6
PIERCE
The office is different.I notice it the moment I step off the elevator, ready for another day. There’s an energy in the air that wasn’t there before. People are…smiling. Chatting by the water cooler without the usual tension. Someone actually laughs.
This is Thatcher’s doing. I know it because, while Van Stern Enterprises is a great place to work, everyone has been struggling to adapt to Lior’s more flexible approach after years under his father’s stricter rules.
I weave through the open-plan floor toward my office, nodding at the usual faces.
Thatcher is hunched over his keyboard, tongue poking out as he concentrates on something. His tie is slightly crooked. His hair looks like he’s run his hands through it seventeen times already. He’s a disaster wrapped in a cheap suit.
I shouldn’t find it endearing. I don’t find it endearing.
“Good morning,” I say, pausing by his desk.
He looks up, startled, then breaks into that sunshine smile that leaves my chest uncomfortably full.
“Mr. Dellcourt! Good morning! I got here early to finish the preparation for today’s staff meeting, so I haven’t grabbed your coffee yet. It would have gone cold. But I’m going now! Right now. Unless you need something else first? I can do both. I can definitely do both.”
“Coffee is fine.”
“Perfect. Great. On it.” He practically bounces out of his chair and heads toward the elevators, nearly colliding with a filing cabinet on the way.
I watch him go for a moment longer than necessary, then shake my head and enter my office.
A bright-yellow sticky note greets me on my computer monitor:
I peel it off, telling myself the slight twitch of my lips isn’t a smile. It’s a muscle spasm. Nothing more.
I shouldn’t find it endearing. I don’t find it endearing.
Settling into my chair, Ibegin my morning routine. Computer on. Emails scanned. Calendar reviewed. I reach for my drawer to grab a pen.
My hand touches something soft. Crumbly. I look down.
Cookies. A small bag of chocolate-chip cookies, slightly crushed, is sitting in my drawer. And marching across them in an organized line are dozens, no, at least one hundred ants.
“What the?—”
I push back from the desk, watching in horror as the tiny invaders continue their methodical work. They’ve created an efficient highway from somewhere behind my desk, up the drawer runner, and directly into the cookie bag. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
I’m still staring at the infestation when Thatcher returns.
“I forgot the—” He freezes, his hand midway to reaching out for something on his desk, eyes tracking from my face to the open drawer. Color drains from his cheeks. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
He rushes over, peering into the drawer. “I left those last week! To cheer you up! You looked stressed after the call with someone named James, and I thought—” He watches an ant carry a chocolate chip twice its size. “I didn’t think you’d just…leave them there.”
“I didn’t know they were there.”
“But I left a note!”
“You leave approximately forty-seven notes per day. I can’t read them all.”
He looks genuinely wounded by this. My intention isn’t to upset him, but how can I work with an infestation of ants on my desk?
“I’ll fix this,” he says, already pulling out his phone. “Roberto? Hi! It’s Meatball. Listen, we have a tiny ant situationin Mr. Dellcourt’s office. Very tiny. Barely an invasion. More like a…a friendly visit. From ants.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
