing bites and telling stories about Sophie’s latest marketing campaign, and it feels like no time has passed. But there’s a new charge in the air, an awareness that makes every accidental touch electric.

As I’m preparing the sauce, Emma swirls her wine thoughtfully. The casual atmosphere shifts as she looks up.

“So,” she says, swinging her legs as she watches me stir the sauce, “are we going to talk about Clara’s insinuations about you leaking information?”

I nearly drop the spoon. Trust Emma to dive straight into the complicated topics.

“I never leaked anything,” I say, meeting her eyes directly. “But I also couldn’t prove I didn’t. Someone accessed my files, and the timing worked perfectly for Brighton’s takeover attempt.”

“You think she set you up?” Emma’s analytical mind is clearly working through scenarios.

“I think Theodore Brighton will do whatever it takes to expand his empire, and Clara is very much her father’s daughter.” I turn back to the sauce, adding a pinch of basil. “When I left for New York, there was already talk about her being involved in corporate espionage. Nothing proven, but enough smoke to make me suspicious.”

Emma hops down from the counter, moving to stand beside me. She studies my face, her expression softening.

“And you’ve been carrying this alone? Thinking people might believe you betrayed your own company?” Her hand touches my arm gently. “That explains why you were so careful about maintaining distance when you came back. You were trying to rebuild trust.”

Her immediate understanding—seeing beyond the facts to the emotional impact—catches me off guard. Clara had only cared about how the accusations affected our social standing. Emma sees how it affected me.

“We’ll figure it out together, you know,” she adds, her voice firm with conviction. “You don’t have to handle this alone anymore.”

The simple statement—the automatic inclusion of herself in my problems—means more than any of Clara’s elaborate declarations ever did.

---