Chapter 22 Pierce
PIERCE
I’ve just kicked off my shoes after my day of wandering the city and buying more books than I have time to read, when Thatcher bursts through the hotel room door, his eyes bright with excitement.
Before I can ask about his day, he’s crossing the space between us. The kiss carries all of his usual enthusiasm, as if his sole purpose in life is to give himself to me like this.
“Tell me about your day,” I insist when we finally part. His smile is bigger and brighter than I’ve ever seen. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger and even more vibrant.
“How about I tell you in the shower?” he suggests, his fingers already working at my shirt buttons with an eager efficiency that makes my pulse quicken.
My laugh surprises me as I pull him toward the bathroom. I’ve never laughed as much as I have since I met this young, beautiful, full-of-life man. I try not to think too hard about that. Under the spray, I gather him close enough to feel his heartbeat against my chest.
For a moment, I take him in. The feel of his body against mine. His body reacts, as does mine, but as crazy as it sounds, especially to me, having him this close is as good as finding relief.
“So,” I prompt, reaching for the shampoo. “How was the conference? Did you show them exactly what you can do?”
The way his expression lights up makes something warm unfurl in my chest. My fingers work through his curls with care as he begins to speak, each word making me prouder of his talent and courage.
“It was amazing,” he admits, leaning into my touch. “The workshop leader said my pieces have real heart. And I met this children’s book author who thinks they have series potential.”
My hands pause briefly as pride swells in my throat. Of course they recognized his talent. How could they not? “Of course they do,” I say, resuming the gentle massage of his scalp. “Have you made any contacts with publishers?”
We trade positions under the spray. I hang on Thatcher’s every word, even as my hands refuse to leave his skin. He gestures enthusiastically while water streams down his body.
“There’s this one publisher specifically looking for series, and they loved the concept of helping kids embrace imperfection,” he explains. “My new friend Talia says it’s a big topic right now in publishing because of the impact things like social media have on a child’s mental health.”
I slide my hands down his back and pull him closer. “That makes a lot of sense, and they’d be lucky to have you,” I murmur against his neck.
“They want to schedule a meeting.”
“Tell me more.” I trace patterns on his skin, loving the way his breath catches even as he talks. “I want to hear everything.”
He details the feedback he received and the people he met. Designers, artists, publishers. After a while, he gives up talking and pushes me against the tiled wall.
“You don’t play fair. We have dinner reservations.” He looks down at where our erections are sliding deliciously against each other with the help of the soap.
“Not for a couple of hours,” I point out, dropping my voice as my hands slide lower. “Plenty of time to celebrate your success properly.”
Half an hour later, we reluctantly leave the steamy bathroom behind, trading our passionate explorations for the necessity of getting dressed for dinner.
Thatcher stands before the mirror, wrestling with his tie in that endearingly chaotic way that always makes me want to help but also watch to see what happens.
“Let me,” I say softly, moving behind him. Our eyes meet in the mirror as my hands slide around his neck.
“You’re so much better at this,” he admits, leaning back slightly into my chest.
“Or maybe you’re just finding excuses for me to touch you.”
He gasps. “I would never.”
“You totally would, Mr. Bend and Snap.”
He turns around and wraps his hand around my tie, pulling me down with it. “Have you just Legally Blonded me?”
I answer with a kiss because there’s no way in heaven or on earth that I’ll admit to having seen that movie over a hundred times.
“We’ll be late for our reservation,” I say instead.
“Worth it,” he declares, but steps back slightly to survey our reflection.
“You don’t have to wear a tie, you know? You look perfect without it.”
His careful styling is already showing signs of disruption, making me want to mess it up completely. Instead, I force myself to focus on retrieving my wallet and room key.
“I don’t want to stand out,” he says with his hand on the door.
I push him against it and whisper in his ear. “Baby, you were born to stand out and shine.”
He doesn’t reply, but his smile reassures me that I said the right thing.
Outside, Manhattan wraps around us like an embrace, the evening air carrying hints of the approaching autumn.
Thatcher’s like a child who just found the best playground.
When we walk through a small park, he stops, takes a tiny sketchbook and a pencil out of his pocket, and starts drawing the building in front of us with the trees in the foreground.
“Wait—” He stops. “Come over here.” He drags me by the hand to a bench and asks me to sit.
“You’re not going to sketch me now, are you?” My laugh is semi-choked from embarrassment.
“Why not? You’re the best view in Manhattan,” he says without taking his eyes off the book in his hands.
Heat rises in my cheeks as his pencil moves across the page with quick, confident strokes. “I can’t believe you’re sketching me on a New York City park bench.”
“Believe it,” he murmurs, glancing up briefly to study my pose before returning to his work. “Though try to look less like you’re having an existential crisis. Maybe more like the man who just spent the day discovering he actually enjoys being a tourist.”
“Did I enjoy being a tourist?” I scratch the scruff I couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning. “I was distracted thinking about you most of the day.”
Thatcher’s pencil pauses as he looks up fully now, his expression softening. “You know, I’ve thought about that.”
“About how you distract me even when you’re not around?”
He chuckles. “No, about how you always seem so sure of yourself, so confident, so perfectly suited for corporate life.” His head tilts slightly. “But what did you want to be when you were younger?”
The question catches me off guard. I shift slightly on the bench, making him frown and gesture for me to stay still. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I can’t imagine you dreaming of spreadsheets as a kid,” he says, returning to his sketch but continuing to talk. “Everyone starts with bigger dreams, right? Astronaut, firefighter, circus performer…”
“Circus performer?” I laugh despite myself.
“You’d look good in sequins,” he says seriously, then grins. “But really. What was Pierce Dellcourt’s childhood dream?”
I’m quiet for a moment, watching the way the evening light catches in his curls. “Architect,” I admit finally. “I used to build elaborate structures with blocks, then graduated to detailed drawings of buildings that could never actually exist. Too many impossible angles.”
Thatcher’s pencil stills completely as he looks at me with new interest. “What happened to that dream?”
“Reality,” I say, though the word comes out more bitter than intended. “I was so conditioned to compete against James that I thought my only option for a career was to prepare to take over the family business when my father retired.”
“But you’re not doing that.”
My hands curl into fists. The familiar weight of family disappointment settles on my shoulders. “No. I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
The question hits harder than it should. Because I failed. Because I chose Lior over family loyalty and lost both. Because James proved himself the better Dellcourt son while I was busy destroying my relationship and my reputation.
“We should probably go,” I add, needing to change the subject. “We don’t want to be late for dinner, and we still have a block to go.”
If Thatcher finds my sudden shift in topic or the fact that I completely ignored his question strange, he doesn’t say it. He simply pockets the sketchbook and stands. “You lead the way.”
“Are you going to show me your sketch?” I ask.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
The look he gives tells me exactly the conditions required for the disclosure of his tiny piece of art. I pull him close and whisper in his ear.
“Don’t tease me, or we’ll skip dinner altogether.”
He wraps his arms around my shoulders. “Don’t tease me, or I’ll say ‘Yes, please.’”
“Can you say yes to something else?”
Thatcher looks at me like he’d say yes to anything I ask. The trust in his big blue eyes is more than I deserve.
“What’s the matter? Your face just went all…weird,” he says, tracing my eyebrows with his thumbs.
How can I tell him that this moment here with him in my arms, in the city that never sleeps, surrounded by strangers going about their lives, is one of the most perfect moments of my life?
How can I tell him that I am forty-six, but in all my experience with relationships, I’ve never felt like this about anyone, even Lior, whom I would’ve married had he said yes when I asked.
How do I tell him that I’m fucking scared that I’m going to hurt him, or that I don’t know how I’ll cope if I’m the one doing the hurting?
“Pierce?” he asks, his voice tinged with worry. “Did I do something wrong? Was it the sketch?”
“Why would you think that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought we were flirting, and then you kinda…stopped, and your expression changed. I haven’t learned all your expressions yet, and I don’t know what this one means.”
It means I’m falling in love with you and don’t know how to handle it.
“Will you come with me to the Mayor’s Gala? West and Drew from The Starfinders Foundation are receiving an award. It’s a charity that Noah—”
“Yes, of course,” he interrupts. “I mean, I was already planning to go because I sometimes volunteer with them. Noah got his brothers and me into it. We helped out when they got their new premises. Wait— You want me to go with you…as your date?”
The hope in his eyes breaks my heart because I can’t give him the answer he’s looking for. “Fuck…anything I say is going to make me sound like a dickhead.”
“You want me to go with you but not openly,” Thatcher says quietly, understanding dawning in his expression.
I cradle his face in my hands and look into his eyes. “I want you to go as my date. I want to show up with you on my arm, put my hand on the small of your back, steal kisses between dinner courses. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“But you can’t.”
“We can’t. Not publicly. And that makes me feel like the worst kind of coward.” My thumbs stroke his cheekbones. “I want to give you everything, Thatcher, but I can’t even give you this one simple thing.”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“Because I’m your boss.”
He puts his hands over mine and rises on his toes to kiss me softly. “That’s enough, Pierce.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is for now.” He steps away from my embrace and tugs me toward the park exit.
“Come on. I’m hungry, and you promised me the best Italian food in the city.”