Page 60 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“Get some rest, and give your parents my love,” she says as I gather my things. “And tell your dad I still want those recipes he promised. The man makes a pot roast that would make professional chefs weep.”

I promise to relay the message. I am grateful again for how seamlessly our families have intertwined over the years. The Walkers and the Hastings are two families that became one long before Lucas and I admitted our feelings.

I stop at my apartment first to change and grab the sustainability reports Dad always asks about. My place looks the same as I left it yesterday—organized chaos with color-coded systems that make perfect sense to me but baffle everyone else. Books are stacked by subject and urgency. Sticky notes create a rainbow across my workspace, and three planners are open to various projects.

After a quick shower, I change into comfortable jeans and one of my favorite sweaters—soft blue that Dad always says matches my eyes. I gather the reports I’ve been working on, slipping them into a folder with the color-coding system I’ve used since college.

It’s our thing, Dad reading my proposals over Sunday coffee, pride evident in every question. Some daughters bring home report cards; I bring implementation strategies and efficiency metrics. He might not understand all the technical details, but he’s never missed an opportunity to celebrate my professional accomplishments.

The drive to my parent’s house is familiar, colored by memories of weekend visits home during college and late-night emergency ice cream runs with Sophie. Now, the route includes mental notes about potential solar panel installations and green energy solutions for the neighborhoods I pass—you can take the girl out of sustainable analysis, but you can’t take the sustainable analysis out of the girl.

Sunday lunch at my parents’ always feels like stepping back in time. Mom’s garden still explodes with color even in early fall, Dad’s vintage car collection still gleams in the driveway, and the kitchen smells like home—a mixture of Mom’s herb garden and Dad’s slow-cooked specialties.

“There’s my corporate revolutionary!” Dad engulfs me in a hug as soon as I arrive, his familiar aftershave mingling with the scent of rosemary and thyme. Donald Hastings may be retired from teaching engineering, but he’s never lost his enthusiasm for innovation. “Your mother’s been practically bouncing since you called about the gala.”

“Darling, let her breathe.” Mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Margaret Hastings—former environmental science teacher turned community garden coordinator—has always been my first role model in sustainability. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Now, tell us everything. The presentation, the board’s reaction, and most importantly, did Lucas finally stop being noble about his feelings?”

I settle at the counter, accepting the coffee Dad hands me—perfectly prepared with just a hint of cinnamon, the way he’s made it since my high school days. “You know about that?”

“Sweetheart,” Dad chuckles, taking his usual spot at the breakfast nook, newspaper folded beside him, “we’ve watched that boy look at you like you hung the moon since you were teenagers. Elizabeth and your mom have been comparing notes for years.”

“You’ve been talking to Lucas’s mom about us?” The idea of our mothers conspiring about our relationship makes me both mortified and oddly touched.

“Of course!” Mom starts chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, her hands moving with the precision that first inspired my love of organized systems. “We had to do something while you two figured things out. Though I have to say, this innovative approach to the Johnson contract? That’s all you, honey. Your father’s been reading your proposals to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Dad!”

“What? My daughter’s redefining corporate environmental practices. I’m allowed to brag.” He sets down his coffee, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Though I’ll leave out the board’s opposition details when I tell my golf buddies. Arnold’s blood pressure isn’t what it used to be.”

He’s been like this since I brought home my first science fair project on renewable energy—fiercely proud, unabashedly enthusiastic about my work in a way that sometimes embarrasses me but always makes me feel valued.

The afternoon flows with easy conversation and familiar comfort. Dad pulls out the latest sustainability journals he’s subscribed to “for research,” though we all know it’s so he can understand my work better. Mom insists on showing me her newest garden innovations—a rainwater collection system she’s implemented for the community plots she oversees.

I tell them about the gala, Lucas supporting my unconventional ideas, and how right everything feels despite the challenges. I leave out Brighton’s offer for now—that’s something I need to process myself before discussing—but I share the triumphant moment when the Johnsons recognized the value of our approach.

“You seem happy,” Mom observes softly as we clear the dishes together. The late afternoon sun streams through the kitchen windows, casting everything in warm golden light. “Not just professionally successful—though we’re incredibly proud of that too—but genuinely happy.”

“I am.” I stack plates in the dishwasher, a task that somehow feels soothing in its familiarity. “Lucas... he makes me better. Braver. More myself.”

“That’s what love should do,” Dad says, moving from his spot in the breakfast nook to join us in the kitchen. He slides an arm around Mom’s waist, the gesture so natural after thirty-fiveyears together. “Though if he ever pulls that noble protection act again...”

“Darling.” Mom’s tone holds warning, but she’s smiling. “Our daughter can handle herself. She always has.”

“Ever since she was seven and reorganized my entire tool shed by ‘project efficiency potential,’” Dad agrees with a laugh. “Still, a father reserves the right to be concerned.”

“And a little protective,” Mom adds, her smile knowing. “Even when we pretend otherwise.”

Dad wraps me in another hug, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I know. But I’m still allowed to worry. Even if my little girl is now a corporate innovator revolutionizing sustainable technology.”

His pride is palpable, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It’s always been this way—both my parents celebrating my professional passions while still treating me like their daughter. Never force me to choose between those identities.

As we finish cleaning, Dad pulls me into his study to show me an article about new solar innovations. Mom joins us with fresh coffee, and we spend another hour discussing sustainable practices and corporate responsibility. It’s a conversation we’ve been having in various forms since I was old enough to understand what “environmental impact” meant.

“Speaking of responsibility,” Mom says casually as she refills our cups, “Elizabeth mentioned the board’s... concerns... about your relationship affecting business decisions.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “You and Elizabeth do talk about everything.”

“Not everything,” Dad says with a wink. “Just the important things. Like how our children are navigating this new chapter.”

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