Chapter 20 Pierce
PIERCE
The New York office of Van Stern Enterprises occupies three floors of a glass tower in Midtown, all clean lines and modern furniture. From this height, Central Park spreads below us like a green oasis in the concrete jungle.
Paul Brand greets us in the lobby with the kind of enthusiasm that immediately puts people at ease. A skill I’ve never mastered but find myself envying.
“Dellcourt! Good to finally meet in person.” His handshake is firm, genuine.
“Please call me Pierce.”
“And you must be Thatcher. Great to finally meet you too.”
Thatcher’s face lights up with recognition and pleasure. “Mr. Brand! It’s so good to meet you in person.”
“Your efficiency on that budget discrepancy call a few weeks ago saved me hours of work.” Brand’s smile widens. “I’ve been telling everyone here about the miracle worker in the main office.”
I remember that day. Thatcher fielding calls while Roberto dealt with my cookie-compromised drawer, somehow managing multiple crises with his usual chaotic grace. What I hadn’t realized was how much of an impression he’d made on Brand.
“You were incredibly helpful. You knew what you needed, and that always makes my job easier,” Thatcher says warmly. “I’m glad we could sort it out quickly.”
“More than quickly—efficiently. And speaking of efficiency…” Brand gestures toward the elevator. “Diego, come meet Thatcher!”
A young man with perfectly styled hair and an infectious grin bounds over, immediately pulling Thatcher into a hug that makes me inexplicably tense.
“Finally!” Diego exclaims. “I’ve been wanting to meet my inter-office buddy in person. Your email about color-coding expense reports changed my life.”
“You actually implemented that?” Thatcher asks, delighted.
“Are you kidding? Mr. Brand loves it. We’ve cut processing time in half.” Diego turns to me with a respectful nod. “You’re lucky to have him, Mr. Dellcourt. Look after him, or I’ll use my contacts in HR for evil purposes and poach him away from you.”
The casual comment makes me feel uncomfortably possessive. “Thatcher is irreplaceable.”
Brand’s office overlooks the park, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the view like artwork. We settle around his conference table, Thatcher immediately pulling out his notebook and arranging his colored pens in neat lines.
“So,” Brand begins, spreading financial reports across the polished surface, “as you can see from the quarterly numbers, we’re experiencing unprecedented growth.
Twenty percent increase in client acquisitions, a fifteen percent bump in revenue, and our employee satisfaction scores are the highest they’ve ever been. ”
I scan the documents, impressed by the consistent upward trends. “These are excellent numbers, Paul.”
“They are, but they’re creating new challenges.” Brand points to a chart showing office capacity. “We’re running out of space. Currently, we occupy floors thirty-two through thirty-four, but we need to expand.”
“A fourth floor?” I ask, making preliminary notes.
“Exactly. And here’s the interesting part: I heard through the grapevine that TLA Consulting, the company on floor thirty-one, is looking at offices uptown. If they move, that floor could become available.”
The opportunity is intriguing, but my attention keeps drifting to Thatcher.
He’s taking meticulous notes, occasionally writing something on his sticky-note pad that he slides discreetly toward me.
His tongue pokes out slightly when he concentrates, the same expression he wore last night when he was sketching me into complete surrender.
“The infrastructure needs are significant,” Brand continues, pulling up building schematics on his tablet. “Enhanced IT systems, additional conference rooms, maybe even a dedicated client entertainment space.”
I nod, though my mind is replaying the feeling of Thatcher’s pencil moving across paper like he was touching my skin directly. The way his voice had dropped to that hypnotic whisper as he described every line he was drawing, every shadow he was capturing.
My tie feels suddenly too tight. I run my finger between the collar and my skin to loosen it a little, but it doesn’t work.
A sticky note appears beside my elbow. Thatcher’s handwriting reads:
Heat crawls up my neck as I glance at him. His expression is perfectly professional, but there’s mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Pierce?” Brand’s voice cuts through my reverie. “You seem distracted. Everything all right?”
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus on the expansion plans. “Sorry, just processing the scope of what you’re proposing. The numbers are significant.”
“They are,” Brand agrees. “But the growth projections support the investment. What are your initial thoughts?”
“I’ll need to review everything thoroughly,” I say, grateful to have something concrete to focus on.
“Run projections, analyze the cost-benefit ratios, maybe explore alternative financing options. This is only day one of three. I want to give you comprehensive recommendations, not knee-jerk reactions.”
Another sticky note appears:
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
The meeting continues for another hour, with Brand walking us through staffing needs, technology requirements, and timeline expectations.
Thatcher asks surprisingly insightful questions about workflow optimization and employee satisfaction metrics, his creative perspective offering angles that pure financial analysis might miss.
“Excellent points, Thatcher,” Brand says, making notes. “You really do think outside the box.”
Thatcher beams at the praise, and I feel that surge of pride again. He deserves this recognition, deserves to know that his unique approach to problem-solving is valued.
When Brand finally closes his folder, the late-morning sun is slanting through the windows.
“I think it’s time to take a break. I’ve booked lunch at a local bistro, where we’ll meet with the rest of the New York management team. After lunch, we’ll give you a tour of the office.”
I nod and close my folder.
Diego, who’s been taking notes for Brand, collects his stuff and turns to Thatcher. “Come on. You’re having lunch with me. I’ll introduce you to everyone, and then I’ll show you how you can get the really good coffee we serve the directors.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Brand says.
Thatcher smiles as Diego drags him away. I don’t miss the wink he gives me when he knows no one else can see but me.
This man is going to be the death of me.
“Come on, Pierce. Let me introduce you to the best of our New York cuisine.”
“Lead the way.”
I used to love working lunches, but after weeks of Thatcher forcing me to have actual lunch breaks where he refuses to talk about business, they don’t hit the same anymore.
The directors of the New York office are a really good bunch. Lior has lucked out here. His dad left him with a good team.
Yet I can’t seem to enjoy the lunch. I join in the conversation when appropriate, but I miss Thatcher’s random tangents. I miss him practically inhaling his food so he can spend the rest of the time drawing while we talk about anything and everything.
I never expected to have so much in common with someone who’s so much younger and has a completely different life experience.
Forcing myself not to react when Thatcher and Diego join us after lunch for a tour of the office is an exercise in willpower. Eventually, I get my focus back.
“This has been incredibly productive,” Brand says, shaking both our hands. “I’ll have my team prepare detailed proposals based on your recommendations. Should have everything ready for review by tomorrow morning.”
As we gather our things, Brand turns to Thatcher. “I hope you’ll consider applying for a position here if you ever want a change of scenery. We could use someone with your organizational skills and creative perspective.”
Thatcher’s smile is polite but firm. “I’m very happy where I am, but thank you.”
Brand laughs. “It’s only day one. I have two more days to win you over.”
“You’re welcome to try, Mr. Brand,” Thatcher replies.
The words send an unexpected rush of relief through me. The thought of Thatcher leaving, of working without his chaotic energy and impossible optimism, makes my stomach sour.
We make our way out of the building, stopping by Diego’s desk, where he hugs Thatcher enthusiastically.
The evening air is crisp against our faces as we step onto the sidewalk. The city hums around us—car horns, distant music, the chatter of people heading home from work. Street vendors are setting up for the evening rush, and the smell of roasted nuts and hot pretzels fills the air.
“How did that feel?” I ask as we walk toward our hotel.
“Amazing,” Thatcher says, practically bouncing with excitement. “Brand actually knew who I was. Knew about my work. And Diego. I can’t believe he actually implemented my filing system. I’ve never had that before, someone outside our office recognizing what I do.”
The joy in his voice makes my chest warm. “You deserve that recognition. Your work speaks for itself.”
We’re approaching the hotel when I realize I don’t want this day to end. The city is alive around us, full of possibilities and adventures waiting to be discovered.
“Would you like to explore a little before dinner?” I ask. “See some of the city?”
Thatcher’s face lights up like I’ve offered him the world. “Really? You want to play tourist?”
“With you? Yes. What would you like to see first?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “The Empire State Building. I know it’s touristy and cliché, but I’ve been fascinated by it since I was a kid. I’ve drawn it so many times I know every line of that building by memory.”
The pure enthusiasm in his voice is infectious. “I can do you one better than just seeing it,” I say, pulling out my phone. “I know someone who can get us to the top floor. Not the observation deck—the actual top floor.”
Thatcher stops walking, staring at me with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. One of my father’s old business partners owns property in the building. He owes me a favor.” I’m already scrolling through my contacts, finding the number I haven’t used in years.
“Pierce, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “You want to see the building you’ve been drawing since childhood? Let’s see it properly.”
As I make the call, watching Thatcher’s face transform with excitement and disbelief, I realize this is what I’ve been missing. Not just the sex, though God knows it’s incredible, but this—making someone I care about happy. Seeing pure joy on his face is the best prize I could ever win.
“We’re cleared for the private elevator in an hour,” I tell him when I end the call. “Think you can wait that long?”
His answer is a kiss, quick and impulsive. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with happiness.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “For this, for everything. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
As we walk toward the hotel to change for our evening adventure, I catch our reflection in a storefront window.
We look like the one thing I never dared to believe I could have, even when I was with Lior and was certain we’d be each other’s forever.
Of all the dangerous thoughts I could have about Thatcher, this one is by far the most catastrophic.