As James passes Thatcher’s desk, he deliberately bumps it, sending papers cascading to the floor. The action is childish and petty, but it effectively demonstrates his power to disrupt my world with impunity.
I watch through the glass as Thatcher drops to his knees, scrambling to collect the scattered papers.
With my head in my hands and a headache building from my neck, I take deep breaths, trying hopelessly to figure out a way out of this.
The door opens again, and I look up to see Thatcher stepping into my office, his usual sunshine demeanor darkened by storm clouds I’ve never seen before.
“Who was that asshole?” he demands, the words carrying none of his usual playful energy. “Because whoever he was, he had no right to barge in here while I was distracted.”
The protective anger in his voice catches me off guard. I’m used to people cowering before James, not challenging his perceived right to do whatever the fuck he wants.
“That was my brother James,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
“Yeah, well, being family doesn’t give him the right to be a dick.” Thatcher’s hands move as he speaks, but not with their usual expansive energy. These movements are tighter, more contained, like he’s physically restraining himself fromdoing something not suitable for the workplace, like punching a wall. I know the feeling all too well.
“I’m your assistant. Nobody gets past me without an appointment. That’s literally in my job description, right after ‘master of coffee preparation’ and before ‘professional chaos coordinator.’”
Despite everything, I feel my lips trying to curve upward. “I wasn’t aware those were official titles.”
“I’m considering having business cards made,” he says, but the joke lacks his usual brightness. “Seriously, though, Pierce. We’re late for our meeting now, thanks to his unscheduled dramatic entrance.”
“Our meeting?” The words come out more breathless than intended.
“Lunch session?” Thatcher’s expression softens slightly, though the protective anger still simmers beneath the surface. “Remember? You were going to tell me all your CFO secrets so I can help you be even more brilliant at your job?”
“We can reschedule.”
“Absolutely not.” Thatcher’s voice carries that same certainty he had this morning while explaining the importance of lunch breaks. “I’m not letting him disrupt your schedule.Our schedule.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of his usual humor, “Besides, I already ordered lunch. And I have a whole list of questions about your work preferences. Very important research. Life or death stuff, really.”
I should argue. Should maintain distance, but instead I find myself asking, “What did you order?”
His smile breaks through then, like sunshine after a storm. “That would ruin the surprise! But I can confirm it contains zero ants and only a moderate amount of chaos.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Thatcher’s eyeslight up, and for a split second, I’m tempted to vow to myself to make this happen more often.
Which, of course, is a promise I can’t and shouldn’t want to keep.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I should say no. Should stay at my desk, surrounded by the safety of spreadsheets. Instead, I find myself standing, drawn forward by Thatcher’s presence like a plant turning toward the sun.
“Lead the way,” I say, watching as his smile grows even brighter.
9
THATCHER
“You’re late,”Alli calls from behind a tower of dog-food bags, but I can hear the smile in her voice. She appears around the corner, her work apron covered in what looks like fish food and possibly hamster bedding.
“I have pastries,” I say, shrugging off my messenger bag and reaching for my own apron with tiny paw prints that I added myself.
“You’re forgiven.”
Three jobs and nine months ago, when I was between jobs, Alli suggested I help out at her pet store to stop me from doing something silly like starting an OnlyFans account, where I sketch what the followers request. I still think the idea has legs, but Alli gives me one of her looks whenever I bring it up. She’d handed me an apron, pointed me toward a stack of dog-food bags that needed organizing, and somehow, everything felt a little less overwhelming.
Now, most Saturday mornings, I come over to help her. My weekly pet-therapy session, as Alli calls it. No matter how chaotic my week gets, I can always count on these peaceful Saturday mornings where I’m surrounded by furry friends.
Alli measures the coffee grounds and adds them to the coffee maker she has on a high table in the gap between the cash register and her stock room.
