Chapter 21 Thatcher
THATCHER
I lie on my side, facing Pierce, my arm tucked under my head for a better view. My free hand hovers inches from his chest, wanting to touch but not wanting to disturb this moment.
The morning light catches the silver threading through his dark hair, and I can see the faint lines around his eyes that appear when he smiles, which he’s been doing a lot more of lately.
His breathing is deep and even, lips slightly parted, and there’s a relaxed set to his shoulders that I rarely see when he’s awake.
Even in sleep, he’s beautiful in that understated way that makes my fingers itch for my sketchbook.
But I don’t want to move, don’t want to risk waking him when he looks this peaceful.
The last three days have been incredible. Working with Diego and the New York team has been really fun. Pierce has been in and out of meetings, reviewing budgets and systems with the kind of focused intensity I’ve come to associate with his work.
I’ve loved watching him in action here, seeing how respected he is, how other executives defer to his expertise.
He’s had several phone calls with Lior that didn’t require my help, so I had a chance to spend more time with Diego and his team.
We even had a video call with Geoff and Priya, which apparently was the first time that ever happened.
But more than the work, I’ve been falling deeper for the man sleeping soundly in front of me.
Away from the glass walls of our usual environment, Pierce has let me see sides of him I never knew existed.
The way he laughs at street performers, how he insists on buying something from every sidewalk vendor we pass, the way he keeps talking about my art like every sketch matters.
And the sex… God, the sex has been a revelation. Pierce has let me draw him afterward, when he’s loose-limbed and glowing, completely unselfconscious. Those sketches are my favorites. Pierce, orgasm-drunk and trusting, letting me capture him in his most vulnerable moments. He takes my breath away.
“Mmm,” Pierce murmurs, eyes opening to find me watching him. His smile is soft and unguarded, the kind I’m learning he reserves for early mornings and post-orgasm bliss. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply, leaning down to kiss him softly. He tastes like sleep and softness, and I want to lose myself in him all over again.
“Big day today,” he says when we break apart, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “Are you excited about the conference?”
The question makes my stomach flip from anticipation to anxiety in record time.
“My mind was nowhere near the conference until just now, but suddenly, I’m terrified. What if I cause an accident? What if there’s a flood or a fire? What if I trip over someone and all the exhibition stands collapse like dominoes?”
Pierce laughs. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Have you met me?” I protest, sitting up and running my hands through my hair. “Yesterday, I nearly caused a wasp invasion in the New York office. A wasp invasion, Pierce! Who does that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I bought Diego a plant for his desk at the farmers’ market during my lunch break to thank him for all the support he’s given me this week.
A beautiful little succulent that was supposed to brighten up his workspace.
Except, it apparently came with its own free wasp nest hidden in the soil.
Diego saved the day by noticing it before I put the plant on his desk, but can you imagine?
‘Hi, nice to meet you, here’s a plant full of angry wasps for your office. ’”
Pierce is full-on laughing now, the sound rich and delighted. “You are one of a kind, Thatcher.”
“It’s not funny! I could have gotten someone stung. Or caused a building evacuation. Or—”
My spiraling anxiety is cut off as Pierce flips us smoothly, pressing me into the mattress with a kiss that steals my breath. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with intent.
“How can I help you relax?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Fuck me,” I say without hesitation, my hands already reaching for him. “Make me forget about accidents and conferences and everything except how good you make me feel.”
His smile is pure sin. “I can definitely do that.”
Pierce takes his time with me, his hands and mouth mapping my body with undivided attention. By the time he’s inside me, moving with slow, deliberate strokes that make me see stars, every worry about the conference has melted away.
“Better?” he asks afterward as we lie tangled together, both of us thoroughly spent.
“Much better,” I admit, already feeling the familiar post-orgasm relaxation settling into my bones. “Thank you.”
“What are you going to do all day?” I ask, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.
“I might explore a bit. There are some bookstores I want to check out, maybe take a walk through the Village.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be thinking about you though. Wondering how your first conference is going.”
The warmth in his voice makes my chest all tingly and warm. “I’ll text you updates.”
“I’d like that.”
An hour later, I’m standing outside the conference center, portfolio in hand and nerves firmly back in place despite Pierce’s thorough relaxation technique.
The building buzzes with creative energy, artists and writers streaming through the glass doors with the kind of excitement I recognize from my own reflection.
“First time at CANVAS?” The volunteer behind the registration desk smiles with genuine warmth as I fumble my ID for the third time. Her name tag identifies her as a fellow illustrator.
“That obvious, huh?” I manage a shaky laugh as I finally extract the right documentation. “Do I have ‘complete novice’ stamped on my forehead?”
“We were all first-timers once,” she says, efficiently processing my registration while I try not to vibrate out of my skin with nervous energy. “What’s your medium?”
“Pencil, mainly,” I explain, relaxing slightly as we discuss familiar territory.
“Traditional graphite on paper. I love the control you get with a pencil, the way you can build layers, create texture with different pressures. There’s something about the direct connection between hand and paper that digital can’t replicate.
Though I do scan and color digitally for final pieces. ”
She nods with understanding. “There’s nothing like the feel of graphite on paper. I love how tactile it is.”
“Exactly. Plus, I can sketch anywhere—meetings, coffee shops, park benches. My sketchbook goes everywhere with me.”
She hands over my badge and conference materials with another warm smile. “You’re in good company then. The traditional media workshop this afternoon has some incredible pencil artists presenting.”
“Thanks.”
Finding a quiet corner, I pull out my phone to text Pierce.
Thatcher:
Made it through registration without setting anything on fire!
His response comes almost immediately, making me smile.
Pierce:
Knew you’d be amazing. Having a wonderful day myself. Currently being lectured about Hemingway by a 75-year-old woman in a bookstore, who decided I looked like I needed literary guidance. She’s not wrong.
The image of Pierce being adopted by a random grandmother makes me grin. I can picture him standing there politely while she rearranges his entire reading list, probably buying whatever books she recommends because he’s too well-mannered to escape.
The thought carries me through the double doors into my first workshop, heart racing with anticipation rather than anxiety.
I belong here among these storytellers and dreamweavers, just as much as I belong in Pierce’s arms or at my desk at VSE.
The realization feels like freedom, like permission to be exactly who I am in all my contradictory glory.
My hands refuse to remain steady as I arrange my portfolio pieces across the round table.
It took me forever to pick the right ones to bring, but I’m happy with my choices.
The workshop leader moves between groups, offering critiques.
My heart performs gymnastics worthy of Olympic competition as she approaches our section.
The five other artists at my table arrange their own work with varying degrees of confidence. A woman to my left displays gorgeous watercolor landscapes that make my pieces feel somehow less legitimate.
“Interesting technique,” the artist beside me comments, leaning closer to study my line work. “The energy in these pieces is fantastic. Are they part of a series?”
Before I can respond, the workshop leader reaches our table.
She pauses longer at my spread than she has at any other, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her clipboard.
The silence stretches until I want to apologize for every artistic choice I’ve ever made, but then she speaks. “These have real heart.”
The words hit like sunshine breaking through clouds, making my chest tight with unexpected emotion. She leans closer, examining specific panels with genuine interest. “Your character work is particularly strong. These expressions carry real emotion. Tell me about the concept.”
“They’re… They’re based on office disasters,” I explain, my voice steadier than I expect. “Taking everyday chaos and turning it into an adventure for kids. Showing how mistakes can become opportunities if you look at them the right way.”
“It’s a great concept and perfect execution. I have no doubt you’ll find some interest in your work here.”
For the rest of the morning, I visit the publisher stands, making note of those that are accepting submissions. I definitely want to return to the ones that fit my style.
When my belly rumbles, I head over to the café.
“Hey, Thatcher. Join us!” Talia, a children’s book author who was at my table earlier, calls, waving me toward an empty chair. “I was telling these guys about your illustrations. Would you mind showing them?”
I take out my sketchbook and set it on the table. They gather around to flip through my portfolio.
Looking around the table at these fellow artists and writers, I feel something I’ve rarely experienced in my corporate jobs: true belonging. They understand the drive to create, to transform everyday moments into something magical.
The lunch hour passes too quickly, filled with exchanged contacts and promised collaborations. As we gather our things, Talia catches my arm with gentle pressure. “Keep in touch,” she insists, her smile carrying genuine warmth. “This industry needs fresh voices like yours.”
As I head to a panel, my phone buzzes with a message from Pierce.
Pierce:
Day off status: Successfully purchased five books I’ll never read and had coffee with a stranger who insisted on sharing her life story. Turns out I’m terrible at leisure. Can’t wait to hear all about your day
“Your boyfriend?” Talia asks, pointing at my phone.
“Oh…um…it’s complicated.”
She laughs. “Can’t be that complicated if he makes you smile like that. I should know, I married my boss.”
“You did what?”
She hooks her arm with mine as we walk together.
“I got this temporary job after college at a digital printing company. Just to pay bills, you know. I hated the job, but I stuck with it for longer than I needed because I had the biggest crush on my boss. He was a few years older, and I don’t know. ” She shrugs. “I just liked him.”
“What happened?”
“One day, he called me into the office and said I needed to find a different job.”
“He fired you?”
She winks. “He wanted to take me out on a date, so he figured out a way to ‘uncomplicate’ things. Ten years later, we’re still together and have five-year-old twin girls.”
Her words stay with me for the rest of the day. As I make my way back to the hotel, hope blooms with each step, even if it’s still laced with self-doubt.
Is there a world in which Pierce and I can enjoy lazy Sunday mornings in bed? Drinking coffee and sketching while he reads the financial news? Coming home to each other after long days, sharing stories about work drama and office politics like normal couples.
Is that something he would want, or are we just casual fun?
The thought that our connection and our chemistry are nothing but a bit of fun and a way to release tension for him gnaws at me, but not enough for me to disrupt the bubble we’re in.
Maybe after New York, I’ll somehow locate the courage I need to have the conversation with him, even if it means I lose him.