15. Chapter FifteenLucas
Chapter Fifteen
Lucas
I ’ve been watching Emma through the conference room glass for the past ten minutes. The Brighton projections sit open on my desk, but my attention has wandered to how she twirls her pen when thinking hard about something. Sustainability reports surround her, transformed into organized rainbows by her signature color-coding system. The slight furrow in her brow appears when she spots patterns nobody else would notice. The way she bites her lip in concentration still makes something flutter in my chest every time she glances up and catches me staring.
Only now, instead of quickly looking away, she smiles—that soft, private smile reserved just for me—the one that makes the team exchange knowing looks and Sophie claims vindication for her matchmaking schemes.
“You need to read those projections,” she calls through the doorway. “Not just pretend to while watching me work.”
“I’m reading.” I hold up the folder as evidence. “I’m also appreciating how beautiful my girlfriend looks when revolutionizing sustainable analytics.”
Her blush is visible even from here. We’re still getting used to saying it out loud—girlfriend, boyfriend, us. But every time we do, it feels more right.
“Professional distance, Mr. Walker,” she teases, but her eyes are warm. “What would the board say?”
“The board isn’t here.” I move to lean in the doorway, watching her arrange reports in what she calls her ‘efficiency optimization pattern.’ “Though Bradshaw did comment that our combined presentations are the most entertaining part of his week.”
“Only because you keep translating my technical terms into what you call ‘normal human speech.’”
“Someone has to explain that ‘sustainability matrix optimization’ means making things greener and cheaper.”
She throws a sticky note at me, but she’s grinning.
“Speaking of optimization, want to come over tonight? We could watch that new drama everyone’s been talking about on Netflix.”
“Are you asking me out on a date, CEO Walker?” She spins in her chair to face me.
“I’m asking my girlfriend to come over and help me critique predictable third acts. A very different thing. Besides, you’re the one who said the last movie you watched with Sophie had, and I quote, ‘the most obvious plot twist I’ve ever seen.’”
“The foreshadowing was so heavy-handed! Even the musical cues gave it away.”
She’s about to launch into what I’m sure would be a fascinating critique of modern cinematography when my phone buzzes. Garrett’s name flashes on the screen, and something in my expression must change because Emma immediately sits up straighter.
“Everything okay?” she asks, setting down her pen.
I hold up a finger as I answer the call, listening to Garrett’s clipped explanation.
“Emergency board conference call,” I tell her after hanging up, tension settling across my shoulders. “Brighton’s CEO claims we violated a non-compete agreement with the Johnson contract. Complete nonsense, but we need to address it immediately.”
“They’re getting desperate,” Emma says, understanding dawning in her eyes. She’s already pulling up relevant files on her tablet. “The Johnsons must be leaning toward our proposal. Want me to put together a quick analysis of—”
“I’ll handle this.” I move to her desk, resting my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve already revolutionized their entire sustainability system this week. Let me handle the legal nonsense.”
“You sure? I have all the implementation data right here...”
“Wait for me?” I catch her hand. “We could stop for ice cream on the way home, make up for the movie delay.”
“Haagen-Dazs is still open on Main,” she suggests, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “And I have it on good authority they have your favorite mint chocolate chip. Though we need to discuss their supply chain efficiency...”
I head to the smaller conference room on the executive floor, the one equipped with our best video conferencing system. Within minutes, I’ve set up the call and pulled up the relevant contract documents on my tablet.
The digital conference screen flickers to life, showing five of our seven board members in various locations—Bradshaw from his vacation home in Florida, the chairwoman from a hotel in Chicago, and three others from their respective homes or offices. Garrett is the only one physically present in the building, entering the conference room just as the call connects. His smug expression suggests he thinks Brighton’s latest move gives him an advantage.
“Thank you all for joining on such short notice,” I begin, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “As you know, Brighton Analytics has made some serious allegations regarding our Johnson contract.”
The discussion unfolds with unexpected efficiency. Brighton’s claims are as flimsy as I thought—they’re trying to argue that our sustainability protocols infringe on their automated systems. The legal team has already prepared a preliminary response, which I present to the board with careful clarity.
“Their entire argument falls apart,” Garrett points out, surprising me with his support, “when you consider that our system is built around human interaction rather than pure automation. You can’t patent what you don’t understand.”
The chairwoman nods in agreement from her hotel suite. “This seems like a desperate delay tactic. The Johnsons must be leaning our way.”
For forty minutes, we discuss potential legal responses and implementation safeguards. The call concludes with a unanimous decision to proceed as planned with the Johnson implementation, prepared to counter Brighton’s claims if they escalate to formal legal action.
As the screen goes dark and the board members sign off, Garrett gathers his notes. The momentary alliance during the call dissolves as we exit the conference room.
“Don’t mistake my support in there for personal approval, Walker,” he says, pausing in the hallway. “Brighton is a common enemy, nothing more.”
“Understood,” I reply. At least with Garrett, I always know where I stand.
Back in my office, I find Emma curled up on the couch, deep in project files. She’s kicked off her heels and claimed my spare hoodie from the coat rack, looking so naturally at home that something catches in my chest. Beside her sits a stack of reports, each page meticulously color-coded—she’s been preparing counterarguments despite my insistence that she didn’t need to.
“That bad?” she asks, noticing my expression.
“Brighton is trying to claim our sustainability analytics infringe on their patents. Nothing their lawyers can prove, but they’ll try anything to delay the Johnson contract.” I pick up one of her reports. “Though I see someone couldn’t resist doing a complete analysis, anyway.”
“Just light reading.” She grins. “Also, I may have reorganized your filing system while you were gone. You had quarterly reports mixed in with annual projections. It was chaos.”
“Thank you,” I hold out my hand. “Ready to go home?”
The word ‘home’ slips out naturally. Somehow, in just these past days together, anywhere with Emma has started feeling like home.
***
The small ice cream shop on Main Street glows warmly despite the late hour, its vintage sign casting a soft light over the sidewalk. Emma charms the owner into a detailed discussion about their refrigeration efficiency while I wait, amused, as she pulls out her tablet to show him some energy-saving recommendations.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I tease as we walk back to the car, ice cream in hand. “Always making things better.”
“His electric bill was outrageous! And their freezer system is at least ten years old. Just wait until you see the sustainability upgrade proposal I’m drafting.”
“Of course you are.” I steal a bite of her rocky road. “Planning to revolutionize the entire ice cream industry?”
“One shop at a time.” She retaliates by sampling my mint chocolate chip. “Though their flavor optimization could use work, too.”
The drive home is short, with comfortable silence and the occasional debate about ice cream flavors. My townhouse welcomes us with its familiar warmth—the leather couch I’d chosen for comfort over style, the bookshelves filled with business texts and the occasional science fiction novel, the kitchen visible through the archway with its gleaming granite countertops and barely used appliances.
We settle on the couch with more ice cream and an assortment of snacks Emma discovered in my kitchen. “You have the perfect movie-watching goodies!” she says, sounding delighted.
“Sophie may have helped stock the pantry.” I turn on the movie, unsurprised when Emma nestles against my shoulder. “She said, and I quote, ‘Emma needs proper snacks for when you have movie night dates.’”
“Your sister knows me too well.” Emma organizes the snacks by what she calls ‘optimal consumption order.’ “Though she forgot the color-coding labels I made for your cabinets.”
It feels like we’ve been doing this forever - her organizing my life while I pretend to protest, both of us knowing I love every minute.
“You’re not even watching,” Emma accuses, catching me staring again.
“More interesting things to look at.” I draw her closer until she’s tucked against my side. “Like how you’ve completely commandeered my hoodie.”
“It’s comfortable!” She burrows deeper into the soft fabric. “Besides, you never wanted any of your clothes back when I borrowed them in the past. I had to insist you take them back.”
“Because you looked better in them.” I rest my cheek against her hair. “Still do. Though I’m pretty sure that’s my third hoodie you’ve claimed this week.”
She tilts her head, the movie forgotten. “You’re being very smooth for someone who once tried to impress me by reciting quarterly projections.”
“That worked, didn’t it?”
“I was already impressed.” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. “Still am. Even when you’re letting Brighton’s legal threats ruin our movie night.”
“Not ruined.” I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. “Just delayed long enough for you to reorganize my office.”
When I kiss her, it’s soft, sweet, and perfect. The world narrows to just this - her smile against my lips, her fingers curling into my shirt, the quiet certainty that this is exactly where we’re meant to be.
“Stay,” I murmur against her lips.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Lucas...”
“Not—I mean, just... stay here awhile. Let me hold you.”
Her smile brightens the room more than any boardroom victory ever could. “Planning to recite more quarterly projections?”
“Planning to let you borrow more of my clothes. Though I’ll need to buy a new wardrobe at this rate.”
She settles back against my chest, and we watch the movie for a while, trading commentary and casual touches. At some point, Emma starts doing impressions of the characters, her laughter vibrating against me.
“You know,” she says after a particularly ridiculous scene, “I used to watch these alone and talk back to the screen. Sophie always said it was why I couldn’t keep roommates.”
I hold her closer, smiling into her hair. “Their loss. Your commentary is the best part.”
Emma launches into another impression, perfectly capturing the lead actor’s overblown dramatic pauses, and I laugh harder than I have in years. This is what was missing in New York. Not just Emma, but this feeling of being completely, unashamedly myself. Of having someone who sees past every facade I’ve constructed, who loves both the polished exterior and the mess underneath. Who borrows my hoodies, calls me out when I’m taking myself too seriously, and makes every moment better just by being in it.
“What are you thinking about?” Emma asks softly, noticing my distraction.
“How right this feels.” I trace slow circles on her arm, feeling her relax against me. “You. Us. Everything. How you can take something as ordinary as a Friday night movie and make it feel like the only place in the world I want to be.”
“Even when I’m talking back to fictional characters?”
“Especially then.” I continue the gentle patterns on her arm, feeling her sink deeper against me. “Though I’m pretty sure you’ve already rewritten the ending in your head.”
“Maybe.” She grins sheepishly. “But only because they deserve better than that predictable third act.”
“I don’t know,” I say, twining a strand of her hair around my finger. “Some predictable endings are worth waiting for.”
She yawns, curling closer. “Good. Because you’re stuck with my commentary, and your hoodies are all officially at risk.”
“Worth it.” I watch her eyelids grow heavy. “Though maybe we should invest in a bigger closet. For all your borrowed hoodies.”
“Are you making fun of my collection?”
“Never. I’d just like to keep at least one for myself.”
We fall asleep on the couch, Emma tucked against my chest, the movie’s credits rolling unnoticed in the background. It’s not how I imagined our first movie night date ending, but somehow, it’s perfect.
Just like us.
Because some things don’t need explanations or analysis to be right.
They just are.