Chapter 18 Pierce
PIERCE
The door to my office opens without warning, and Thatcher bursts in with his usual whirlwind energy. His tie hangs slightly crooked, and his curls look like they’re actively fighting whatever product he uses to tame them.
“I’ve been looking at the hotels in New York,” he starts, pacing in front of my desk with nervous energy that sets my teeth on edge.
“I mean. I know New York is expensive, but…and with the conference fee. Anyway, I’ve found some options though.
There’s this hostel in Brooklyn that has decent reviews… ”
My fingers tighten around my pen as he lists increasingly concerning accommodation options. Each suggestion is increasingly unsuitable, especially when he mentions a “budget-friendly” motel near the airport that advertises hourly rates.
“And I know it’s not ideal,” he continues, checking his phone, “but if I take the red-eye flight on Saturday instead of staying that extra night, I could save enough to upgrade from the hostel to maybe a two-star hotel. Though the bed bug reviews are a bit concerning…”
The pen creaks in my grip as I watch him pace, noting how he bites his lower lip between sentences, how his usual confident energy has transformed into something more fragile. The thought of him staying somewhere unsafe makes something possessive curl in my stomach.
“The conference website lists some roommate-matching options,” he says, scrolling through his phone with increasing desperation.
“Though sharing with strangers might be awkward, given my tendency to sleep-organize when I’m in a strange place.
When I moved in with Alli during college, I reorganized her sock drawer at three a.m… while she was sleeping five feet away.”
His rambling continues as I stand slowly, my movement deliberately careful as I cross to the glass panels that face the rest of the office and close the blinds. Thatcher’s voice falters as I reach the last window, his words trailing off into a questioning silence.
The door lock clicks softly, and when I turn, his eyes have widened with a recognition that makes heat pool in my stomach. He takes a half-step back as I approach, but his retreat stops when his thighs hit my desk.
“Pierce,” he starts, but whatever protest he planned disappears as I close the remaining distance between us. My hands find his waist, and he shivers slightly. His breathing quickens as I lean closer.
“Stop. Talking,” I murmur, watching his pupils dilate at my tone.
Then I’m kissing him with all the control I’ve maintained since he walked in, all the protective need his worried rambling inspired.
He makes a soft sound against my mouth as I pull him closer, his hands coming up to grip my tie, keeping me in place.
I deepen the kiss, needing him so fiercely that it makes me question everything I’ve always known about being myself. Thatcher’s mouth opens against mine. His fingers slide into my hair as he pulls me closer. My own hands tighten on his waist, probably leaving wrinkles in his shirt.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily, and Thatcher’s eyes have lost their worried edge.
Instead, they carry heat that matches the warmth spreading through my whole body.
His lips look slightly swollen, and his tie has gone from crooked to completely askew.
He still looks as beautiful as the day he walked up to me, holding two glasses of champagne and an easy smile.
“Pierce,” he tries again, but his voice has gone breathy, making focusing difficult. “We should probably discuss…”
“Later,” I interrupt, leaning in to taste the spot where his neck meets his collar. His words dissolve into a soft gasp as I leave marks that his tie won’t quite hide. “Right now, we’re going to talk about proper accommodation arrangements.”
Thatcher’s breath comes in soft gasps against my neck as I hold him close, his body warm and solid against mine. The edge of my desk presses into his thighs. I should step back, put some distance between us, but his hands in my hair make letting go impossible.
“About the hotel,” I manage, though my voice has gone rougher than intended. “Fiona always stayed in my hotel. That’s approved and above board. I suggest you get a room in my hotel.”
Thatcher stiffens slightly in my arms, his fingers tightening in my hair before he starts to pull away. “But,” he protests, though his hands remain on my shoulders like he can’t quite let go.
I silence him with another kiss, softer this time but no less urgent. His arguments dissolve into a quiet moan as I trace his bottom lip with my tongue, tasting coffee. When I pull back, his eyes have gone slightly unfocused.
“This is not open for debate,” I murmur against his mouth, enjoying how he shivers at my tone.
“I’m not having you stay in some questionable hostel or commute from dangerous neighborhoods.
We could end up working late into the night, so I’ll need my assistant ready to…
assist any time I need.” His protest weakens as my hands slide lower, tracing patterns on his hips that make his breath catch.
“End of discussion.” The words come out more possessive than intended, making Thatcher’s eyes widen slightly. “It’s not necessary, but I’d rather pay for it myself than worry about your safety in some bed bug-infested motel.”
His expression softens. “You worry about my safety?” he asks quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on my shoulders that feel like questions.
“Among other things,” I admit, watching color rise in his cheeks. “Like whether you’re eating properly between chaos coordination duties. Which reminds me, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Somewhere quiet where we can discuss our New York plans properly?”
Pierce, what in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?
The invitation hangs between us, heavy with implications. Thatcher bites his lower lip as he considers. Finally, he nods slowly, his smile carrying none of its usual mischief.
“Dinner would be nice,” he says softly, then adds with attempted lightness: “Very professional. Just a CFO and his assistant discussing travel arrangements.”
“Exactly.” I lean in to taste his smile, unable to resist when he looks at me like that. “A purely business-related conversation about shared accommodations and after-hours activities.”
His laugh vibrates through both our bodies, making me aware of everywhere we’re still touching. “Very appropriate after-hours activities,” he agrees, but his hands sliding down my chest carry different suggestions.
“There’s one more thing,” Thatcher says, pulling out his phone to show me the CANVAS conference details.
“Even if I stay at your hotel, I still need to figure out accommodation for the weekend portion. The conference hotels are all booked, and the nearby options are…” He grimaces at the prices on his screen.
“Let’s just say they’re not in my budget. ”
I glance at the conference information, then back at him. “You’re staying at the same hotel throughout the trip,” I say. “It would be silly to move hotels for just two days, especially when the conference venue is right around the corner.”
“That’s smart, but like I said, it’s a personal expense for me. VSE shouldn’t have to cover my conference attendance.”
An idea forms, one that’s probably crossing too many lines, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “What if I stayed for the weekend too? Maybe we could do things together after your conference. Or on Sunday.”
He opens his mouth and then bites his lower lip. “You want to stay in New York for the weekend?”
“I haven’t had a proper break in months,” I admit, and the vulnerability in my voice surprises even me. “I could use a weekend to actually relax for once. And I’d like to be there when you get back from your conference. If you don’t mind the company.”
Something lights up in his eyes. “You want to spend your weekend in New York just…so you can hear how my day went?”
“I’ll find ways to occupy myself,” I say, my voice dropping in a way that makes his breath catch. “Room service, maybe catch up on some reading. And then when you’re done…”
“Pierce…”
“Think about it,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “We’d already be there in the same hotel. It could be…nice.”
The way I say “nice” clearly suggests I have very specific ideas about how we might spend those evenings, and I watch him grip the edge of my desk like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
“Okay,” he says, his voice slightly breathless. “Yes. That sounds…nice.”
Noise outside the door makes us both freeze, reality intruding on our secret bubble.
Thatcher steps back quickly, his hands moving to straighten his tie with trembling fingers.
I smooth my own clothing with careful movements, trying to restore a professional polish that feels increasingly inadequate.
“Tonight,” I say quietly as he moves toward the door. “Eight o’clock.”
His smile, quick and genuine and just for me, makes my chest tighten with an emotion I’m not ready to name.
“Eight o’clock,” he confirms, then adds with familiar mischief, “Though I have to say, after seeing you in those sweatpants and that tight Harvard hoodie, I’m not sure anything else will measure up.
Maybe you should reconsider the dress code for our professional dinner meeting. ”
I watch as he returns to his desk, immediately turning to his plant and talking to Anthony about going to New York before asking him if he’s ever been outside the city.
After opening the blinds again, I finally return to my chair, and I discover the sticky notes Thatcher left for me, as well as those I’ve used myself, have been scattered across my desk and the floor.
But as I gather the paper, I find myself smiling at the thought of dinner plans, hotel arrangements, and all the ways Thatcher makes my usually gray and boring world feel more alive.