Chapter 8 Pierce
PIERCE
The first sticky note catches my eye before I even reach my office door—a flash of pink against the glass.
There’s also a doodle of a sun.
It’s earlier than my usual start time, and Thatcher is already in the office. Well, somewhere in the office because he’s not at his desk. I take in the notes, to-do lists, and containers with various colored pens and highlighters. Thatcher really is like no one I’ve ever met before.
Before I think too hard about why that might be a good thing, I grab the sticky note and go inside my office. A second note greets me as I approach my desk. This one is written in blue ink and sits atop a stack of files.
A tiny smiley face punctuates the message.
When I open the file, I find a third note, featuring a snowflake wearing sunglasses.
And a fourth one with a snowman holding a steaming cup.
Laughter outside the office grabs my attention. I look up to see Thatcher walking with purpose toward my desk even as he waves at someone else in the office, a confident smile on his beautiful face.
“Here’s your coffee, boss,” he says, placing the steaming cup on my desk. “There’s a new barista, and he had to remake it twice to get the foam density exactly right, but I supervised the whole process. No explosions, no floods, not even a minor coffee-related incident.”
“Thank you, Thatcher. This is great.”
I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip for no other reason than to hide the smile that threatens to leak out.
I can be nice to Thatcher, but I can’t show that I find him intriguing, interesting, or sexy as fuck because something tells me that, as professional as he claims to be, he’d get on his knees for me if I asked.
He disappears back to his desk, returning moments later with a tablet held like a shield of professionalism. “I’ve reviewed your schedule for today,” he begins, swiping through the screen. “You have the board presentation at two, but I noticed several conflicts in the morning lineup.”
I raise an eyebrow, curious despite myself. “Conflicts?”
“The marketing meeting at ten overlaps with your conference call with the Tokyo office,” he explains, highlighting items on his screen. “I took the liberty of speaking with marketing, and they’re happy to move to eleven-thirty. And I’ve blocked off your lunch hour.”
“My lunch hour?” I never take lunch breaks. Everyone knows this.
Thatcher meets my gaze without flinching. “Working through lunch isn’t healthy,” he states, as if this is an indisputable fact. “You need time to recharge, especially before the board presentation.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do with an entire hour?” I ask, although tiny butterflies flutter inside me at his concern.
“Well,” he says, a hint of his usual brightness breaking through his professional demeanor, “I thought we could use that time to focus on you. Not work-work, but like…what makes you tick as a CFO? Your preferences, your pet peeves, the things that help you work best. I want to be the kind of assistant who anticipates what you need before you need it.”
“You’re inviting yourself to my lunch break?”
“Technically, it’s both our lunch breaks,” he points out, his professional demeanor cracking slightly to reveal the same spark of mischief I saw in the man who approached me at Lior’s wedding.
“And since they happen to coincide, we might as well make the best use of our time. Efficiency is important, right?”
His logic is impeccable, and the proposal perfectly reasonable. So why does my pulse quicken at the thought of sharing an hour with him, without the protective barrier of my desk or glass walls?
I should say no. I should maintain my distance, should keep our interactions confined to necessary business matters. Instead, I hear myself say, “That’s…acceptable.”
His grin breaks free then, bright and immediate, before he catches himself and tries to rein it back in.
“Excellent. I’ll make sure everything’s arranged.
” He takes a step toward the door, then pauses.
“Oh, and the board presentation files are already compiled and loaded onto your laptop. I added some color-coding to make the key points stand out. Nothing too dramatic, I promise.”
I watch him return to his desk. Through the glass, I expect to see him pull out the usual stack of sticky notes, but he turns to his computer and starts typing away. I should be doing the same, but all I can see is the man from that fucking bathroom.
Pierce Dellcourt is the master of self-control. Why do I seem to want to lose it in the presence of a man I barely know?
After the first couple of meetings of the day, I get lost in the numbers and barely notice life outside my office until the door crashes open with unnecessary force, announcing my brother’s arrival.
He’s carrying a manila folder and a tablet, his smile the kind that makes shareholders nervous.
“What are you doing here, James? And how did you get all the way up to this floor unannounced?”
“That’s a question you’d know the answer to mere months ago. You’ve lost your edge if you don’t know how to figure out the way to the top floor, big brother.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been doing some digging,” he says, settling into the chair across from me like he owns it. “VSE’s distribution network is impressive. Shame about those exclusivity contracts coming up for renewal next quarter.”
My stomach drops. “How do you know about those?”
“I know lots of things.” He opens the tablet, showing me a list of VSE’s top-ten distribution partners. “Dellcourt has been in talks with several of these companies. Offering them…alternative arrangements.”
“You’re poaching our partners?”
“I’m offering them better deals.” He shrugs. “Business is business. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What do you want?” I snap.
“A distribution deal with VSE. Exclusive rights to the Eastern Seaboard.” He leans forward. “You convince Lior to sign, and I’ll back off your partners. Refuse, and by this time next year, VSE won’t have a distribution network left to speak of.”
“Lior will never agree to that. You’d be taking a forty percent cut of our operations.”
“Then I suggest you find a way to convince him.” James stands, smoothing his tie. “You’re the CFO. Show him the numbers. Make him see that a partnership with Dellcourt Holdings is better than watching his company bleed out slowly.”
“And if I refuse to play your game?”
James’s smile turns cold. “Then I start with the smaller partners. The ones who can’t afford to say no to Dellcourt’s money.
One by one, they’ll fall. And when Lior asks his CFO how he let this happen right under his nose?
” He pauses at the door. “Well, I’m sure your history of questionable loyalty will speak for itself. ”
“What is this really about? Business? Or are you still wanting to prove something to Dad?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm. I’ll be generous and give you two months, Pierce. Convince Lior, or watch everything you’ve built here crumble.”
The threat hovers over me as he leaves. Through the glass, I watch Thatcher smile at a passing coworker, sunshine personified, and for the first time in years, I wish I were still the kind of man who didn’t care who got hurt.
As James passes Thatcher’s desk, he deliberately bumps it, sending papers cascading to the floor. The action is childish and petty, but it effectively demonstrates his power to disrupt my world with impunity.
I watch through the glass as Thatcher drops to his knees, scrambling to collect the scattered papers.
With my head in my hands and a headache building from my neck, I take deep breaths, trying hopelessly to figure out a way out of this.
The door opens again, and I look up to see Thatcher stepping into my office, his usual sunshine demeanor darkened by storm clouds I’ve never seen before.
“Who was that asshole?” he demands, the words carrying none of his usual playful energy. “Because whoever he was, he had no right to barge in here while I was distracted.”
The protective anger in his voice catches me off guard. I’m used to people cowering before James, not challenging his perceived right to do whatever the fuck he wants.
“That was my brother James,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
“Yeah, well, being family doesn’t give him the right to be a dick.
” Thatcher’s hands move as he speaks, but not with their usual expansive energy.
These movements are tighter, more contained, like he’s physically restraining himself from doing something not suitable for the workplace, like punching a wall. I know the feeling all too well.
“I’m your assistant. Nobody gets past me without an appointment. That’s literally in my job description, right after ‘master of coffee preparation’ and before ‘professional chaos coordinator.’”
Despite everything, I feel my lips trying to curve upward. “I wasn’t aware those were official titles.”
“I’m considering having business cards made,” he says, but the joke lacks his usual brightness. “Seriously, though, Pierce. We’re late for our meeting now, thanks to his unscheduled dramatic entrance.”
“Our meeting?” The words come out more breathless than intended.
“Lunch session?” Thatcher’s expression softens slightly, though the protective anger still simmers beneath the surface. “Remember? You were going to tell me all your CFO secrets so I can help you be even more brilliant at your job?”
“We can reschedule.”
“Absolutely not.” Thatcher’s voice carries that same certainty he had this morning while explaining the importance of lunch breaks.
“I’m not letting him disrupt your schedule.
Our schedule.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of his usual humor, “Besides, I already ordered lunch. And I have a whole list of questions about your work preferences. Very important research. Life or death stuff, really.”
I should argue. Should maintain distance, but instead I find myself asking, “What did you order?”
His smile breaks through then, like sunshine after a storm. “That would ruin the surprise! But I can confirm it contains zero ants and only a moderate amount of chaos.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Thatcher’s eyes light up, and for a split second, I’m tempted to vow to myself to make this happen more often.
Which, of course, is a promise I can’t and shouldn’t want to keep.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I should say no. Should stay at my desk, surrounded by the safety of spreadsheets. Instead, I find myself standing, drawn forward by Thatcher’s presence like a plant turning toward the sun.
“Lead the way,” I say, watching as his smile grows even brighter.