12. Chapter TwelveEmma
Chapter Twelve
Emma
I ’ve reorganized my desk three times this morning and still can’t focus. Every time I try to concentrate on work, my mind drifts back to the lake. To Lucas’s words. To the way he looked at me like I was precious and terrifying all at once.
“I missed you. Missed the way you saw through every act, every pretense.”
His voice echoes in my memory, soft and certain in the morning light, sending a flutter through my chest. I keep thinking about how different he looked in casual clothes instead of his suits—relaxed and authentic in a way he rarely gets to be at the office. How natural it felt to skip stones together as if no time had passed. The gentle pressure of his fingers intertwined with mine as we walked along the dock.
I absently run my thumb over my bottom lip, reliving the kiss. Not the desperate, impulsive one outside O’Sullivan’s, but the intentional one on the dock – slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every second. Like he’d been waiting years to do it properly.
My phone chimes with a text from him:
Found a misfiled sustainability report from 2019. Someone’s color-coding system is slipping.
I smile, typing back:
That was during my experimental phase with pastels. We don’t talk about it.
His response appears quickly:
I liked the pastels, though not as much as your current rainbow organizational system.
The compliment shouldn’t make my pulse quicken. It’s ridiculous that a man appreciating my file organization methods affects me this way, yet here we are. The fact that he notices these little things, remembers them, and values them makes me feel seen in a way I’ve rarely experienced.
“Earth to Emma!” Natalie’s voice breaks through my reverie. “You’re color-coding those sticky notes by shade again. That’s like next-level procrastination, even for you.”
I look down to find she’s right. I’ve created a perfect rainbow gradient of post-its, none of which has anything to do with my work. My hands apparently operated independently while my mind wandered back to the lake.
“I’m just organizing my thoughts.”
“Uh-huh.” She perches on the edge of my desk, careful not to disturb my chromatic masterpiece. “And would these thoughts involve a certain CEO and lake visit this weekend? The same CEO who’s been finding excuses to walk past your office every hour?”
Heat creeps up my neck.
It’s true. This morning, Lucas has walked by my office four times, each time with increasingly flimsy pretexts. The last time, he claimed to be looking for the water cooler, which has been in the same location for the past decade.
“I’m trying to work.”
“You’ve been humming all morning.”
“It helps me think.”
“You drew hearts in the margins of your sustainability report.”
“Those were efficiency diagrams.” I flip the report over, hiding the telltale doodles that weren’t part of any professional analysis. “Very professional, very technical efficiency diagrams.”
“Emma.” She gives me her patented ‘stop deflecting’ look, the same one she used when I tried to convince her that reorganizing the supply closet at midnight was a completely normal work activity. “What happened at the lake? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because Lucas has been walking around all morning with this ridiculous smile, even during the budget meeting.”
I fidget with a perfectly arranged stack of papers, aligning the corners with unnecessary precision. “Nothing! We just talked. And skipped stones. And he maybe said some things about missing me and being real with me and...” I trail off, remembering how close we’d been, how natural it felt to exist in each other’s space again. How he’d looked at me like I was something precious he’d finally found the courage to claim.
How right it had felt to be under that oak tree together, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, both of us existing in a moment of perfect contentment.
“And?”
“And nothing! Because we’re supposed to be keeping things professional.”
“Right. Professional.” Natalie smirks. “Because professional colleagues definitely spend Saturday mornings teaching each other about cloud shapes.”
My phone chimes again:
Found clouds that look like efficiency matrices. Thought of you. Still terrible at cloud-watching without my teacher.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. At the lake, I pointed out a cloud that looked like our sustainability workflow chart. Lucas laughed, saying only I could see organizational systems in random atmospheric formations.
“Wow.” Natalie grins. “You’ve got it bad. S cientifically speaking, you’ve reached level-four infatuation.”
“I do not have it bad,” I protest weakly. “I have it completely under control.”
“You reorganized the supply closet by ‘emotional energy efficiency’ earlier. That’s statistically significant behavior modification.”
“That’s a valid organizational system!”
“You categorized staplers by how they ‘make you feel on Monday mornings.’”
I open my mouth to defend this perfectly reasonable classification method when a knock at the door interrupts us. Rachel from Marketing hovers in the doorway, her expression unusually hesitant.
“Hey, Emma,” she says, glancing over her shoulder before stepping in. “Did you hear about our unexpected visitor? Clara Brighton’s in the building.”
My stomach drops, the warmth of my Lucas-induced happiness instantly cooling. “Clara Brighton?”
“Lucas’s ex from his New York days.” Rachel moves closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “They were quite the power couple at Matthews the warmth I’ve felt in his texts is completely absent. “Walker Enterprises isn’t for sale.”
“This isn’t about selling—it’s about combining our strengths. The way we used to.” A pause, followed by a softer, more intimate tone. “Remember those late nights at Matthews there was serious corporate conflict in their history.
“Ancient history. People change. Grow up. Realize what they want...” More clicking heels. “Who they really want.”
My heart pounds so loudly that I’m sure they must hear it. I should leave. I should wait for Lucas to tell me about this himself. But I’m frozen, caught between professional dignity and personal dread.
“Clara.” Lucas’s voice turns firm, accompanied by the sound of movement—someone stepping back. “Whatever game you’re playing—“
“No games.” Her voice sounds closer now, intimate. “Just remembering what we had. What we could have again. Something more... sophisticated than small-town analytics and provincial innovations.”
There it is again – that dismissal of everything I’ve built, everything Lucas and I have been working toward together. As if our approach to sustainable technology is somehow less valuable because it wasn’t conceived in a Manhattan boardroom.
Before I can process her words before I can even think about retreating, the door swings open and Clara appears in the doorway.
“Oh,” she says, red lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks exactly like in the magazine photo Rachel just showed me – sleek, polished, expensive – but with an added layer of calculated cruelty the glossy business publication hadn’t captured. “Emma. Perfect timing. I was just telling Lucas how the three of us should have dinner. You know, to discuss the future of our companies.”
Behind her, I catch Lucas’s expression – a mixture of horror and concern that would be comical under different circumstances. His eyes lock onto mine, a silent apology in them. Then determination replaces the horror as he moves to stand beside me.
“Emma was just dropping by to discuss our presentation for the Johnson meeting,” he says smoothly. “Clara was leaving.”
“Was I?” Clara’s perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. “I thought we were just getting to the interesting part. About combining our... assets.”
“I believe Lucas made his position clear,” I find myself saying, my voice steadier than I feel. “Walker Enterprises isn’t for sale. Neither are its people.”
Clara’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “How charmingly loyal. Though I wonder if you’d feel the same way if you knew about Lucas’s role in what happened at Matthews & Sterling. About the information that mysteriously made its way to Clarendon Analytics right before half the sustainability division was laid off.”
“That’s enough, Clara.” Lucas’s voice has gone dangerously quiet.
She shrugs, the movement elegant even in its dismissiveness. “Just making conversation. Well, I won’t keep you from your... provincial innovations. Daddy will be in touch about those patent claims.”
With that, she brushes past me, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in her wake.
Well.
Looks like we’re going to need more than cloud-watching lessons to get through this.