Page 74 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“Something to discuss at next week’s strategy session, perhaps,” the chairwoman suggests, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips. “Well done, both of you. The board appreciates innovation that delivers measurable results.”

Coming from her, this is tantamount to a standing ovation.

As the board files out, buzzing about the contract and its implications, Sophie bursts in with her usual perfect timing. Her marketing team had been prepping press materials contingent on the Johnson announcement, and her expression suggests she’s already heard the good news.

“Did I miss the big announcement?” She hugs Emma, then me, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to the board’s measured reactions. “Though judging by the shell-shocked looks in the hallway, I’m guessing our dynamic duo knocked it out of the park again?”

“Your brother’s being modest,” Emma says, gathering her presentation materials with practiced efficiency. “He’s the one who closed the deal. That final meeting with the Johnsons yesterday was all Lucas.”

“After you revolutionized their entire approach to sustainability,” I counter, unwilling to let her diminish her contribution. “Five years, Soph. Exclusive contract.”

Sophie’s squeal probably violates several noise ordinances. “This calls for celebration! Dinner tonight? I’m thinking champagne, someplace fancy—”

“Actually...” Emma glances at me, that shy smile I love appearing—the one that still makes her look like the grad student who used to help Sophie with research projects at our family’s kitchen table. “I thought maybe I’d cook for Lucas tonight. At my place.”

Sophie’s eyes go comically wide. “Your place? As in your apartment that no one but me has seen because you’re weirdly private about your organizational systems?”

“It’s not that weird,” Emma protests, a flush creeping up her neck. “I just don’t need everyone knowing about my color-coded bookshelf system.”

“Or your sustainability journal categorization method,” Sophie teases, her expression delighted. “Or your project-based sticky note arrangement.” She turns to me with a grin that spells trouble. “Are you sure you’re ready for this level of organized chaos, brother dear? There are sticky notes. Everywhere. Color-coded by emotional energy.”

“I think I can handle it.” I pull Emma closer, loving how naturally she fits against my side. “Though maybe we should stop for wine first?”

“Definitely wine,” Sophie agrees, her eyes dancing with mischief. “And maybe a fire extinguisher? Remember the pasta incident of 2023?”

“That was one time!” Emma’s indignation is adorable.

“Three times,” Sophie and I say in unison, making Emma groan.

“I hate you both.” But she’s smiling, the flush on her cheeks now more from laughter than embarrassment. “Go away, Sophie. Let me impress your brother with my very sophisticated cooking skills.”

“‘Sophisticated’ is a strong word for someone who organized their spice rack by emotional energy.” Sophie heads for the door, but not before calling back, “Text me later! I want a full report on his reaction to your pajama color-coding system!”

After the meeting, Emma practically bounces as we head to my office. The weight of the presentation and weeks of preparation have lifted, leaving pure elation in its wake. Her energy is infectious, and I find myself smiling just watching her.

“Did you see their faces when you announced the contract?” she asks, eyes bright with triumph. “Even Jenkins looked impressed. And Bradshaw nearly had an emotion!”

“They should be impressed.” I pull her close once we’re inside my office with the door closed, not caring who might see through the glass walls. “You transformed manufacturing processes while making their night supervisor’s lucky charm part of official protocol. That’s pretty impressive.”

“We transformed it,” she corrects, her hands resting on my lapels. “I still can’t believe you crawled under that press in your Italian suit. Three times!”

“Worth every dry cleaning bill.” I check my watch, reluctant to break this moment. “Ready to show me this mysterious apartment of yours? Sophie’s built it up quite a bit.”

Her smile turns shy, a vulnerability appearing that I don’t often see in her professional persona. “It’s not that exciting. Just... very me, I guess. But I thought maybe... it’s time.” She fidgets slightly with my tie. “Though I’m not much of a cook, I make a mean pasta sauce. Unless you’d rather—”

“I’d love to.” I’ve been curious about her space, this part of her life I haven’t seen yet. The Emma beyond work, beyond family gatherings at Sophie’s, beyond our shared professional challenges. “Though Sophie might be right about the wine. And maybe back up dinner reservations? Just in case?”

She swats my arm but doesn’t dispute the suggestion.

On our way to her place, we stop at her favorite wine shop, where she spends ten minutes explaining her system for pairing wines with pasta sauces. It’s exactly the kind of detailed analysis that made me fall for her in the first place—she approaches everything, from sustainability metrics to wine selection, with the same passionate attention to detail.

The shop owner greets her by name, confirming my suspicion that Emma has a carefully developed relationship with anyone who provides essential services—from wine merchants to office supply vendors.

“Red for the sauce,” she decides finally, selecting a bottle with the same certainty she displays when presenting market forecasts, “and white because I know you prefer it with fish. Not that I’m making fish, but I know you sometimes like white wine, regardless of the protein component.”

“You remember my wine preference?” Something about this tiny detail touches me deeply.

“I remember everything about you.” She blushed slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Professional attention to detail.”

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