Chapter 3
THATCHER
“Hey, good luck on your first day with the new boss. Don’t murder anyone with your good intentions,” Alli says into my phone. All week, she’s been checking in on me as if she could stop any disasters I might cause by sheer willpower.
“It’s been almost a week with no…incidents so—”
“Why would you say that? Wait— Where are you? Why can I hear the noise of coffee makers?”
“I’m bringing coffee for everyone on the executive floors!” The words burst out of me. “It’s perfect, Alli! What better way to make a good first impression and show them I can be responsible and thoughtful?”
“Meatball.” She only uses my nickname when she’s trying to be gentle with my enthusiasm. “Have you forgotten the last coffee incident?”
“That was different,” I protest. “That was me trying to improve their coffee maker. This is just me buying coffee. Totally safe!”
“And the explosion?”
“That was a pressure valve issue! This is foolproof. I’m just ordering some nice, normal coffee for my new colleagues.”
Alli’s sigh carries years of friendship and witnessed disasters. “At least tell me you’re going to keep it simple.”
“Of course! Just some basic coffee orders. Nothing complicated.”
I step forward when the barista calls, “Order for…Meatball?” He acknowledges me with a smile and looks around as if he’s looking for someone else before his eyes land on the coffee cups and then back to me. “Twelve coffees. Is that correct?”
“Sure is.”
The guy raises a brow while Alli’s voice drops to a whisper of dread. “Please tell me you at least got one of those drink carrier trays.”
Oh ye of little faith.
I look at the mountain of cups taking shape on the counter, my confidence wavering for the first time. “Um, they have those little four-cup carriers? I can probably stack them…”
“Oh god.”
“It’s fine! I’ll just…” I attempt to gather the first set of drinks, my hands already full with just four cups. “I can totally manage this. I’ll call you back!”
“Meatball, wait—”
I end the call, tucking my phone away as I attempt to balance the first drink carrier as the barista slides another carrier toward me with what might be pity in their eyes.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, carefully lifting the second set of drinks. “You are a professional. You are capable.”
I walk across the road toward the Van Stern building. My tongue pokes out slightly as I concentrate on each step, three drink carriers balanced between my hands like a corporate juggling act. The revolving door looms ahead, my first major challenge in this caffeine-fueled obstacle course.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter to myself. “Smooth and steady.”
The revolving door presents a physics problem I hadn’t fully considered. I pause, analyzing the situation. The door keeps spinning lazily, taunting me with its continuous motion. A security guard watches me with a wary expression.
I take a deep breath and carefully time my entry, sliding into a door segment with as much grace as I can manage. The door whooshes around, and I time my steps until I emerge unscathed into the lobby. Go me!
“Step one, complete!” I say to the people walking past me on their way to the elevators.
I navigate past the security desk, earning a tentative smile from the guard. “Just bringing some coffee for the team!” I explain, holding up my precious cargo. “Don’t worry, everything’s under control!”
Those words, my eternal curse, have barely left my mouth when it happens. I’m so focused on watching my feet that I don’t notice the man stepping out from behind a pillar until it’s too late. Our collision feels like it happens in slow motion, yet somehow too fast to prevent.
“Oh no. Oh no. Craaaap.”
The impact is as spectacular as it is unavoidable. Coffee splashes across the marble floor while cups bounce and roll in every direction.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry! I can fix this! I’ll just—” The words die in my throat as I look up at the victim of my latest catastrophe. My heart stops, then restarts with a painful thud.
He stands there like a statue, towering over me by at least six inches. His expensive suit is now decorated with an impressive array of coffee stains. The dark hair, practically a buzz cut on the sides and longer on top, is peppered with a few distinguished silver strands.
His jaw is currently clenched in what I assume is a not-positive feeling, but I would recognize that face anywhere. The stubble darkening his jaw makes his chin dimple more pronounced—that sexy-as-fuck dimple I traced with my fingers in the dim light of that bathroom.
My mystery guy from Noah’s wedding. He must be visiting Lior.
Recognition flashes in his eyes—those same dark eyes that watched me in the mirror as I’d… No. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
“I…” My voice comes out as a squeak. “Paper towels! I’ll get paper towels!”
I scramble for the security desk, my dress shoes slipping slightly on the coffee-slicked marble. The guard is already heading our way with a roll of paper towels and a wet floor sign.
Returning to the scene of the crime, I begin dabbing ineffectually at the guy’s suit jacket. “I can fix this! I know a great dry cleaner who specializes in coffee-related emergencies. Not that I’ve needed one before. Recently. This week.”
He says nothing at first, then straightens his tie as his eyes dart around the lobby.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost gentle, though strained.
“It’s…fine. Just be more careful next time.
” He brushes at his suit absently, his composed expression wavering for just a moment before a mask slides back into place.
Without a word, he turns and walks toward the elevators, his shoes leaving coffee-colored prints on the marble.
“At least,” I say to the security guard who’s helping me mop up the evidence, “at least I didn’t spill coffee on my actual boss.” I manage a weak laugh. “That would be really bad, right?”
“You know what they say,” the security guard says as he hands me another roll of paper towels, “you haven’t really worked at Van Stern until you’ve had a lobby incident.” His kindness catches me off guard. I’m used to people running for cover when I cause disasters, not helping clean them up.
Somehow, in the chaos of the collision, one cup survived completely intact. I reach for it with reverent hands, checking the label: “Extra hot vanilla latte, double foam, dash of cinnamon.” Fiona explained in her very detailed notes how Mr. Dellcourt likes his coffee.
“The special one I ordered for my new boss,” I breathe, cradling the cup. “It survived!”
The security guard eyes the cup skeptically. “Maybe take that as a sign?”
“Exactly!” My optimism, briefly dampened by coffee and embarrassment, resurges with typical force. “This is the universe telling me the day can still be saved! One perfect coffee, delivered to my new boss, and everything will be fine!”
“Thank you for your help!” I call over my shoulder to the security guard as I head for the elevators, holding the surviving coffee like a precious treasure.
The mirrors inside the elevator show that my suit, while not exactly coffee-soaked, has definitely seen better days. My tie hangs at an angle that suggests it’s trying to escape. My hair… Well, my hair has always had its own agenda.
“Okay, Meatball,” I tell my reflection as the elevator begins its ascent, “time for a comeback. You are a professional. You are capable. You are definitely not thinking about running into the guy who has filled your fantasies every night since you sucked his perfect dick.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced, while my dick is super happy to have literally bumped into Mister Sexy Silver Fox.
“Focus!” I straighten my tie, only for it to go crooked again. “You have one perfect coffee and zero recent disasters. Well, one recent disaster, but it didn’t involve your actual boss, so it doesn’t count.”
The elevator display ticks upward: 25…26…27…
New plan. Deliver coffee. Make a good impression. Prove you belong here. Simple.
The doors open onto the executive floor with a soft whoosh. The decor up here, glass walls and sleek furniture that probably cost more than my entire apartment, makes the lobby feel casual.
I straighten my shoulders and step out of the elevator, walking toward the glass-walled office where I’ll be working. Through the glass, I can see someone sitting behind the imposing desk—head bent over paperwork.
My brain registers the familiarity of the silhouette a split second before he looks up, but by then, it’s too late. Our eyes meet across the office space, and the world stops spinning on its axis.
The hot stranger from the wedding is not, as it turns out, a random guest I’ll never see again.
He is Pierce Dellcourt, Chief Financial Officer of Van Stern Enterprises.
My new boss.
The man I just covered in coffee in the lobby. The man who…
Blood drains from my face before rushing back with such force I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames on the spot.
Pierce’s expression shifts from neutral to shock to something that might be horror, though it’s hard to tell through the fog of my own panic. I remain frozen in the doorway, arm still extended with the coffee cup.
The silence stretches between us, thick enough to slice and serve at corporate functions.
My brain, apparently deciding that this situation isn’t quite mortifying enough, keeps throwing out helpful memories like the way his breath caught when I sank to my knees, how his fingers gripped my hair, the soft sound he made when…
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I should say something. Anything. Preferably something professional and appropriate that will help us move past this moment with dignity.
What comes out instead is, “So…I guess this means the bathroom thing is definitely against HR policy?”
I want to grab the words and stuff them back into my mouth, but it’s too late.
“Mr. Charles.” His voice is exactly as I remember it. “Please take a seat…” He looks around like he’s summoning someone to help him with the awkwardness.
“I can explain,” I interrupt, though I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say.
“The coffee and the wedding, and the…bathroom…thing…” Each word digs the hole deeper, but I can’t seem to stop talking.
“It’s actually kind of funny if you think about it!
Not funny ha-ha, more funny oh-god-why, but still… ”
Pierce raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow, and I lose what remains of my verbal filter.
“I didn’t know you were you!” The words tumble out in a panic. “I mean, obviously, you are you, but not this you. Boss you. I thought you were just a gorgeous stranger in a suit. Not that you’re not still gorgeous—I mean, professionally! Professionally gorgeous. I mean… Oh god.”
I’m pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching my self-destruction in real time. The rational part of my brain is screaming for me to stop talking, but my mouth apparently didn’t get the memo.
“I brought you coffee,” I finish weakly, gesturing with the cup I’m still somehow holding.
“Fiona told me what you like…in a professional way, of course. Because I’m professional.
And definitely not thinking about the wedding.
Or bathrooms. Or anything that happened in bathrooms. At weddings. With you.”
Fuck.
Pierce’s other eyebrow joins the first as I place the cup on his desk and slide it toward him. The silence that follows feels like it lasts several geological ages. Finally, he speaks, each word measured.
Pierce’s expression softens slightly, though his professional mask remains firmly in place. “Your desk is outside my office,” he says, his tone measured but not unkind. “I should also inform you that Fiona had to bring her retirement forward. So she won’t be available to complete your training.”
“Oh,” I manage, my voice suddenly small. “Is everything okay with her daughter and the triplets?”
“She went into early labor.”
I swallow hard, needing to convey some level of competence to my new boss. “Fiona’s been sending me guides and documents to study. She was very thorough. I should be okay on my own.”
Pierce nods once, his expression unreadable. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says, and I can’t tell if that’s confidence or dismissal in his tone.
I stand on shaky legs. “Right. Well. I’ll just…go to my desk then. Outside your office. Where it is.”
I back out of the office, managing not to trip, though only through what I assume is divine intervention.
As I sink into Fiona’s, well, my desk chair, I can feel Pierce’s eyes on me through the glass walls.
I resist the urge to bang my head against the keyboard, if only because I’m pretty sure breaking company equipment would be a terrible addition to what is rapidly becoming the worst first day in employment history.
My phone buzzes with a text from Alli.
Alli:
How’s it going? Any disasters yet?
I look at the message, then glance behind me at Pierce. He’s staring at his paperwork with rigid focus.
Thatcher:
Remember how you said I’d need wine tonight?
We’re going to need more bottles. All the bottles. And possibly a time machine.
Through the glass, I watch Pierce straighten his tie, that same gesture from the wedding night, and wonder if it’s too early to update my résumé.