Within ten minutes, Roberto and two other maintenance staff arrive with supplies. Thatcher orchestrates the entire operation like a general commanding troops, except he keeps apologizing to the ants as they’re removed.
“Sorry, little guys. Nothing personal. You’re just in the wrong drawer.”
“You’re apologizing to insects,” I say.
“They’re living creatures,Mr. Dellcourt. They didn’t ask to be attracted to delicious cookies.” He pauses. “Which you should have eaten, by the way. They were from that bakery on 5th. The good one.”
My desk phone rings before I can respond. The caller ID shows the regional manager for the New York office.
“I need to take this,” I say, reaching for the phone, but Thatcher is faster.
“Mr. Dellcourt’s office, this is Thatcher speaking. How may I help you?” His voice transforms from chaotic apologizer to smooth professional in an instant. “Mr. Brand, yes, hello! Mr. Dellcourt is just finishing up a meeting. May I help you with something in the meantime?”
I watch, frozen, as he handles the call. He laughs at something Brand says. A genuine laugh.
“The quarterly budget projections? Yes, I can have those sent over within the hour. And Mr. Delcourt mentioned you’re a Celtics fan? Tough loss last night, wasn’t it?” He listens, nodding. “Exactly what I said! The defense was all wrong.”
I gesture to the phone, and Thatcher nods. “Oh look. Mr. Dellcourt has just returned to the office.”
By the time he hands me the phone, Brand is practically purring.
“Pierce! Your new assistant is delightful. Where did you find him?”
I look at Thatcher, who’s now helping Roberto relocate the last of the ants while simultaneously giving me a thumbs-up.
“He found me,” I say, and I’m not entirely sure what I mean by that.
The rest of the morning passes in the organized chaos I’m beginning to associate with my assistant’s presence. He’s everywhere at once—delivering files, charming executives, making the lunch cart lady blush with compliments about her muffins.
At the weekly staff meeting, I watch him take notes. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, though the margins are filled with tiny doodles. A coffee cup here. A stick figure that might be me, frowning at a computer. An ant wearing a top hat.
“Pierce?” Lior’s voice cuts through my observation. “Thoughts on the new break-room proposal?”
I snap back to attention, irritated at myself for being distracted. “The equipment upgrades are reasonable, but we need to revisit the installation timeline and the supplier. I think we can get a better deal somewhere else. I’ll have a revised proposal by the end of the week.”
After the meeting, Lior falls into step beside me.
“Meatball seems to be settling in with the team like he’s been here for years,” he says.
“He’s…okay.”
“Okay.” Lior smiles that knowing smile I’ve grown to hate. “Is that why you were watching him doodle instead of listening to the supply chain update? Because he’s okay?”
“I wasn’t watching him.”
“Of course not.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
The afternoon brings an urgent contract review. A client wants changes by morning, and the legal team has already left for the day. I’m preparing for a long night when Thatcher appears at my door.
“You’re still here,” he observes, glancing at his watch. “It’s past seven.”
“This contract needs revisions by morning,” I explain, gesturing at the paperwork spread across my desk. “Legal team’s gone for the day, so I’m stuck doing this myself.”
His expression shifts from curiosity to determination. “I can stay and help,” he offers. “I’m good with details.”
“This is complex financial language. It requires?—”
