Page 43 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“Emergency board conference call,” I tell her after hanging up, tension settling across my shoulders. “Brighton’s CEO claims we violated a non-compete agreement with the Johnson contract. Complete nonsense, but we need to address it immediately.”

“They’re getting desperate,” Emma says, understanding dawning in her eyes. She’s already pulling up relevant files on her tablet. “The Johnsons must be leaning toward our proposal. Want me to put together a quick analysis of—”

“I’ll handle this.” I move to her desk, resting my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve already revolutionized their entire sustainability system this week. Let me handle the legal nonsense.”

“You sure? I have all the implementation data right here...”

“Wait for me?” I catch her hand. “We could stop for ice cream on the way home, make up for the movie delay.”

“Haagen-Dazs is still open on Main,” she suggests, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “And I have it on good authority they have your favorite mint chocolate chip. Though we need to discuss their supply chain efficiency...”

I head to the smaller conference room on the executive floor, the one equipped with our best video conferencing system. Within minutes, I’ve set up the call and pulled up the relevant contract documents on my tablet.

The digital conference screen flickers to life, showing five of our seven board members in various locations—Bradshaw fromhis vacation home in Florida, the chairwoman from a hotel in Chicago, and three others from their respective homes or offices. Garrett is the only one physically present in the building, entering the conference room just as the call connects. His smug expression suggests he thinks Brighton’s latest move gives him an advantage.

“Thank you all for joining on such short notice,” I begin, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “As you know, Brighton Analytics has made some serious allegations regarding our Johnson contract.”

The discussion unfolds with unexpected efficiency. Brighton’s claims are as flimsy as I thought—they’re trying to argue that our sustainability protocols infringe on their automated systems. The legal team has already prepared a preliminary response, which I present to the board with careful clarity.

“Their entire argument falls apart,” Garrett points out, surprising me with his support, “when you consider that our system is built around human interaction rather than pure automation. You can’t patent what you don’t understand.”

The chairwoman nods in agreement from her hotel suite. “This seems like a desperate delay tactic. The Johnsons must be leaning our way.”

For forty minutes, we discuss potential legal responses and implementation safeguards. The call concludes with a unanimous decision to proceed as planned with the Johnson implementation, prepared to counter Brighton’s claims if they escalate to formal legal action.

As the screen goes dark and the board members sign off, Garrett gathers his notes. The momentary alliance during the call dissolves as we exit the conference room.

“Don’t mistake my support in there for personal approval, Walker,” he says, pausing in the hallway. “Brighton is a common enemy, nothing more.”

“Understood,” I reply. At least with Garrett, I always know where I stand.

Back in my office, I find Emma curled up on the couch, deep in project files. She’s kicked off her heels and claimed my spare hoodie from the coat rack, looking so naturally at home that something catches in my chest. Beside her sits a stack of reports, each page meticulously color-coded—she’s been preparing counterarguments despite my insistence that she didn’t need to.

“That bad?” she asks, noticing my expression.

“Brighton is trying to claim our sustainability analytics infringe on their patents. Nothing their lawyers can prove, but they’ll try anything to delay the Johnson contract.” I pick up one of her reports. “Though I see someone couldn’t resist doing a complete analysis, anyway.”

“Just light reading.” She grins. “Also, I may have reorganized your filing system while you were gone. You had quarterly reports mixed in with annual projections. It was chaos.”

“Thank you,” I hold out my hand. “Ready to go home?”

The word ‘home’ slips out naturally. Somehow, in just these past days together, anywhere with Emma has started feeling like home.

***

The small ice cream shop on Main Street glows warmly despite the late hour, its vintage sign casting a soft light over the sidewalk. Emma charms the owner into a detailed discussion about their refrigeration efficiency while I wait, amused, as she pulls out her tablet to show him some energy-saving recommendations.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I tease as we walk back to the car, ice cream in hand. “Always making things better.”

“His electric bill was outrageous! And their freezer system is at least ten years old. Just wait until you see the sustainability upgrade proposal I’m drafting.”

“Of course you are.” I steal a bite of her rocky road. “Planning to revolutionize the entire ice cream industry?”

“One shop at a time.” She retaliates by sampling my mint chocolate chip. “Though their flavor optimization could use work, too.”

The drive home is short, with comfortable silence and the occasional debate about ice cream flavors. My townhouse welcomes us with its familiar warmth—the leather couch I’d chosen for comfort over style, the bookshelves filled with business texts and the occasional science fiction novel, the kitchen visible through the archway with its gleaming granite countertops and barely used appliances.

We settle on the couch with more ice cream and an assortment of snacks Emma discovered in my kitchen. “You have the perfect movie-watching goodies!” she says, sounding delighted.

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