Chapter 4
PIERCE
I stare at the reports I’ve been working on for weeks like I’m about to discover the solution to world hunger through VSE’s financials.
Don’t look up, Pierce.
My vision blurs as I stare at my monitor, struggling to focus on anything except the impossible fact that my new assistant is the same man who made me forget myself in a bathroom at Lior’s wedding six months ago.
The same man who has returned to my mind any time it’s not busy with work or trying to avoid my family.
Thatcher Edward Charles III
My new personal assistant. The man from the bathroom.
My fingers tighten around my pen until the metal digs into my palm.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Noah did this on purpose. After all, he doesn’t work for VSE, so, apart from being married to Lior, what business does he have influencing who gets to be hired by the company?
But when Thatcher crossed the boundary between the garden and the house with those two champagne glasses, my eyes were on the happy couple. So there’s no way Noah or Lior knows about what happened that night.
Thatcher pulls a collection of sticky notes and pens from his bag and arranges them in a rainbow gradient. The sight sends an unwanted shiver down my spine as I remember those same hands moving with a similar purpose across my—
No!
I force my attention back to the reports, but the numbers might as well be hieroglyphics. My tie feels too tight, my collar a noose.
Thatcher looks up, catching my gaze through the glass, and I curse the fact that his desk, even through the wall, still feels too close. His smile, genuine and disarming, catches me off guard. I look down at my reports so quickly that my neck twinges.
Maybe I should get his desk moved.
My phone’s ringtone cuts through the silence with Noah’s name glowing on the screen. I swear Lior married Noah as my personal penance for past sins.
“Pierce!” Noah’s voice carries the same tone it always does. Friendly, confident, and caring, with a splash of revenge. “How’s Meatball settling in? I told Lior you’d be perfect for each other.”
“We’ve only just met,” I lie, “so it’s hard to tell.”
Thatcher gets up to talk to other people in the open office. He’s all smiles and hand gestures.
“Give him a chance, Pierce. I know he seems unconventional, but he’s got something special.”
“It’s not like I was given much choice in the matter.”
Noah sighs. “You were given exactly as much choice as you needed. Sometimes you need a push, Pierce. Sometimes you need someone to…shake things up a little.”
I watch Thatcher return to his desk, immediately pulling out more sticky notes—where does he keep finding them?—and adding them to files.
“Well, thank you for giving him a chance,” Noah says softly. “It means a lot to me. To us.”
He ends the call, leaving me alone with thoughts I can’t control and a view I can’t stop watching.
My email notification chimes, dragging my attention back to my computer screen.
HR’s message sits at the top of my inbox, with the subject line: New Employee Onboarding - T.
E. Charles III. The attached forms await my signature, official documentation of a professional relationship that was compromised before it even started.
I suppose I’d better get this out of the way.
I open the company’s messaging app and type out a quick message to Thatcher: Please come to my office when you have a moment.
Through the glass walls, I watch as he jerks his head up at the notification sound, looking around in confusion for its source. A small smile tugs at my lips as he checks his phone first, then his desk drawers, before finally noticing the blinking icon on his computer screen.
“Please come to my office when you have a moment,” he reads aloud, his voice carrying faintly through the glass. “Does he realize I’m literally right outside his door? He could have just…called out?”
I pretend to be absorbed in my paperwork as he straightens his tie and smooths his wild curls, which seems a futile effort, before entering my office.
“Please, sit down,” I say, pointing to the chair he vacated not that long ago.
He settles into the chair, his attempt at a straight posture lasting approximately three seconds before he starts fidgeting with his tie. “I wanted to check how you’re adjusting to the position.”
“It’s going great! I mean, aside from the coffee incident. And the name thing. And the…” He trails off, a blush creeping up his neck. “I’m actually doing better than it sounds.”
I find myself fighting an inappropriate smile. “I’m sorry you’ve been thrown in the deep end now that Fiona is gone.”
“Oh, I think I’m getting the hang of it.” He gestures toward his desk, where the rainbow of sticky notes creates an organizational system that I’m sure only he would understand. “I’m working on color-coding everything based on priority and emotional resonance.”
“Emotional…resonance?”
“Yeah! Like, red is for urgent things because it gets the heart pumping, you know?” His hands move as he talks, drawing patterns in the air. “And blue is calming, so that’s for financial reports. And purple is for things that make you smile—or they should, anyway.”
His curls have escaped whatever product he used to tame them this morning, falling across his forehead, and his eyes are so much lighter than I remember.
“About this morning,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “I really am sorry about the coffee. I wanted to make a good first impression, and instead I…” He gestures vaguely at my still-stained shirt cuff.
“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. “Though perhaps we should discuss your coffee delivery strategy moving forward. To avoid future incidents.”
His face brightens immediately. “Yes! How do you like your coffee? I mean, I know the order as Fiona told me, but was it okay? Do you prefer a different coffee shop or maybe from the staff room? I’m sure the coffee maker up here is better than what they have on the lower floors.
” He stops himself. “Um, I mean…it’s…they’re good coffee makers, but they’re not really up to standard for anyone who’s a coffee aficionado, and I think you might be one. A coffee aficionado, I mean.”
I shouldn’t find his intensity charming. I shouldn’t notice how he leans forward slightly, pen poised over a fresh sticky-note pad—pink, with tiny stars already decorating the corners. I definitely shouldn’t remember how that same intensity felt when focused on other tasks.
“My coffee was fine, and you’re right about the coffee makers. They’re good if you like black coffee, but I find it too bitter. I prefer my coffee from the shop across the road, and I like supporting independent businesses. Fiona had a company credit card. Yours should arrive within a day or two.”
His pen moves across the paper with surprising speed. “Got it. Do you have a favorite barista?”
“I’m not that particular about my coffee.”
He looks up at me through his lashes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say that. You do have a very specific coffee preference, Mr. Dellcourt.”
“Pierce,” I say before I can stop myself. “You can… You can call me Pierce. When it’s just us.”
The words hang between us, and I wonder if I should retract them. His pen stills on the paper, leaving a small ink bloom.
“And what should I call you?” I ask, desperate to move past my slip. “Your file lists several options. I mean, you have a lot of names.”
“You can call me anything you want.” His voice carries a hint of something that sends heat down my spine. “Though maybe not Meatball in front of clients.”
“Thatcher then.” The name feels formal on my tongue, nothing like the sounds I remember making in that bathroom. “For professional settings. Noted.”
“And for unprofessional settings?” The question slips out soft and quick, like he couldn’t quite hold it back.
Our eyes meet across the desk, and for a moment, his mask slips. Everything he’s thinking is written across his face. The wedding, the bathroom, hands and mouths, desperate sounds neither of us should remember.
“For professional settings,” I repeat firmly, though my voice sounds rough even to my own ears, “we’ll stick with Thatcher. And just to be clear, I will never call you Meatball.”
He nods, holding the sticky note between his fingers.
“I should get back to work,” he says, standing with unusual grace. He pauses as if he wants to say something, but then he smiles, and whatever he was going to say remains unsaid as he heads for the door.
As I stare at his parting figure, I give in to temptation, and my eyes land on his ass. Thatcher is shorter than me, but what he lacks in height, he certainly makes up for in other departments.
I turn back to my computer, demanding that my brain erase all inappropriate thoughts of the man on the other side of the wall.
The afternoon light slants through my office windows, painting long shadows across the floor when Thatcher returns with a stack of files. His sleeves are rolled up now, suit jacket abandoned on the back of his chair, and the sight of his forearms should not affect me the way it does.
“We should discuss it,” he says without preamble, setting the files on my desk. A yellow sticky note falls to the floor, and I pretend not to notice the tiny heart drawn in its corner. “The elephant in the room. Or should I say, the elephant in the bathroom?”
His attempt at humor falls flat between us, but I appreciate the effort. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
“It is.” He perches on the edge of my desk, closer than boundaries between boss and employee should allow. “Because I can’t stop thinking about it, and from the way you’ve been looking at me all day, neither can you.”
The directness catches me off guard. I’m used to corporate double-speak, carefully worded emails and implications hidden in meeting minutes, but his honesty is actually refreshing.
“What happened at the wedding,” I begin, my voice as steady as I can manage, “was…”
“Amazing?” He suggests. “Incredible? Life-changing?”
“Inappropriate,” I finish, though the word tastes false on my tongue. “And cannot happen again.”
Thatcher’s expression shifts, something flickering behind his eyes. “Inappropriate but amazing? Because I’m pretty sure those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides, we didn’t know each other, so it wasn’t inappropriate then.”
“Thatcher.” My voice carries a warning note that sounds weak even to me.
“I know, I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, making those curls even more chaotic. “We need to be professional. I can do professional. I can be the most professional assistant you’ve ever had.”
“Can you?” The question comes out sharper than intended.
His smile, smaller now but no less genuine, makes my chest tight. “I can’t forget it happened. I won’t pretend I want to. But I can be appropriate about remembering it.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense!” He stands, pacing the length of my office with that barely contained energy that seems to follow him everywhere.
“Look, what happened in that bathroom was…it was something I needed. Something you needed too, I think. But that was then, and this is now, and now we can do different.”
I watch him move, unable to tear my eyes away. “Different?”
“A clean slate.” He stops pacing, turning to face me with unexpected seriousness. “Not forgetting, but not letting it control us either. We can work together and still acknowledge that we once…” He trails off, color rising in his cheeks.
“Once what?” The words come out rough, dangerous.
“Once made each other feel something worth remembering.” His honesty is a weapon I have no defense against. “But now we’re boss and assistant, and that’s its own kind of relationship. Different, but no less important.”
He extends his hand across my desk. “Shake on it? A proper business agreement between professionals who happen to have an extremely hot bathroom encounter in their past?”
I stare at his offered hand, remembering how those fingers felt against my skin, how they trembled slightly while fixing my tie afterward. Taking his hand now feels like signing a contract written in matches. One wrong move and everything burns.
But I reach out anyway, because I am Pierce Dellcourt, and Pierce Dellcourt does not run from difficult situations. Our hands meet over the polished surface of my desk, and the contact sends electricity up my arm.
His grip is firm, confident, but his thumb brushes across my knuckles in a way that can’t possibly be accidental.
“Professional,” he says softly, releasing my hand. “Starting now.”
I clear my throat, trying to find my voice. “Starting now,” I agree.
He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Though just so you know,” he adds without turning around, “being professional doesn’t mean I have to stop appreciating how good you look in that suit.”
The door closes behind him before I can respond. Through the glass, I watch him return to his desk. His rolled sleeves, his loose curls, and his entire presence feel like a challenge.
Professional, I remind myself, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. We can be professional.
A purple sticky note is on top of the first file I pick up. The tiny door doodle in the corner winks at me like a shared secret.
I’m starting to think professional might be harder than I anticipate.