PIERCE
The Van Sternestate rises into view as I round the final bend of the driveway. The main house, now a museum honoring Lior’s grandfather’s stained-glass art, stands proud against the darkening sky, its windows glowing with the soft illumination that draws tourists.
It’s hard to believe that VSE started here, in this very building, where Lior’s grandfather’s first intricate handcrafted stained-glass pieces are on display. Under Lior’s father, that modest operation grew into the multinational enterprise it is today—supplying everything from architectural glass installations to precision optical components worldwide.
My destination, however, is the smaller cottage tucked away in the corner of the grounds. His grandfather’s original workshop, where Lior carved out his own space away from the grandeur of the main house, and now shares it with his husband.
The last time I was here was for the wedding. The last time I was here, I hooked up with my now-personal assistant. A thought that makes my dick hard, no matter how much I will it to not react to anything Thatcher-related.
The party was meant to celebrate Lior and Noah’s secret Vegas wedding—a chance for the family to share what they’d missed. That night has lived rent-free in my head ever since.
Why the fuck am I here?
With a heavy sigh, I get out of the car and head to the front door. The doorbell’s chime seems too loud in the evening quiet. I reach for my tie, but when my hands touch my bare neck, I remember Lior’s express demand that I wear something casual and that he’d kick me out if I turned up in a suit.
When the door opens, all my composure threatens to crumble.
Thatcher stands there in jeans and a loose, soft sweater that makes his office attire seem like a costume in comparison. The fabric falls down his shoulders, suggesting rather than hiding the body underneath. His hair, free from product, curls wildly around his face. I close my hand into a fist to stop my itching fingers from touching him.
A blush spreads across his cheeks, and I wonder if, like me, he’s remembering every second of the encounter in the bathroom that stands just a few yards behind him. His smile is bright and immediate, but also reluctant. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I was invited,” I reply, cringing inwardly at the obvious.
He steps back to let me in, and the movement brings us close enough that I catch his scent. Thatcher smells like fresh bread, clean laundry, and things I shouldn’t be noticing about my assistant.
“They’re in the kitchen,” he says. His eyes are fixed on me, but I get the feeling he’s not really looking at me, but through me, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
“Lead the way,” I say to break the silence.
I follow him down the hallway, trying not to notice how his jeans fit or remember how those hips felt under my hands.
He pauses before we get to the kitchen doorway and turns around, close enough that I feel the heat from his body.
“Pierce,” he says quietly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” I breathe out.
The kitchen greets me with a wave of warmth and competing aromas. I stand in the doorway as Lior and Noah move around each other with the ease of two people who do this often. For a split moment, before they notice they’re not alone, I drink in the image of two people so totally in love they forget there’s a world out there, even inside their kitchen.
A hard knot forms in my chest.
“Pierce!” Noah grins. “Perfect timing. We’re almost ready.”
He’s whisking something that smells like garlic and wine.
“Can you chop those veggies for the salad?” Noah asks, his head pointing at the table next to me. I sit down and get to work, glad for the distraction.
“Thatcher was just telling us about his plans for the pet store illustrations,” Noah continues.
I glance up sharply, catching Thatcher’s blush. “It’s just a side project,” he mumbles, suddenly fascinated by the basil he’s mincing. “My best friend Alli owns a pet store and thinks some custom artwork would make the shop look more friendly and cozy.”
“You should show Pierce your sketches,” Lior suggests. “He has an excellent eye for detail.”
Thatcher’s hands go still on the cutting board, his face flushing pink in a way I’ve never seen before. This self-conscious, uncertain version of him is so different from his usual boundless confidence.
“They’re not really… I mean, they’re just silly doodles,” he says softly, and the hint of self-doubt in his voice intrigues me more than it should.
“You drew an ant wearing a top hat on my meeting notes last week. Your bar for ‘good enough’ seems inconsistent,” I point out before I can stop myself, watching as his blush deepens and a small smile tugs at his lips.
