Chapter 6 Pierce
PIERCE
The office is different. I notice it the moment I step off the elevator, ready for another day. There’s an energy in the air that wasn’t there before. People are…smiling. Chatting by the water cooler without the usual tension. Someone actually laughs.
This is Thatcher’s doing. I know it because, while Van Stern Enterprises is a great place to work, everyone has been struggling to adapt to Lior’s more flexible approach after years under his father’s stricter rules.
I weave through the open-plan floor toward my office, nodding at the usual faces.
Thatcher is hunched over his keyboard, tongue poking out as he concentrates on something. His tie is slightly crooked. His hair looks like he’s run his hands through it seventeen times already. He’s a disaster wrapped in a cheap suit.
I shouldn’t find it endearing. I don’t find it endearing.
“Good morning,” I say, pausing by his desk.
He looks up, startled, then breaks into that sunshine smile that leaves my chest uncomfortably full.
“Mr. Dellcourt! Good morning! I got here early to finish the preparation for today’s staff meeting, so I haven’t grabbed your coffee yet. It would have gone cold. But I’m going now! Right now. Unless you need something else first? I can do both. I can definitely do both.”
“Coffee is fine.”
“Perfect. Great. On it.” He practically bounces out of his chair and heads toward the elevators, nearly colliding with a filing cabinet on the way.
I watch him go for a moment longer than necessary, then shake my head and enter my office.
A bright-yellow sticky note greets me on my computer monitor:
I peel it off, telling myself the slight twitch of my lips isn’t a smile. It’s a muscle spasm. Nothing more.
I shouldn’t find it endearing. I don’t find it endearing.
Settling into my chair, I begin my morning routine. Computer on. Emails scanned. Calendar reviewed. I reach for my drawer to grab a pen.
My hand touches something soft. Crumbly. I look down.
Cookies. A small bag of chocolate-chip cookies, slightly crushed, is sitting in my drawer. And marching across them in an organized line are dozens, no, at least one hundred ants.
“What the—”
I push back from the desk, watching in horror as the tiny invaders continue their methodical work. They’ve created an efficient highway from somewhere behind my desk, up the drawer runner, and directly into the cookie bag. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
I’m still staring at the infestation when Thatcher returns.
“I forgot the—” He freezes, his hand midway to reaching out for something on his desk, eyes tracking from my face to the open drawer. Color drains from his cheeks. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
He rushes over, peering into the drawer. “I left those last week! To cheer you up! You looked stressed after the call with someone named James, and I thought—” He watches an ant carry a chocolate chip twice its size. “I didn’t think you’d just…leave them there.”
“I didn’t know they were there.”
“But I left a note!”
“You leave approximately forty-seven notes per day. I can’t read them all.”
He looks genuinely wounded by this. My intention isn’t to upset him, but how can I work with an infestation of ants on my desk?
“I’ll fix this,” he says, already pulling out his phone. “Roberto? Hi! It’s Meatball. Listen, we have a tiny ant situation in Mr. Dellcourt’s office. Very tiny. Barely an invasion. More like a…a friendly visit. From ants.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Within ten minutes, Roberto and two other maintenance staff arrive with supplies. Thatcher orchestrates the entire operation like a general commanding troops, except he keeps apologizing to the ants as they’re removed.
“Sorry, little guys. Nothing personal. You’re just in the wrong drawer.”
“You’re apologizing to insects,” I say.
“They’re living creatures, Mr. Dellcourt. They didn’t ask to be attracted to delicious cookies.” He pauses. “Which you should have eaten, by the way. They were from that bakery on 5th. The good one.”
My desk phone rings before I can respond. The caller ID shows the regional manager for the New York office.
“I need to take this,” I say, reaching for the phone, but Thatcher is faster.
“Mr. Dellcourt’s office, this is Thatcher speaking. How may I help you?” His voice transforms from chaotic apologizer to smooth professional in an instant. “Mr. Brand, yes, hello! Mr. Dellcourt is just finishing up a meeting. May I help you with something in the meantime?”
I watch, frozen, as he handles the call. He laughs at something Brand says. A genuine laugh.
“The quarterly budget projections? Yes, I can have those sent over within the hour. And Mr. Delcourt mentioned you’re a Celtics fan? Tough loss last night, wasn’t it?” He listens, nodding. “Exactly what I said! The defense was all wrong.”
I gesture to the phone, and Thatcher nods. “Oh look. Mr. Dellcourt has just returned to the office.”
By the time he hands me the phone, Brand is practically purring.
“Pierce! Your new assistant is delightful. Where did you find him?”
I look at Thatcher, who’s now helping Roberto relocate the last of the ants while simultaneously giving me a thumbs-up.
“He found me,” I say, and I’m not entirely sure what I mean by that.
The rest of the morning passes in the organized chaos I’m beginning to associate with my assistant’s presence. He’s everywhere at once—delivering files, charming executives, making the lunch cart lady blush with compliments about her muffins.
At the weekly staff meeting, I watch him take notes. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, though the margins are filled with tiny doodles. A coffee cup here. A stick figure that might be me, frowning at a computer. An ant wearing a top hat.
“Pierce?” Lior’s voice cuts through my observation. “Thoughts on the new break-room proposal?”
I snap back to attention, irritated at myself for being distracted. “The equipment upgrades are reasonable, but we need to revisit the installation timeline and the supplier. I think we can get a better deal somewhere else. I’ll have a revised proposal by the end of the week.”
After the meeting, Lior falls into step beside me.
“Meatball seems to be settling in with the team like he’s been here for years,” he says.
“He’s…okay.”
“Okay.” Lior smiles that knowing smile I’ve grown to hate. “Is that why you were watching him doodle instead of listening to the supply chain update? Because he’s okay?”
“I wasn’t watching him.”
“Of course not.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
The afternoon brings an urgent contract review. A client wants changes by morning, and the legal team has already left for the day. I’m preparing for a long night when Thatcher appears at my door.
“You’re still here,” he observes, glancing at his watch. “It’s past seven.”
“This contract needs revisions by morning,” I explain, gesturing at the paperwork spread across my desk. “Legal team’s gone for the day, so I’m stuck doing this myself.”
His expression shifts from curiosity to determination. “I can stay and help,” he offers. “I’m good with details.”
“This is complex financial language. It requires—”
“I minored in business law.” He shrugs at my surprised expression. “Everyone assumes I’m just a pretty face and a walking disaster. Surprise!”
Two hours later, I’m forced to admit he’s actually useful. More than useful. He catches three errors I missed, asks questions that make me reconsider entire clauses, and somehow makes contract review almost…enjoyable.
“This section here,” he says, leaning over my shoulder to point at the screen. He smells like coffee and something sweet. “The liability clause is too broad. It could expose us to—”
“I see it.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. He’s too close. I can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his eyes crinkle.
He turns his face to me, and for a moment, everything is on pause, including my breathing and the beating of my heart, as his beautiful blue eyes narrow in on my mouth. I draw a breath before he pulls back all of a sudden, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
“Sorry. Personal space. I’m working on it.” He sits back in his chair. “Alli, my best friend, says I have the spatial awareness of a golden retriever.”
“That’s…accurate.”
He grins like I’ve paid him a compliment.
By nine p.m., the contract is finished and sent. Thatcher stretches, his shirt pulling across his chest. I absolutely do not notice the little bit that untucks from his pants, revealing a smattering of light hair.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, gathering his things, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil or that my eyes take the slow way up to meet his.
“Hopefully without the ants.”
“No promises. Those little guys were determined.” He pauses at the door. “You really should eat the snacks people give you, Pierce. It’s rude to let them get invaded by insects.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
After he leaves, I open my drawer. It’s ant-free now, but there’s a new sticky note stuck to the bottom:
I stare at the note for longer than necessary. The little ant drawing has a sad face.
Against my better judgment, I pull out my phone and text a number I shouldn’t have memorized.
Pierce:
The snacks were appreciated. The ants were not.
The response is immediate.
Thatcher:
You ATE them?? The ant cookies???
Pierce:
No. I’m speaking generally. Future snacks will be consumed promptly.
Thatcher:
This is the best news I’ve heard all day.
Well, second best. The best was when you almost smiled at my ant drawing.
Pierce:
I didn’t smile.
Thatcher:
Your face twitched. Close enough. Goodnight, Mr. Dellcourt!
I put my phone away, but I can’t quite shake the smile from my lips.
Lior and Noah’s wedding feels like a lifetime ago. That desperate encounter in the bathroom, the stranger who made me laugh when I wanted to cry. I never got his name. Never expected to see him again.
And now he’s here, leaving sticky notes and cookie crumbs and chaos in his wake, and I’m not sure what to do with any of it.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Thatcher:
PS I’m naming the ant I saved Anthony. He lives in my desk plant now. We’re bonding.
I definitely don’t smile.
But my face does twitch.