Chapter 5 Thatcher
THATCHER
The executive floor break room, one floor down, is empty at seven a.m., which is exactly why I’m here. I’ve discovered that if I arrive early enough, I can figure out the fancy coffee maker without anyone witnessing my failures. Especially since I haven’t met all the other executive assistants yet.
After the coffee incident, I’ve kept my butt glued to my chair. As first impressions with a new boss go, mine wasn’t the smoothest, so I’m determined to prove to Pierce that I’m more than the bumbling mess who spilled coffee all over him.
“Okay,” I mutter, staring at the buttons like they’re written in ancient Greek. “We can do this.”
Alli made me swear with my right hand on my favorite sketchbook that I wouldn’t touch anything complicated during my first week.
But coffee isn’t complicated. Coffee is essential.
And if I can master ordering Pierce’s very specific coffee from the coffee shop across the street and deliver it without causing a global disaster—which I’ve done three times already, thank you very much—then I can figure out how to make a coffee for myself.
Pierce keeps telling me to buy myself a coffee with the corporate credit card that arrived two days ago, but it just feels wrong. All the other executive assistants get their coffee from the break room. I’m not special.
I’ve been putting this off for days, but I can’t work under these conditions. Without caffeine, my eyes get easily distracted and tend to wander in Pierce’s direction. I made a promise to be professional, and I’m going to keep it.
The machine makes a sound like a dying whale. Coffee sprays everywhere except the cup.
“First time with the beast?”
I spin around, wiping coffee from my cheek, to find a guy about my age leaning against the doorframe. He’s got a friendly smile and a lanyard that reads Kenji - Executive Assistant, Marketing.
“Is it that obvious?”
“The beast claims all newcomers.” He walks over and punches a sequence of buttons I never would have guessed. Perfect coffee streams into a cup. “Kenji. I’m Diane’s assistant. Marketing director, third door on the left.”
“Meatball.” I shake his hand. “Well, Thatcher. But everyone calls me Meatball. I’m—”
“The new PA for Mr. Dellcourt. Yeah, we know.” He grins. “Word travels fast up here. Especially when someone color-codes the supply closet with hand-drawn icons.”
My face heats. “You saw that?”
“Saw it? I used it yesterday. Found the whiteboard pens in thirty seconds. Those have been missing for seven months.”
Before I can respond, two more people wander in. A woman with immaculate braids and tired eyes, and a man who looks like he’s been working here since the building was constructed.
“Priya,” the woman says, pouring herself coffee with the efficiency of someone who’s done it ten thousand times. “I handle Jensen, Cooper, and Markham.”
“Three executives?” I ask, impressed.
“Three egos,” she corrects. “It’s a talent.”
The older man nods at me. “Geoff. Been here twenty-two years. You’re the one who fixed the supply closet.”
“Guilty.”
“Sandra from accounting hates it.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
“Sandra hates everything,” Priya says. “She once complained that the new hand soap in the women’s restroom smelled too happy. Ignore her.”
We settle into the break-room chairs, and I realize this is the first time since starting here that I’ve completely relaxed around other people.
Kenji shows me photos of his cat. Priya explains the complex web of executive rivalries I need to navigate.
Geoff shares which vending machines actually work and which ones eat your money.
“The one on the sixth floor is cursed,” he says. “Don’t trust it.”
“Noted.”
My phone buzzes with a reminder. Pierce’s nine a.m. meeting needs preparation.
“Duty calls,” I say, standing. “But this was really nice. Thank you. For the coffee tips and the…everything.”
Kenji waves me off. “We assistants have to stick together. It’s us against the executives.”
“And Sandra,” Priya adds.
Kenji and Geoff raise their coffee cups to that.
I’m smiling as I head upstairs to my desk, coffee successfully in hand.
Through the glass walls, I see Pierce already at his computer, frowning at something on the screen.
I’ve started keeping a small sketchbook in my desk drawer, and during quiet moments, I draw little scenes from the office.
Pierce frowning at his computer. Pierce on the phone, tie loosened.
Pierce reaching for his coffee cup. There might be a theme developing.
The morning passes in a blur of learning names, memorizing schedules, and trying to look busy whenever Pierce glances through his glass walls. Which he does. Often. I’m not sure if he’s checking on me or checking me out, but either way, it makes my skin tingle.
I’m updating Pierce’s calendar when my work phone buzzes with a message.
The order I placed yesterday—my first official order—has arrived!
I rush to the loading dock where Roberto from maintenance is standing next to a pallet of the most aggressively orange paper I’ve ever seen.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Instead of the fifty reams of premium printer paper Pierce specifically requested for the quarterly reports, there are fifty reams of—I check the delivery notice twice—bright orange construction paper.
“This isn’t right,” I say, panic rising. “I ordered white. Premium white. For the quarterly reports. Pier—Mr. Dellcourt is going to kill me. Actually kill me. They’ll never find my body.”
Roberto pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve already contacted the supplier, and they admitted to an admin error. They’ll replace the order, but the white paper won’t arrive until next week.”
“But the reports are due tomorrow!”
I pace back and forth, mind racing. The quarterly reports need to be printed today. Pierce told me he’s been working on them for weeks. The board meeting is tomorrow morning. If I mess this up, I’m done. More than done. I’ll be a cautionary tale that other assistants tell new hires.
Think, Meatball. Think.
I rush back to the break room where Kenji and Priya are on their lunch break.
“I need help,” I blurt out. “Paper emergency. Fifty reams of premium white needed by the end of the day. The supplier sent orange construction paper instead.”
“Orange?” Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Like, neon orange. Aggressive orange. The kind of orange that hurts your eyes.”
Priya’s already on her phone. “I know a guy at Office Depot. Let me check.”
Kenji rushes to the office and comes back a moment later with his tablet. “I’ll search online suppliers with same-day delivery.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve called every office supply store in a twenty-mile radius. Nothing. Nobody has fifty reams of premium white paper available for same-day delivery. Not even just standard white paper.
Maybe I should campaign for paper-free reports at VSE. We’d save the trees and my sanity with one simple decision.
Then I remember my friends’ charity, The Starfinders Foundation, keeps tons of paper in stock to donate to local kids’ school projects. I pull out my phone, scrolling for their number while mentally calculating the bare minimum I’ll need to borrow.
“Drew? Hey, it’s Meatball. Listen, I have the weirdest favor to ask—”
“Does it have anything to do with glitter?” Drew’s warm laugh carries through the phone. “Because I’m still finding glitter in places glitter should never be from the art class you ran for the kids last month.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Next time I’ll stick to pencil drawings. Promise.”
“Sure, sure. What can we help you with?”
“Paper. More precisely, premium white paper.”
Drew laughs again. “Dude, I run a charity. The only premium thing in this building is the contents of my stomach since the new taco van opened outside our gates.”
I ignore my rumbling stomach at his mention of tacos. “Any paper will do.”
“How much do you need?”
“Whatever you can spare, but ideally forty to fifty reams. I’ll replace it as soon as the right order comes in, I promise. And you’ll get an upgrade to premium. This is literally a crisis situation.”
“Let me check what we have left.”
Relief floods through me so intensely that I have to sit down. “Drew, you’re literally saving my life right now. I owe you everything. Name it. Anything.”
“How about you come to the mayor’s award gala next month? We have extra tickets and could use the support.”
“Done. Absolutely done. I’ll be there with bells on. Possibly literally, knowing me.”
Twenty minutes later, Drew has arranged for his foundation’s leftover paper to be delivered to VSE. It’s not fifty reams, but it’s enough for the quarterly reports with a bit to spare.
When the paper arrives, I personally carry each ream to the copy room. Roberto helps, even though it’s not his job, because Roberto is a saint who deserves a raise. Kenji and Priya take turns checking on me, bringing snacks and moral support.
“You’ve got this,” Priya says, squeezing my shoulder.
By the time Pierce emerges from his afternoon meetings, the quarterly reports are printed, bound, and sitting in neat stacks, ready for tomorrow’s board meeting. He doesn’t know how close we came to disaster. He doesn’t need to know.
He pauses by my desk, eyes scanning the reports. “These look good.”
Three words. Three tiny words. But they send warmth flooding through my chest.
“Thank you, Mr. Dellcourt.”
He narrows his eyes ever so slightly before he retreats to his office. Through the glass, I watch him settle into his chair, and almost, almost, smile at the reports.
I did that. I fixed a disaster and made something good happen. With help.
My phone buzzes with a message from the group chat I have with my cousins.
Noah:
Family meal at Lusitana this Sunday. Meatball, you’re coming, right?
Adam:
Please say yes. Lex has been insufferable about this new deal we’re working on, and we need backup.
Lex:
I’m right here.
Adam:
I know.
Noah:
How’s the new job going?
Meatball:
Thriving actually! Made friends with the other assistants. Fixed a supply crisis. Only broke one thing today.
Adam:
Our little corporate warrior.
Lex:
What did you break?
Meatball:
The coffee maker. But only a little. Kenji fixed it.
Adam:
Who’s Kenji?
Meatball:
Another executive assistant. He’s one of my new best friends.
Lex:
Of course you’ve made friends (plural) after being there for barely five minutes.
You’d make friends with a brick wall.
Meatball:
I’ve also made friends with Roberto from maintenance. He’s nice.
Noah:
That’s actually smart. Maintenance knows everything.
Adam:
See? Meatball’s a genius.
Lex:
Let’s not get carried away.
Noah:
See you Sunday. Try not to reorganize anything else before then. Pierce mentioned the supply closet.
Meatball:
He NOTICED?
Noah:
He notices everything.
Meatball:
How do you know this?
Noah:
I’m married to his best friend. Duh.
Lex:
Should we be worried about that?
Adam:
Worried about what?
Lex:
Nothing. Just… Pierce noticing things.
Noah:
Don’t make it weird, Lex.
Lex:
I’m not making anything weird!
Meatball:
What’s weird? Why is it weird?
Adam:
Nothing’s weird. See you Saturday, Meatball.
I put my phone away before Lex can say anything else. Through the glass, Pierce is still working, the late afternoon light catching the silver in his hair. The growing stubble on his face makes the dimple on his chin even more pronounced, so I force myself to look away before I do something bad.
Like going into Pierce’s office and licking his face type of bad.
One crisis averted. One family meal looming. And a whole group of people who actually helped me today.
I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing. This time, it’s the break-room crew. Kenji with his cat photos, Priya with her three-executive juggling act, and Geoff with his vending machine wisdom.
Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to prove I belong here.
Another chance to make Pierce almost smile.