10. Chapter TenEmma
Chapter Ten
Emma
I ’m still thinking about last night’s kiss.
Not that I should be. It was completely inappropriate, totally unexpected, and absolutely not something I should be replaying in my mind while standing on Sophie’s doorstep with my favorite merlot. Yet here I am, lost in the memory.
The moment returns with startling clarity—the cool night air, the distant sounds of O’Sullivan’s behind us, Lucas stepping forward with determination in his eyes. His lips, both soft and insistent against mine, making my knees weak and my mind blank. His hands trembling slightly against my skin, betraying that beneath his decisive action was the same nervousness I felt.
And then how quickly it had ended. His face shifted from desire to horror before he muttered apologies and fled, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, fingertips pressed to my lips in disbelief.
You’re coming to dinner tonight, right? Sophie had texted this morning. Lucas stress-cooks when overthinking things, and he’s planning on making enough food for an army tonight at my place. Bring wine. You can thank me later.
I’d known immediately what she was doing—arranging for us to meet on neutral ground, away from office politics and professional boundaries. I hadn’t expected the flutter of nerves in my stomach as I contemplate seeing him again.
I shift the wine bottle from one hand to the other, then back again. Smooth the invisible wrinkles from my casual sweater for the fifth time. Twice, I’ve raised my hand to knock, then lowered it again, rehearsing potential opening lines:
So, about that kiss... Let’s pretend it never happened.
Or: That was some kiss. Want to try again?
Or maybe: We need to establish clear ground rules before I fall completely in love with you.
None of these options seems right. How do you address something that felt simultaneously so momentous and so fragile?
“Are you going to stand there all night?” Sophie pulls the door open before I can knock. “Or are you trying to communicate with my doorbell via telepathy?”
“I was thinking.”
“About my brother’s kiss at O’Sullivan’s?”
I nearly drop the wine, a flush creeping up my neck. “How did you—”
“Natalie texted me. Also, you have that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘Lucas Walker kissed me senseless, and now I don’t know whether to swoon or hide in the supply closet’ look.” She takes my wine, ushering me inside. “It’s very similar to the look you had when you were a freshman and my twenty-year-old brother taught you to drive stick shift.”
That memory makes me grimace. Back then, Lucas—a junior in college and already interning at Walker Enterprises—had patiently shown seventeen-year-old me how to work the clutch of his beloved first car, his hand covering mine on the gearshift, both of us pretending not to notice the electricity between us. “That’s when you know to shift,” he’d said, voice suddenly husky. “When you feel that vibration.”
“I did not—” I stop short in the kitchen doorway, all protests dying in my throat.
There he is. His sleeves rolled up as he stirs something that smells amazing, wearing jeans and a soft gray henley that transforms him from polished CEO to the guy who used to sneak me extra cookies during high school study sessions. His hair is slightly disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it—a nervous habit I’ve witnessed since his college days.
The domesticity of the scene catches me off guard. I’ve seen Lucas in boardrooms, formal events, and even casual gatherings, but rarely like this. Relaxed. At home. Being himself without an audience to impress or a role to play.
“Emma.” He looks up, spoon freezing mid-stir. “I didn’t... Sophie didn’t mention...”
“Surprise!” Sophie chirps, not even trying to hide her matchmaking grin. “Since you’re both hopeless at talking about anything that matters at the office, I figured neutral territory might help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take this excellent wine—” she grabs a bottle from her counter “—and be somewhere else for at least an hour. Try not to burn down my kitchen while figuring out your feelings.”
“That was one time!” Lucas and I say in unison, then catch each other’s eyes and laugh.
Just like that, the tension breaks. A shared memory flickers between us:
Sophie’s twenty-second birthday, four years ago. The three of us in the Walker kitchen, attempting to make flambéed bananas for her celebration cake. Lucas had come home for the weekend from his final year of business school. I remember how he kept stealing glances at me instead of watching the pan (something Sophie later teased him about relentlessly). Following Sophie’s enthusiastic encouragement, I’d poured far too much rum into the mixture.
“A little more,” Sophie had insisted, grinning. “It needs to really flame.”
And flame it did. The resulting fireball had licked the kitchen ceiling, leaving a permanent scorch mark that James Walker had simply shaken his head at. We’d ended up ordering takeout and eating it on the floor of the kitchen while Sophie declared it her “best birthday ever”—not despite the disaster but because of it.
That night had crystallized our bond, the three of us laughing until our sides hurt, still smelling of smoke and singed hair. It was the first time I’d felt like I truly belonged with the Walkers, not just as Sophie’s friend or the promising intern, but as someone who mattered to them all—especially to Lucas.
I move to the counter, inhaling deeply. “Whatever you’re making smells incredible.”
“Mom’s marinara recipe.” He adds a pinch of something to the pot. “I always make it when I need to think. Something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, getting all the timing right.”
“Like organizing sustainability metrics?” I tease gently.
His smile reaches his eyes in a way I haven’t seen at the office in weeks. “Something like that.” He hesitates, then adds, “I didn’t know Sophie invited you. Not that I’m not glad she did, but if this is awkward after last night...”
“You mean after you kissed me senseless and then ran away?”
The spoon clatters against the pot. “Emma—”
“I’m not sorry it happened,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before my courage fails. “Even if the timing was terrible and Clara’s appearance complicated everything and—”
“I’m not sorry either.” He turns to face me fully, his expression open in a way it hasn’t been since he returned. “About the kiss. I’m sorry about running away. And about maintaining professional distance all week when all I really wanted...”
He trails off, but his eyes drop to my lips, and suddenly, the kitchen feels very warm. The simmering sauce, the lingering scent of garlic and herbs, his proximity—all of it wraps around us like a cocoon, separating us from the outside world and its complications.
“What did you want?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
Instead of answering, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger, tracing down my cheek. “You have flour on your nose.”
“I do not. I haven’t even touched anything yet.”
“Still finding trouble in unlikely places.” His thumb brushes across my nose, and my pulse quickens at his touch. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do.” I step closer, drawn by the genuine warmth in his eyes, the Lucas I remember shining through without the CEO mask he’s been wearing. “Like how you don’t have to maintain professional distance here. No board members watching, no competitors lurking, just...”
“Just us,” he finishes softly.
This kiss is different from last night’s desperate connection. Where that one was fueled by frustration and defiance, this one is slow, sweet, full of years of almost-moments and missed chances. His hands frame my face like I’m something precious while mine find their way into his hair—something I’ve wanted to do since he came back. He tastes like the sauce he’s been sampling, rich, warm, and perfect.
When we part, he keeps me close, pressing his forehead to mine. “I’ve missed you. Not just since last night. Since I left for New York. Every success, every achievement felt hollow because I couldn’t share it with you.”
The confession catches me off guard with its rawness, its vulnerability. This is the Lucas I’ve been waiting to see again—the one who says what he means, who doesn’t hide behind corporate jargon or professional distance.
“I kept your jersey,” I confess in return, offering my own vulnerability. “The blue one from your senior year baseball team. It’s tucked in my drawer between sustainability journals.”
His laugh rumbles through where our chests touch. “I know. Sophie mentioned you sleep in it sometimes.”
“I’m going to kill her.” The threat lacks any real heat.
“Don’t.” His eyes soften. “I like knowing some part of me stayed with you.” He kisses me again, quick and sweet. “Even if it was just ratty baseball gear.”
A timer dings, making us both jump. Lucas curses and rushes to rescue a pan of garlic bread from the oven. The moment breaks, but the connection between us remains—a tangible thread spanning the distance between us.
“Still a hero,” I tease, remembering all the times he’s saved me from office disasters. “Even in the kitchen.”
“Only for you.” He sets the bread aside and pulls me back into his arms, as if he can’t bear to maintain distance even to save dinner. “Though maybe we should establish a safety perimeter around open flames.”
“That fire was Sophie’s fault! She’s the one who said flambé was just fancy French for ‘add more brandy.’”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, and I feel that familiar tug in my chest—the one that’s been there since he returned. Here, in Sophie’s kitchen with sauce bubbling and bread cooling and no professional boundaries between us, everything feels possible.
I study his face, noting the differences from the Lucas I used to know. The slight creases around his eyes, the sharper definition of his jaw, the confidence that comes from proving himself in New York. But also the familiar crooked smile, the way one corner of his mouth lifts slightly higher, the dimple that appears only when he laughs without restraint.
“Stay for dinner?” he asks softly.
“Is that a professional invitation, Mr. Walker?”
“Not even slightly, Ms. Hastings.” He steals another kiss. “Though I wouldn’t mind hearing what other rules you’d like to break.”
From somewhere in the house, Sophie yells, “The food better not be burning! And the wine I took was the good stuff, so you two better be making progress on all this unresolved tension!”
We break apart laughing, and Lucas returns to his sauce while I set the table, falling into an easy rhythm together. I’ve never been domestic—my apartment is a chaotic mix of sustainability journals, takeout containers, and half-started organizational projects—but with Lucas, setting a simple table feels significant. Like we’re building something together, one small action at a time.
“You know,” I say as I fold napkins, trying to shape them into perfect triangles and failing, “we still haven’t talked about what this means. For work, for us, for—”
“Emma.” He catches my hand, stilling my nervous folding. “Can we just... be here? Now? No work, no complications, just us figuring out what we want?”
I look at him—really look at him. At the boy who taught me to drive stick shift when I was in high school and he was home from college, and the man who came back to prove himself. At someone who makes me feel both chaos and calm, both brilliant and safe. Someone who sees my color-coding obsession and klutzy moments not as flaws but as endearing parts of me.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Just us.”
His answering smile is worth every professional boundary we’re breaking.
We work in comfortable silence, me setting the table while Lucas finishes dinner. It feels natural like we’ve been doing this for years instead of dancing around each other at the office.
“This reminds me of that summer before you left,” I say, folding another napkin. “When everything seemed simpler.”
Two summers ago, just after I’d graduated and started full time at Walker Enterprises. Lucas was already VP of Operations, but he’d made time to help me settle in. After discovering my diet consisted mainly of ramen and cereal, he’d insisted on teaching me basic cooking skills. We’d spent weekend afternoons in his kitchen, progressing from scrambled eggs to actual meals. I’d watched his confident movements, memorizing not just recipes but the way his hands moved and how he bit his lip when concentrating.
“You weren’t that bad.” His lips twitch with amusement. “Though maybe stay away from flambé techniques.”
“That fire was—”
“Sophie’s fault, I know.” He turns down the heat under the sauce, then faces me. “We had a lot of good moments that summer. Before I left.”
Something in his voice makes me look up. He’s watching me with an expression that sends a flutter through my chest—a mixture of regret and hope that makes my breath catch.
“I was thinking,” he says quietly, “about taking a drive out to the lake this weekend. After everything settles with Brighton’s claims. For old times’ sake.”
My heart skips—not just a flutter, but a full gymnastic routine.
The lake. Where we spent countless summer days throughout the years. Where he taught me to skip stones while I convinced him to appreciate cloud shapes. Where we had our first almost-kiss, interrupted by his father’s call. Where everything important between us seemed to happen.
The memory of that day remains crystal clear—two summers ago, just weeks before he left for New York. The afternoon sun warming my skin, water gently lapping against the shore, Lucas sitting close beside me on the dock. How he’d turned to say something and stopped, his eyes dropping to my lips. How slowly he’d leaned in, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. How I’d leaned in too, eyes fluttering closed, only to jump apart at the sound of his phone ringing with his father’s call. The awkward laugh we’d shared afterward, neither acknowledging what had almost happened.
“You should come,” he adds softly. “If you want. Away from the office, expectations... just us.”
“Is that a professional invitation, Mr. Walker?” But my voice trembles slightly.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Not even slightly, Emma.” He steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Though, if you want to bring your sustainability journals to discuss revolutionary energy solutions under the oak tree...”
“The same oak tree where you used to help me study when I was in high school?” I’m aiming for teasing, but it comes out breathless. “Very smooth.”
“I have my moments.” His thumb traces my cheek, sending shivers down my spine. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” I lean into his touch. “Though maybe this time we won’t let any phone calls interrupt.”
Understanding flashes in his eyes—he remembers that almost-kiss, too. The moment hangs between us, full of promise and possibility.
Before he can respond, Sophie’s voice carries from somewhere in the house:
“If you two are done making eyes at each other, dinner’s getting cold! And yes, I heard about the lake plans. Try not to fall in this time!”
We break apart laughing, but something has shifted. A promise of more moments like this, of chances to finish what we’ve started so many times. Of finally seeing where this connection leads when we don’t have professional boundaries or interrupting phone calls to stop us.
“Come on,” Lucas says, catching my hand. “Before she comes back with more commentary about our inability to maintain professional distance.”
I let him lead me to the dining table, my mind already at the lake. Where everything important happens.
Where maybe, finally, we’ll be brave enough to let it.