9. Chapter NineLucas
Chapter Nine
Lucas
I ’ve rewritten this email six times, and it still sounds wrong.
Dear Ms. Hastings,
Your work on accelerating the Johnson integration timeline while maintaining our sustainability standards continues to exceed expectations. In recognition of the team’s efforts in advancing Project Phoenix’s development schedule, I would like to arrange…
Delete. Too formal. Like I’m writing to a stranger instead of the woman who knows exactly which movie I’ll quote before I say a word and can predict my arguments before I make them.
Emma,
Great job getting the Johnsons to consider fast-tracking the renewable energy integration. I was thinking we could celebrate beating Brighton’s timeline by...
Delete. Too casual. Too much like the old us, the ones who didn’t have Garrett’s watchful eyes monitoring every interaction for signs of “inappropriate workplace dynamics.”
Project Milestone Recognition Event To: Market Analysis Team
I groan and let my head fall against my chair, squeezing my eyes shut. When did talking to Emma become so complicated? A few weeks ago, we were trading jokes about suspicious garden gnomes while revolutionizing sustainable energy analytics. Now, I’m agonizing over email greetings like a teenager trying to ask someone to prom.
My computer pings with a new email. I open one eye to see Emma’s name in my inbox, the subject line making my pulse jump: “Revised Johnson Proposal - My Version.”
She sent it at 11:43 PM last night. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I haven’t checked my morning emails yet. Opening it, I see she’s completely restored her original document - the color-coding, the accessible language, the innovative approach that made our presentation so successful. But what catches my breath are the comments she’s added throughout.
Next to her restored section on sustainability integration: Remember when the Johnsons smiled at this slide? When Mr. Johnson said it was the first time he’d actually understood how the metrics worked together? That’s what we’re losing with corporate jargon.
Beside the timeline chart: This color-coding system helped them see the pattern immediately. The same pattern that took Brighton’s team three meetings to explain.
And at the end, a simple question that hits me like a physical blow: Do you really want to become what Brighton already is instead of being what made Walker Enterprises special in the first place?
“You look like you’re attempting rocket science.” Sophie appears in my doorway, wearing a smirk, which means she’s about to make my life more difficult. “Or trying to figure out how to talk to Emma without spontaneously combusting from repressed feelings?”
I quickly close the email, not ready to discuss Emma’s midnight manifesto with my sister. “I’m arranging a team recognition event,” I say with all the dignity I can muster. “The market analysis division has cut our implementation timeline by two months.”
“Uh-huh.” She saunters in and perches on my desk, her skepticism evident in every line of her body. “And this has nothing to do with Emma walking around looking like someone kicked her puppy since you went all Corporate Robot on her? Even the R&D team noticed. They normally don’t look up from their sustainability algorithms.”
“I haven’t—” I start to protest, then catch her knowing look. The memory of Emma’s careful formality these past days flashes through my mind - the way she skirts around me in hallways, how she keeps her eyes down during meetings, the absence of her usual enthusiastic interruptions when she has an idea. “I’m maintaining appropriate professional boundaries while we navigate a critical development phase.”
The words sound hollow even to me, and Sophie’s expression makes it clear she’s not buying it either.
“Right. Because nothing says ‘appropriate boundaries’ like staring at her office every time you walk past.”
“I do not.”
“Or reorganizing the break room so all the coffee cups are on the bottom shelf where she can reach them without stretching her tiptoes.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. I thought no one had noticed that particular adjustment. “That’s just good safety protocol.”
“Or asking me three times this morning if I thought she looked tired and whether she’s eating enough while working late on the Project Phoenix integration specs.”
I snap my mouth shut on another denial. Sophie’s right, and we both know it. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance that I’ve overcorrected, turning every interaction into a formal business exchange. And Emma...
Emma stops smiling when I enter a room. The woman who used to light up at the sight of me now looks like she’s bracing for impact whenever I approach. I did that to her with all my “corporate formality” nonsense.
“But since you’re determined to be difficult about this,” Sophie continues, pushing off my desk and heading toward the door, “I should mention that Emma’s presenting the new implementation timeline to the team in five minutes. She’s found a way to accelerate our sustainable technology integration while reducing development costs.” She pauses at the doorway. “Try not to strain anything maintaining your ‘professional distance’ while she does that adorable thing where she gets excited about revolutionizing the entire energy sector.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with an unfinished email and an uncomfortably accurate assessment of my situation. I glance back at my screen, thinking of Emma’s late-night email challenging me to remember who we really are.
Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding behind professionalism and remembered that myself.
***
I make my way down the hall to the conference room, my mind still buzzing with Emma’s email and Sophie’s observations. The usual Friday morning chaos swirls around me—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the familiar hum of a company in motion—but all I can think about is what I’m going to say when I see her.
The conference room is full when I arrive. Emma stands at the front, fiddling with her presentation remote and carefully not looking at me. She’s wearing the blue dress that matches her lucky presentation remote and her hair is doing that soft wavy thing that makes me want to run my fingers through it.
I take a seat near the back, feeling my chest tighten as I watch her prepare. Despite everything, something about seeing Emma in her element still captivates me - the focused precision as she arranges her notes, the subtle confidence beneath her nervous energy.
I’m being professional. Even if her midnight email is still burning in my mind, challenging me to remember who Walker Enterprises really is - who I really am.
“Good morning, everyone,” Emma begins, her voice only slightly wobbly. “I’ve prepared an updated timeline for the Johnson implementation, considering the board’s concerns about resource allocation and sustainable technology development schedules. By integrating our new efficiency algorithms with their existing systems...”
She clicks the remote, but nothing happens. Clicks it again. Still nothing. A familiar flush begins creeping up her neck - the same one I’ve seen countless times when technology betrays her.
“I’m so sorry, I just need to...” She presses buttons randomly, the flush intensifying. “Technology usually loves me. Well, except for that time with the copy machine.”
I’m moving before I can stop myself, crossing to the front of the room. Every step feels like a choice - a rejection of the careful distance I’ve been maintaining, and reclaiming the natural connection we’ve always had.
“May I?”
Our fingers brush as she hands over the remote, and I feel the contact like a current running straight to my core. Up close, I can see the tiny constellation of freckles across her nose and the way her eyes widen slightly when I lean in to check the battery compartment.
“You just need to...” I pop the back open, flip the batteries, and click the button. The presentation springs to life, revealing her color-coded timeline that shows exactly how we can revolutionize sustainable energy analytics months ahead of Brighton’s schedule. “There.”
“My hero,” she whispers, then blushes harder as she realizes what she’s said. “I mean, thank you, Mr. Walker. It was very helpful of you to assist with the technical difficulties.”
I hate the way she’s started second-guessing every interaction, every word. I hate the way I’ve made her feel like she needs to. I hate how the light dims in her eyes when she corrects herself, when she forces herself back into the formal box I created.
I should step back, return to my seat, and maintain an appropriate distance while she explains how she’s potentially saving our largest client and the future of sustainable technology. I should be the responsible CEO Garrett wants, focused only on numbers and professional interactions.
Instead, I say, “Just don’t try to fix it yourself this time. Remember the printer incident?”
A startled laugh escapes her. “That was one time! And I maintain that any reasonable person would assume red means power.”
“You tried to convince the IT department it was possessed.”
“It was making demon noises!”
“It was out of toner.”
We’re both grinning and it feels like old times for a moment. Like the wall I carefully constructed between us has developed a crack, letting the real us shine through. The team is watching our exchange with expressions ranging from confusion to knowing smiles.
Then, someone clears their throat, and reality crashes back in. I’m still standing too close to my head analyst in a room full of employees, smiling at her like a lovesick teenager instead of focusing on how she’s just outmaneuvered our biggest competitor.
I see the exact moment Emma remembers where we are and who’s watching. The light in her eyes dims, and she straightens her posture slightly.
I step back quickly. “Please continue, Ms. Hastings.”
The rest of the presentation goes smoothly, but I can’t focus on the implementation schedule. Instead, I watch Emma’s hands move when she explains something she’s passionate about, and her eyes light up when she talks about sustainable technology milestones. She’s brilliant and capable but terrible at pretending to be someone she’s not.
Unlike me. I’ve gotten far too good at hiding behind a professional mask, denying what I really want in service of what I think I should be.
Her midnight email’s challenge echoes in my mind: Do you really want to become what Brighton already is, instead of being what made Walker Enterprises special in the first place?
No. I don’t. I want to be the CEO who recognizes brilliance and embraces innovation, even when it comes in unconventional packages. I want to be the man who acknowledges what’s in front of him instead of hiding behind corporate jargon and appropriate distance.
Afterward, the team files out, buzzing about how our integrated sustainability platform might help us beat Brighton to the market. Emma lingers, gathering her materials. Before I can stop myself, I close the door.
“Emma.”
She looks up, startled by the use of her first name after days of formal “Ms. Hastings” exchanges. “Yes, Mr. Walker?”
“Lucas,” I correct. “Please. At least when we’re alone.”
“Oh.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I remember from when we were younger. “I thought... I mean, you’ve been very clear about maintaining professional standards, and I know the board is watching the Project Phoenix budget, and I don’t want to make things more difficult for you...”
“You don’t make things difficult.” The words come out more intensely than intended, raw with honesty. “You make things real. What you’re doing with this project, the way you see possibilities nobody else does...”
Her eyes meet mine, full of something that looks dangerously like hope. “Lucas...”
I should say more, acknowledge her midnight email, and tell her she’s right about everything, that we’re stronger together than apart. That her color-coding system isn’t just a quirk but a brilliance that translates complex data into actionable insights. That I’ve been an idiot thinking professionalism meant distance.
Instead, fear makes me retreat to safer ground.
“The team’s going out for drinks tonight,” I say quickly before I can do something unprofessional like tell her how beautiful she looked during the presentation. “To celebrate beating Brighton’s timeline. You should come.”
“Is that an official order, Mr. Walker?”
“Lucas,” I remind her. “And no, it’s... It’s just me asking you to be there. Please?”
She studies me for a long moment, her analytical mind clearly assessing what’s changed, why I’m suddenly abandoning the professional distance I’ve insisted on maintaining. “Okay. But only if you promise not to act like I’m radioactive all evening. The team needs to see that you support this accelerated development schedule.”
“Deal.” I smile, feeling something tight in my chest ease slightly. “Though maybe we should establish a safety perimeter around any beverages, just in case.”
“One time!” But she’s laughing now, real and bright in a way I haven’t seen in too long. “I only spilled one drink on you, and it was technically Sophie’s fault for telling that joke right when I was taking a sip.”
“I seem to recall my entire shirt being purple.”
“It was a good color on you!”
We’re laughing now, and I realize we’ve drifted closer together. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo and see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough that it would be so easy to just lean down and...
Someone knocks on the door, and we jump apart—time for another round of maintaining professional distance.
But maybe, that distance doesn’t have to be as cold and empty as I’ve been making it. Maybe there’s a middle ground between inappropriate workplace romance and the arctic professionalism I’ve been clinging to.
I just have to find it before I lose her completely.
***
The night air buzzes with weekend energy at O’Sullivan’s as our team claims the large corner booth. Three hours into our celebration, I’m questioning every decision that led to this moment—precisely the seating arrangement that puts Emma right next to me. For efficiency in reviewing implementation schedules, I’d said. Professional reasons.
There’s nothing professional about how her thigh keeps brushing mine every time she reaches for her drink, sending sparks through me that have nothing to do with static and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been this close to her in days.
The bar’s familiar atmosphere—dark wood, soft lighting, and the faint mix of spilled beer and fresh lemon polish—creates an intimacy that office conference rooms can’t match. The team is relaxed, celebratory, and excited about beating Brighton’s timeline. And Emma...Emma’s slowly unfurling again, the stiff formality melting away with each laugh.
“To beating Brighton’s integration timeline!” Mike from R&D raises his glass, his enthusiasm making the ice clink. “And to Emma’s color-coded sustainability matrices!”
“Don’t encourage her,” Natalie laughs, nudging Emma’s shoulder. “She’ll start color-coding the bar menu next.”
“Actually,” Emma starts, pulling out her phone, that familiar spark of enthusiasm lighting her eyes, “if we organized drink orders by efficiency metrics—”
Before I can think better, I cover her hand with mine and lower the phone. “Maybe we should save the organizational strategies for Monday?” The touch sends a jolt up my arm, and I know I should pull away. Maintain distance. Stay professional.
I don’t.
“A bit reckless of me,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes. “Mixing drinks and data analysis.”
“Not reckless, just enthusiastic.” The words slip out before I can stop them, my fingers lingering on hers for a moment too long. “It’s one of the things I—the company—values most about you.”
I catch myself, but the slip feels significant. A crack in the CEO mask I’ve been wearing so carefully. Emma notices, her eyes widening slightly before a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
“Speaking of enthusiastic,” Natalie cuts in with a knowing smirk, “remember that time Emma tried to explain market segmentation to the board after three espressos?”
“They had to play the recording at half speed,” I grin, turning toward the group but letting my shoulder press against Emma’s. “Though not as memorable as the printer incident.”
“That was one time!” Emma protests and the familiar indignation in her voice makes my heart ache with how much I’ve missed this – missed us, the easy way we’ve always fit together. “And it really was making demon noises.”
“It was out of toner.”
“Because demons stole it.”
Her laugh vibrates through where our shoulders touch, and for a moment, I forget why I’ve been keeping my distance. Forget about the board, professional boundaries, and everything else, except how right this feels. How natural. How much better both of us are when we’re not hiding behind corporate masks.
The team tells stories of past project victories and office mishaps, and with each passing minute, Emma and I drift closer together, both physically and emotionally. When Mike mentions Brighton’s latest PR disaster—the botched product launch that made headlines a few months ago—Emma and I exchange a knowing glance, remembering how we’d predicted that exact outcome over late-night spreadsheets two years ago.
Her thigh brushes mine when she reaches for her glass, and neither of us pulls away. The contact lingers, deliberate in its casualness.
I notice a pattern forming: whenever someone mentions Project Phoenix, her eyes find mine, that silent communication we’ve always had returning with startling ease. It’s our old shorthand—the raised eyebrow when Thompson exaggerates his role, the subtle eye-roll when marketing concerns are brought up for the third time. We’re finishing each other’s thoughts before they’re spoken, anticipating objections before they’re raised.
Two years of absence falls away in minutes, our professional synchronicity revealing what neither of us has acknowledged aloud—that some partnerships can’t be replicated, no matter how long you spend running from them.
For a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded bar, and that there’s a world outside the bubble we’ve created. I’m leaning in, drawn by the magnetism that’s always existed between us, when—
“Lucas?”
The voice hits like ice water. I look up to find Clara Brighton standing at our table, stunning in a slate-gray designer dress that probably costs more than the bar’s monthly revenue. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a severe knot that matches her calculating expression—everything about her radiates polished corporate power.
My ex-girlfriend from New York and current VP of Brighton Analytics. Two years of carefully buried history resurface in an instant.
“Clara. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes flick to where Emma and I are touching, then back to me with practiced precision. “I stopped by your office earlier, but your assistant said you were out celebrating.”
I shift away from Emma slightly, hating myself for the automatic response but unable to stop the instinctive retreat. Two years of Clara’s manipulations have conditioned me well. “Team recognition event. The market analysis division has exceeded expectations on our implementation timeline.”
“How efficient.” Clara’s smile is as sharp as glass. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected, given your personal investment in the department’s success.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air, poisoning our easy atmosphere. Emma tenses beside me, and I see the rest of the team watching this collision of past and present like a slow-motion car crash.
“Brighton Analytics has always appreciated Emma’s innovative approach,” Clara continues, each word as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Our board was just discussing opportunities that might better suit her unique qualities.”
My hands clench under the table, nails digging into my palms. The idea of Emma at Brighton, of losing her to our biggest competitor—
“I’m quite happy at Walker Enterprises,” Emma says, her voice steadier than I expected. “Our sustainable technology integration is—”
“Revolutionary. So I’ve heard.” Clara’s laugh is pure Manhattan society parties and corporate power plays. “Though I wonder if the board shares your enthusiasm. Especially given certain personal complications.”
“Clara.” I put every ounce of CEO authority into my voice, the same tone I used when shutting down hostile takeover attempts at Matthews & Sterling. “This isn’t the place.”
“No?” She arches a perfect eyebrow. “I thought you enjoyed mixing business with pleasure. You certainly did in New York.”
The deliberate hit lands perfectly. I see the exact moment Emma processes the implication, the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders. In one calculated sentence, Clara has implied that Emma and I have crossed professional lines and that I have a history of doing so.
Emma stands abruptly, her drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “I need some air.”
“Emma—” I start to rise, reaching for her instinctively.
“Don’t.” The word cuts like a blade, and her eyes suddenly shutter. “Wouldn’t want to complicate things further.”
I watch Emma push through the door, Clara’s satisfied smile burning into my periphery. The team awkwardly returns to their conversations, but the damage is done. Everything I’ve been trying to protect—Emma’s reputation, professional standing, and brilliant ideas being taken seriously—is crumbling because of my past choices. Or maybe it was because I tried to maintain too much distance, creating a fracture that Clara could easily exploit.
“Well,” Clara says softly, “some things never change, do they, Lucas? Still letting personal feelings cloud your judgment.”
Her words hit their mark, but instead of the shame she intended, I feel something else rising—determination. I’ve spent two years running from confrontations, and where has it gotten me?
Personal feelings aren’t clouding my judgment—they’re finally clearing it.
I’ve spent weeks trying to be the CEO I thought the board wanted, maintaining “appropriate professional boundaries” at the cost of everything that made Walker Enterprises special – the creativity, personal connections, and innovative approaches born from authentic collaborations.
“Excuse me,” I tell Clara, not bothering to soften the edge in my voice. “We’ll have to catch up another time.”
I leave her standing there, surprised by my abrupt departure. It’s probably bad business etiquette and definitely poor strategy, given Brighton’s influence, but for once, I don’t care about the optics.
The bar’s warmth gives way to the cool night as I push through the door. Music and laughter fade behind me, replaced by distant traffic and the gentle rustle of wind through nearby trees. My heart pounds, not from the confrontation with Clara, but from the fear that I’ve waited too long—that Emma might already be gone.
I scan the street for a moment, relief washing over me when I spot her.
Emma stands on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself despite the mild evening. Her back is to the bar, face tilted toward the sliver of the moon visible between buildings. She looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen—the brilliant analyst who confidently challenges boardrooms suddenly small under the vast night sky.
I approach slowly, giving her time to notice me, to walk away if that’s what she wants. But she remains, her posture softening just slightly as I draw near.
“Emma, wait. About earlier, in the conference room…” My voice is steadier than I feel.
“It’s fine.” She turns, and the careful distance in her voice breaks something in my core. “Very unprofessional of us to almost... while discussing why we must maintain appropriate boundaries.”
“Appropriate boundaries.” The words taste bitter, like everything I’ve been using to hide behind. “Is that really what you want?”
“I... what?”
I step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between us, close enough to see the confusion in her eyes, the hurt I put there with all my careful distance. The world narrows to just this moment, just us, standing in the glow of a streetlight with the distant hum of the bar behind us.
“Because I’m finding it hard to keep my distance when all I can think about is how much I want to—”
The kiss isn’t polished, professional, or CEO-appropriate. It’s desperate, messy, and perfect. My hands cup her face like she’s something precious, while her fingers clutch my shirt. There’s no board, patent challenges, professional boundaries, or Clara Brighton, with her knowing smiles and our shared history for one glorious moment. It’s just us.
Emma’s lips are soft against mine, her body fitting against me exactly as I’d imagined in all the moments I pretended not to notice her. The scent of her perfume surrounds me, familiar and intoxicating. I pour everything I can’t say into the kiss – apology for my distance, gratitude for her brilliance, hope for something more than professional collaboration.
A dog barks sharply nearby, shattering the moment. Reality crashes back in—the board, the company’s future, everything I could be risking with this impulsive act.
I step back, horror dawning as I realize what I’ve done. The streetlight casts long shadows across Emma’s face, making her expression unreadable. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes wide with surprise. I can’t tell if she’s shocked or angry or something else entirely.
“Emma, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have... that was completely inappropriate.” The words tumble out in a panicked rush. “I’m sorry.”
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? Relief? I can’t tell. And I’m suddenly terrified to find out.
Instead of waiting for her response, I turn and quickly walk back toward the bar, shame, and confusion warring with the lingering sensation of her lips on mine. What was I thinking? After weeks of carefully maintaining distance, I threw everything away in an impulsive kiss.
I catch Clara’s satisfied expression through the window as I approach the door. She came here to prove I’m still the impulsive CEO who lets personal feelings override judgment.
She’s wrong.
But I might have just proved her right, anyway.
And the worst part? For that one perfect moment when Emma was in my arms, I didn’t care.