6. Chapter SixEmma
Chapter Six
Emma
F ive hours and forty-three minutes until the Johnson presentation, and I can’t stop staring at Lucas’s forearms.
He’s rolled up his sleeves while we work, revealing tanned skin and defined muscles as he reaches across my desk to point out something in the sustainability metrics. The professional part of my brain says I should focus on his words. The rest of my brain wonders if he still works out at that gym near the lake where I used to “accidentally” run past.
I remember the first time I took that running route. Sophie had mentioned her brother’s workout schedule, and suddenly, I’d developed a deep interest in lakeside trail running. The memory of twenty-three-year-old Lucas doing pull-ups, completely oblivious to my repeated passes, makes my cheeks heat.
“Emma?” His voice breaks through my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said about the integration timeline?”
“Six months to full implementation,” I say automatically, grateful that my brain retained information while the rest of me was distracted. “With immediate results in their key divisions within—”
We both reach for the sustainability report at the same moment, our fingers brushing as we grab opposite corners of the file. Static electricity crackles between us.
Or maybe that’s just us.
Lucas pulls back like he’s been shocked, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He’s been doing that all morning, and it’s not helping my concentration. Every time those fingers rake through dark waves, I remember how close we came to kissing at his father’s retirement party. How his hands framed my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek as he pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes had darkened just before a voice called everyone inside for James Walker’s announcement.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he suggests, his voice rougher than usual. “Clear our heads before—”
“No time.” I force myself to focus on the presentation materials spread across my desk, willing my heart to slow down. “Garrett moved up the timeline specifically to throw us off balance. We can’t let him win.”
Lucas moves behind my chair to read over my shoulder, and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of his presence. His cologne—something expensive and woodsy that wasn’t part of his college wardrobe—mingles with coffee and printer ink. His breath stirs the loose strands of hair at my neck.
“These projections are impressive,” he murmurs. “The way you’ve integrated their historical data with our sustainability framework...”
“I had an excellent teacher.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Someone who used to help me practice presentations until 3 AM, usually with pizza and terrible jokes about market trends.”
His hands settle on the back of my chair, close enough that I feel their warmth but not quite touching my shoulders. “As I recall, you were the one with the terrible jokes. Something about supply and demand walking into a bar?”
“That joke was hilarious, and you know it.” I spin my chair to face him, forgetting how close he is, until I tilt my head. The movement brings us inches apart.
“Emma.” My name sounds different when he says it like that, low and almost reverent. His gaze drops to my lips for a moment before snapping back up, and the air between us seems to crackle with unspoken energy.
A knock at my office door makes us both jump. Natalie stands there, eyebrows raised at our proximity, a knowing smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“The Johnsons are here,” she announces. “Early.”
Lucas straightens, CEO mask sliding into place so quickly I can almost hear it click. “How early?”
“Now early. Garrett’s already escorting them to the conference room.”
Of course, he is. Apparently, five hours and forty-three minutes was too much preparation time for our ambush presentation. I glance at my desk, seeing the chaos through a client’s eyes: colorful sticky notes creating a rainbow across my models, three empty coffee cups (all with lipstick marks at different angles), and the half-eaten protein bar I’d forgotten about.
“We can do this,” Lucas says quietly as we gather our materials, his confidence steadying my nerves. “Your strategy is solid. The integration timeline is revolutionary. They’d be crazy not to—” He stops as I straighten his tie, my fingers smoothing the silk against his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath.
“For luck,” I whisper, ignoring how my hands shake slightly. “Though maybe keep your jacket on this time. Unlike the swimming pool incident.”
His laugh sounds strained, but warmth replaces the tension in his eyes. “That was one time.”
“It was three times, but who’s counting?” I step back before I can do something stupid like press my palms flat against his chest to feel his heartbeat. “Ready to revolutionize sustainable energy analytics?”
“With you? Always.”
As we head for the conference room, the words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
Professional. We need to stay professional. Even if his arm brushes mine with every step, sending sparks through my entire body. Even if I can still feel the phantom warmth of his hands near my shoulders. Even if—
“Ms. Hastings.” Garrett’s voice cuts through my thoughts with surgical precision. “So glad you could join us. The Johnsons were just asking about Walker’s latest technology offering.”
Game time.
I square my shoulders and step into the conference room, very aware of Lucas right behind me. His presence feels like a shield and a livewire all at once.
The Johnsons sit at the far end of the table – Jeremy in his customary gray suit, looking more like his father each time I see him, and Elaine beside him, elegant as always with her calculating gaze that misses nothing. The tension in their postures tells me Brighton has already made a compelling offer.
“Actually,” I say, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster, “I’d love to discuss technology integration. Specifically, how Walker Enterprises is about to revolutionize sustainable analytics in a way Brighton can only dream of.”
Time to prove that professional brilliance and personal chemistry aren’t mutually exclusive. Even if maintaining that professional distance is getting harder by the minute.
Mr. Johnson leans back in his chair, fixing me with a skeptical look. “Brighton’s offering immediate integration. You’re asking us to wait six months for an untested system?”
“I’m asking you to be part of something revolutionary.” I pull up our prototype interface, hyper-aware of Lucas moving to stand beside me. His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches for the remote, and I force myself to focus on the projections instead of how perfectly we still fit together, even after two years apart.
“Look at these sustainability metrics,” Lucas adds, his voice steady despite our proximity. “Emma’s approach doesn’t just process data faster—it understands your unique workflows. The same workflows your father built with my father.”
I click to the next slide, picking up his thread seamlessly. “Brighton’s AI is impressive, but it’s generic. Our system learns from twenty years of relationship history. Your specific needs drive the development of every efficiency algorithm and environmental checkpoint.”
As we present, I feel the rhythm we always had, the natural give-and-take that made our college study sessions so effective. I’d start an idea; he’d expand it. He’d identify a problem; I’d find the solution. Separate, we were good. Together, we were unstoppable.
“The custom dashboard,” Lucas continues, leaning closer to point out key features, “integrates your historical data with real-time analytics. Something Brighton can’t match because they don’t have your institutional knowledge.”
Mr. Johnson drums his fingers on the table. “And you do?”
“Better.” I pull up the implementation timeline, proud that my hands don’t shake despite Lucas’s warmth at my side. “We understand it. Your night shift supervisor who developed that brilliant shorthand for tracking materials efficiency? We’ve built that into the system. The way your loading dock team coordinates green energy initiatives? It’s part of our automated protocols.”
“What Emma means,” Lucas interjects smoothly, “is that we’re not just selling you technology. We’re offering a partnership that honors your company’s legacy while revolutionizing its future.”
I risk a glance at him, finding his eyes already on me. For a moment, I forget we’re in the middle of the most important presentation of our careers. All I can think about is how he still finishes my sentences, knows exactly when to step in, and still makes me feel like I could conquer the world just by believing in me.
Mrs. Johnson clears her throat, her gaze moving between us with shrewd assessment. “This is all very impressive, but Brighton’s offering guaranteed board seats. What can Walker Enterprises offer to match that level of commitment?”
“Something better.” The words come out before I can second-guess them. “We’re offering you the chance to shape the future of sustainable technology. Not just as board members, but as true innovation partners.”
Lucas’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying me as I lean forward to pull up our final projections. The touch is barely there, probably unconscious on his part, but it sends a wave of warmth up my spine. I’m instantly transported back to all the times he’d steadied me the same way – when I’d tripped at his sister’s graduation party, when I’d wobbled after too many celebratory drinks at the company Christmas party, when I’d nearly fallen from the stage after winning an industry award.
“Every major advancement in sustainable energy analytics,” I continue, grateful my voice stays steady, “has come from companies willing to take risks on innovation. Brighton’s playing it safe with generic AI. We’re betting on something bigger.” I turn to face the Johnsons directly. “We’re betting on you.”
The room falls silent except for the hum of the projector. Lucas’s hand is still at my back, burning through my blazer. Mr. Johnson studies us both for a long moment.
“You really believe in this, don’t you?” he asks finally, his expression softening slightly.
“With everything I am,” I say softly, and I’m not sure if I’m talking about the project, the man beside me, or both.
“Jeremy.” Mrs. Johnson touches her husband’s arm, her polished demeanor revealing a glimpse of genuine interest. “Remember what your father used to say about Walker Enterprises? That they were the only ones who saw past quarterly profits to what mattered?”
“The people behind the numbers,” Mr. Johnson murmurs. His eyes move between Lucas and me, something knowing in his expression. “Well, Ms. Hastings, Mr. Walker. You’ve certainly given us something to think about.”
“We’ll need to review the technical specifications,” Mrs. Johnson adds, straightening her elegant silk scarf, “but I must say, your passion for sustainable innovation is compelling.”
As they gather their things, my legs start to shake from the combination of adrenaline crash and relief. Lucas’s hand slides from my back to my elbow, supporting me under the guise of helping gather presentation materials.
“Breathe,” he whispers, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “You were incredible.”
I turn to face him, forgetting about professional distance and appropriate workplace behavior. “We were incredible. The way you knew exactly when to—”
“Ms. Hastings.” Garrett’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. “A word about those implementation timelines?”
Lucas’s hand drops from my elbow. The mask of professional detachment slides back over his features, but not before I catch something that looks like regret in his eyes.
“We should...” I gesture vaguely at the scattered presentation materials.
“Right.” He steps back, putting appropriate distance between us. “A well-prepared presentation, Ms. Hastings. The board will be impressed.”
The board. Right. Because tomorrow, they vote on Project Phoenix’s future. On our future, in more ways than one.
I gather my papers, my elbow still warm where his hand had been. We might have just saved the company’s biggest account, proved our innovation strategy works, and showed everyone that we make an unstoppable team.
So why does it feel like we just lost something crucial in the process?
“Emma?” Lucas pauses at the door, his expression unreadable. “Thank you. For believing in this. In us—in the company, I mean.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with scattered papers, racing thoughts, and the lingering warmth of his hand on my back.
Professional. We need to stay professional.
Even if it kills me.
***
The office has quieted to a late afternoon hush as I stare at the email from the Johnsons, the words blurring together after my twentieth read:
Impressive presentation... innovative approach... discussing internally... decision by the end of the week...
I’ve analyzed each word choice for hidden meaning like it’s a coded message rather than a standard post-meeting courtesy. I’d feel pathetic except that I’ve built my entire career on finding patterns others miss.
“Earth to Emma!” Natalie appears in my doorway with two cups of coffee. “I’ve been watching you read that email for ten minutes. The words aren’t going to change.”
“They might.” I accept the coffee gratefully. “Maybe if I stare hard enough, ‘discussing internally’ will transform into ‘absolutely yes, please revolutionize our sustainable analytics immediately.’”
“Pretty sure that’s not how emails work.” She perches on my desk. “Though, based on what I heard, you didn’t need any email magic. You and Lucas were quite the dynamic duo.”
I try not to think about his hand on my back, his breath on my ear, the way we moved in perfect sync. “We were professional.”
“Uh-huh.” Natalie’s grin spreads slowly, knowingly. “So professional that Mrs. Johnson asked Sophie if you two were engaged.”
“She what?” I nearly choke on my coffee.
“Something about the way you finish each other’s sentences. And how he looks at you when you’re talking about sustainability metrics.”
“He does not—”
“Like you hung all the stars in the sky? Yeah, he does.”
I remember the exact moment at James Walker’s retirement party when Lucas had looked at me that way. We’d been discussing my ideas for what would become Project Phoenix, and I’d been gesturing wildly with a champagne glass while explaining the potential market applications. He’d watched me with an expression I couldn’t quite define – like wonder mixed with something deeper, more personal. Then he’d led me to the balcony, away from the crowd, and said there was something he needed to tell me.
“It’s not...” I trail off as my phone pings with a new message from Lucas:
Excellent work today. It was a very impressive presentation. The board meets at 9 AM tomorrow to vote on Project Phoenix funding. Please have the final numbers ready.
My heart sinks. Even his texts sound like they’ve been vetted by corporate HR. The warmth from our presentation has vanished, replaced with cold professionalism.
“Oh, honey.” Natalie reads the message over my shoulder. “Men are idiots. Especially CEOs who think being icy will somehow make them better leaders.”
“It’s fine.” I set my phone face-down. “He’s right. We need to stay professional. The board votes tomorrow, the Johnsons are still deciding, and Brighton’s probably already plotting their next move. Personal feelings would complicate everything.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Before I can respond, Sophie breezes in, bringing her signature energy into the room. “Just had a fascinating chat with Mrs. Johnson. Apparently, you two were, and I quote, ‘absolutely electric.’ Though she seemed concerned that your obvious chemistry might affect business decisions.”
“We don’t have—it’s not—” I sputter, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
“Save it for someone who didn’t spend two years watching you pine over my brother’s LinkedIn updates.” She drops into my visitor chair, crossing her legs decisively. “Though I have to say, his current ‘strictly professional’ act is new. Usually, he’s better at hiding his feelings.”
“He’s not hiding anything,” I protest. “He’s being a responsible CEO who—”
My phone pings again. Another message from Lucas:
The tie you straightened earlier? Just noticed there’s a coffee stain. Thought you’d appreciate the irony.
A more personal message. Almost like old times. My heart lifts as I start typing a response, fingers flying across the screen. Then his next text arrives:
Apologies. That was inappropriate. See you at tomorrow’s board meeting, Ms. Hastings.
And just like that, the wall comes back up. Professional distance restored. The emotional whiplash leaves me momentarily speechless.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sophie reads over my shoulder, her voice rising with indignation. “I’m going to kill him. Slowly. With one of your color-coded reports.”
“Don’t. He’s right.” I set the phone down with forced calm. “Tomorrow’s vote determines Project Phoenix’s future. The company’s future. We can’t let personal complications get in the way.”
“Emma.” Natalie’s voice softens. “The Johnsons didn’t just love your technical innovation. They loved how you and Lucas work together. How you balance each other. How you make each other better.”
“Which is exactly why we need to keep things professional.” I start gathering the scattered presentation materials, needing to move, to do something with the nervous energy building inside me. “The board already thinks he’s letting personal feelings influence business decisions. If they believe our relationship—our working relationship—is clouding his judgment...”
“Then what?” Sophie challenges. “They’ll somehow miss how brilliant you are? How perfectly you and Lucas complement each other, personally and professionally? How your ideas could revolutionize the entire industry?”
“They’ll use it against us.” The words come out small. “Like Garrett’s already trying to do.”
My computer pings with a new email. From Lucas, copied to the entire board:
Excellent presentation today by Ms. Hastings. Her innovative approach to sustainable analytics demonstrates the kind of forward-thinking leadership Walker Enterprises needs. I look forward to tomorrow’s vote on Project Phoenix funding.
“Well,” Sophie says after a moment. “I guess we know what side of the professional-personal fence my idiot brother has chosen.”
“Please don’t call him an idiot.”
“Emma, for real, are you okay with his behavior?”
I stare at the email, at the careful distance in every word. At how thoroughly he’s drawn the line between CEO and whatever we almost were. The worst part is that I understand why he’s doing it. I’ve seen the way Garrett watches us, calculating how to use any personal connection against Lucas’s leadership.
“It’s fine,” I say again, even as my heart aches. “We have bigger things to worry about. The board vote, the Johnsons’ decision, Brighton’s next move...”
“Emma.” Natalie places her hand over mine. “It’s okay to want both. A flourishing career and personal happiness aren’t mutually exclusive.”
But maybe, for some of us, they have to be.
I open the Project Phoenix files, losing myself in sustainability metrics and implementation timelines. Numbers don’t get complicated. They don’t send mixed signals, maintain icy distances, or make your heart race with a single touch.
They also don’t look at you like you hung the stars, then pretend they don’t feel the connection every time you’re near.
Tomorrow, the board votes on my vision for the company’s future. I can’t let personal feelings complicate that. I can’t let this ache in my chest distract me from everything we’ve worked for.
Even if every email and every careful interaction feels like losing him again.
My phone lights up with one final message from Lucas:
The Johnsons would be crazy not to see how amazing you are. I mean, how amazing your ideas are. Sorry. Good luck tomorrow, Ms. Hastings.
I don’t respond. Don’t tell him that keeping our distance won’t make the electricity between us less real. Don’t mention how his hand felt on my back, how perfectly we still fit together, or how being professional is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Instead, I turn back to my sustainability metrics. At least numbers never try to pretend they don’t care.
Even when everyone knows they do.