Chapter 12
PIERCE
The party venue looks completely different from the bare brick walls I saw in the photos Thatcher showed me.
In such a short time, he’s gone from chaos incarnate to someone I can’t imagine working without. Three weeks since that night in the conference room, when we almost… My phone buzzes, bringing me back from my running thoughts.
James:
Sunside Industries just signed with us. That’s three of your partners this month. Clock’s ticking, big brother.
I grip the phone too tight, remembering our conversation about VSE’s distribution network. James isn’t bluffing. He’s systematically poaching our partners, offering them deals we can’t match. Sunside was one of our most reliable partners on the East Coast.
If he continues this campaign… My position at VSE, the trust I’ve earned, everything I’ve built here could crumble. Lior will want to know how I let this happen right under my nose, and my history of questionable loyalty will make me the perfect scapegoat.
My phone buzzes again, but this time, it’s not James. It’s confirmation from our legal team that the Morrison Group has agreed to our revised terms. One small victory in this war my brother started.
James may be winning battles, but he doesn’t know I’m fighting back.
I pocket my phone. Tonight isn’t about threats or corporate warfare.
Tonight is about recognizing that Lior’s first year at the helm of Van Stern Enterprises has been a success.
We’re excelling at every metric, from profit to employee satisfaction and the steady relationships we’ve built with other companies.
For the first time since VSE was founded, employees will receive performance- and profit-related bonuses. I’ve worked hard to ensure Lior’s idea to reward VSE’s employees wasn’t just a pipe dream, but something we could achieve.
So, no, tonight, my brother and his systematic destruction of our partnerships can fuck off.
I pause in the doorway, watching Thatcher adjust a vase of flowers.
He looks more measured, more controlled.
The change should please me. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted since he first arrived with his rainbow sticky notes and tendency toward disaster?
But a dull ache settles at the sight of him being so… proper. Contained.
I take a deep breath and put my professional smile in place just in time.
“Pierce,” he says, turning to face me with a clipboard in hand. “I was just finalizing the centerpiece arrangements. Would you like to review the placement?”
I step farther into the space, taking in the transformation he’s created.
“Everything looks perfect, Thatcher,” I manage. His cheeks color slightly at the praise, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of his usual brightness before it disappears.
“I wanted to ensure everything met company standards,” he says. “The board members will be arriving soon. I’ve prepared detailed schedules for the catering staff and security team. Everything should run smoothly.”
He checks items off his clipboard, his demeanor so different from his usual animated gestures. But when he glances up, I catch something in his eyes that sends heat crawling up my neck.
What is it about this man that turns me completely inside out?
“Walk me through the timeline,” I say, proud that my voice remains steady, despite the way his presence seems to fill all the space between us.
Thatcher moves close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne.
He points to various items on his schedule, but I find myself watching his hands instead of the clipboard.
These are the same hands that draw cartoons in report margins, that bring me my favorite coffee every morning, that touched me that night like he’d been doing it for years.
“The first guests will arrive at six,” he explains, his voice carrying little of its usual enthusiasm.
“Passed appetizers begin immediately, with the main buffet opening at seven. Lior’s speech is scheduled for eight.
The quartet has been instructed to vary their chosen pieces throughout the evening to maintain appropriate energy levels. ”
I nod, but my attention keeps drifting to the way his sleeve pulls back slightly when he gestures, revealing the point in his wrist that I touched. He notices my distraction and pauses, his mask slipping just enough to show uncertainty underneath.
“Is everything all right, Pierce?”
“You tell me. You seem…a little off.”
His clipboard lowers slightly, and something of his old warmth shows through. “I just want everything to be perfect.”
“It is perfect.”
His smile leaves me off balance as he calls out to someone passing and then strides off in his mission to make this the perfect event.
The catering staff moves with military precision under Thatcher’s direction. I take a step back and watch as final preparations are made and VSE employees start filing into the venue.
I take a drink from a passing server and pretend I’m ensuring everything runs smoothly, but really, my eyes can’t stop searching for wherever Thatcher goes next.
I’m about to tell him this is his party too, and he should enjoy it, when recognizable voices come from behind the concrete column I’m leaning against.
“Well, well,” says one board member, his voice carrying that particular tone of condescension that usually comes from old, entitled businessmen. “This is…unexpected. When we heard the new assistant was handling arrangements…”
“We were prepared for something more…chaotic,” another adds, examining a centerpiece with exaggerated care. “Given the stories we’ve heard.”
“I have to admit,” the first board member continues, loud enough to carry, “I had my doubts. I heard the last job he was fired from involved a remodel of their offices after he caused the fire-suppression sprinklers to come on…”
A rush of anger comes over me as Thatcher’s shoulders hitch when he passes them, the reaction of someone who heard every word. Before I can stop myself, I’m moving across the space, inserting myself into their conversation with careful precision.
“Mr. Charles has everything under control. His attention to detail and organizational skills are exactly what this company needs.”
The board members blink in surprise at my intervention. Thatcher’s head snaps up, his eyes meeting mine.
“Of course, of course,” the first board member backtracks smoothly. “We were just…surprised by the level of sophistication.”
“Mr. Charles excels at exceeding expectations,” I continue, unable to stop myself from defending him. “His unique creative perspective brings value to everything he touches.”
I leave the men with a polite nod and head to the buffet, happy to see people enjoying themselves. Between polite conversation with a few people I know and some I don’t, I watch Thatcher work the room with unexpected grace, his natural charm channeled into keeping smiles on everyone’s faces.
When he glances my way, his eyes carry questions I’m not sure how to answer. How do I tell him that I miss his chaos while being proud of his competence? That watching him maintain this perfect professionalism feels like watching someone dim their own light?
My phone buzzes again. Another text from James.
James:
I heard the board meeting went well. They’re starting to see your…limitations.
I delete the message immediately, but the damage is done.
I’m absolutely certain one of our own board members is feeding James information.
This shouldn’t surprise me. Some board members fought for control of VSE and lost when Lior’s mother gave her share in the company to her son to ensure he retained the majority.
I should have known the bears would hibernate but come out in the spring to feed.
Across the room, Lior catches my eye and raises his glass before joining me at the table.
“Remarkable party,” Lior comments. “Thatcher certainly has pulled out all the stops. I hasten to say this one might be better than the last.”
“He’s certainly proved himself capable,” I say, aiming for neutral but probably missing by miles.
Lior gives me another one of his looks. “Capable isn’t the word I’d use,” he observes mildly. “Transformative, maybe. When’s the last time you saw Robert from accounting actually smile? Or anyone from accounting smile, for that matter.”
I follow his gaze to where Thatcher has indeed accomplished the impossible. The perpetually frowning head of our accounting department is actually laughing at something my assistant has said.
“He has a way with people,” I admit.
“Or at least with certain people.”
Before I can protest, Lior moves toward the small stage area and taps the microphone.
His speech is simple and short. He doesn’t go into unnecessary detail.
The bottom line, and what he wants to communicate to everyone, is that he values every single employee, and despite the company already having a generous rewards package, he’s taking it one step further with this bonus.
Once the room quiets down again after many cheers from happy employees, Lior publicly praises Thatcher for the work he put into organizing the party.
I look for him in the crowd, but for the first time all night, I can’t find him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to no one in particular, already moving away from the crowd.
The hallway offers blessed quiet from the party. I loosen my tie, needing to breathe. This obsession with Thatcher is driving me insane, and now James’s systematic attack on our business is adding another layer of stress I can barely handle.
What I need right now is a cold shower and a stiff drink. And maybe a jerk-off session to relieve the sexual tension I’m carrying all the fucking time.
A restroom door nearby stands ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway like an invitation I shouldn’t accept.
I pause in the doorway, breath catching at the sight before me. Thatcher stands at the sink. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and something electric passes between us.
“Pierce,” he starts, but I’m already stepping inside, closing and locking the door behind me.
He turns to face me, his back against the sink in a mirror of that first night. But this time, there’s no wedding music filtering through the walls, no excuse of champagne and celebration.
“The board is impressed,” I say, moving closer until I can feel the heat from his body. “Everyone is impressed. But I find myself missing my chaos coordinator. Not a single drop was spilled tonight. Not a single glass broken. Not a single…” I shake my head. “It’s like you’re not here.”
Thatcher’s breath comes faster now. “I thought… I thought this was what you wanted. After that night in your office, when we almost…”
“When we almost gave in?” I finish for him, close enough now that our faces nearly touch.
His hands rise to my tie, fingers trembling slightly as they trace the silk. “I’ve been trying so hard to be perfect,” he admits softly. “To be worthy of…of this. Of you.”
“You were already perfect,” I murmur, watching his eyes darken at my words. “Perfect in your chaos, in your color, in all the ways you make my ordered world feel alive.”
A sharp knock at the door makes us both freeze. “Is there anyone there?” a voice calls from the hallway. “Fuck, I need to take a leak.” Whoever it is, his voice disappears into the hallway as he groans about out-of-service restrooms at such a big party.
I start to step back, but Thatcher’s hands on my tie hold me in place. “Wait,” he whispers.
His fingers slide up to my face, thumb brushing across my lips with a delicate pressure that makes my breath catch.
When I open my mouth, he places his thumb on my tongue, and I taste the sweetness of buttercream.
I suck his finger, delighting in the way his blue eyes go dark and his eyelids close a little.
“You had a bit of icing,” he explains softly, but his thumb lingers on my mouth longer than necessary. “Right there.”
He’s so close. There’s no doubt we’re both on the precipice of something, but before I can close that final distance, he’s sliding past me with fluid grace. “I should check on the party,” he says, his voice carrying new warmth that makes my skin tingle.
The door closes behind him with soft finality, leaving me alone with the ghost of his touch on my lips and the memory of how perfectly we fit together. When I finally return to my table, straightening my tie with hands that aren’t quite steady, I find a small sticky note hidden beneath my napkin.
The familiar handwriting makes my heart race:
I trace the lines with my finger, remembering how his thumb felt against my lips, how his eyes held mine, telling me without words that he’d snap in a heartbeat if he could.
Across the room, Thatcher is back to charming everyone he speaks to.
Glasses are never empty, and I know he’s contracted a cab company to have rides available for everyone all night.
When he catches me watching, his wink is pure chaos coordinator, bright and mischievous and everything I’ve been missing.
I touch my lips again, tasting sweetness that has nothing to do with cupcakes, and smile.
All the moments I’ve had with Thatcher, where I wanted to kiss him, are like tokens in a glass jar, and that jar is filling up so fast that it’s going to burst and shatter any day now.
So much for Mister Focused and Composed. Mister Workaholic.