I follow his gaze to where Thatcher has indeed accomplished the impossible. The perpetually frowning head of our accounting department is actually laughing at something my assistant has said.
“He has a way with people,” I admit.
“Or at least with certain people.”
Before I can protest, Lior moves toward the small stage area and taps the microphone. His speech is simple and short. He doesn’t go into unnecessary detail. The bottom line, and what he wants to communicate to everyone, is that he values every single employee, and despite the company already having a generous rewards package, he’s taking it one step further with this bonus.
Once the room quiets down again after many cheers from happy employees, Lior publicly praises Thatcher for the work he put into organizing the party.
I look for him in the crowd, but for the first time all night, I can’t find him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to no one in particular, already moving away from the crowd.
The hallway offers blessed quiet from the party. I loosen my tie, needing to breathe. This obsession with Thatcher is driving me insane, and now James’s systematic attack on our business is adding another layer of stress I can barely handle.
What I need right now is a cold shower and a stiff drink. And maybe a jerk-off session to relieve the sexual tension I’m carrying all the fucking time.
A restroom door nearby stands ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway like an invitation I shouldn’t accept.
I pause in the doorway, breath catching at the sight before me. Thatcher stands at the sink. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and something electric passes between us.
“Pierce,” he starts, but I’m already stepping inside, closing and locking the door behind me.
He turns to face me, his back against the sink in a mirror of that first night. But this time, there’s no wedding music filtering through the walls, no excuse of champagne and celebration.
“The board is impressed,” I say, moving closer until I can feel the heat from his body. “Everyone is impressed. But I find myself missing my chaos coordinator. Not a single drop was spilled tonight. Not a single glass broken. Not a single…” I shake my head. “It’s like you’re not here.”
Thatcher’s breath comes faster now. “I thought… I thought this was what you wanted. After that night in your office, when we almost…”
“When we almost gave in?” I finish for him, close enough now that our faces nearly touch.
His hands rise to my tie, fingers trembling slightly as theytrace the silk. “I’ve been trying so hard to be perfect,” he admits softly. “To be worthy of…of this. Of you.”
“You were already perfect,” I murmur, watching his eyes darken at my words. “Perfect in your chaos, in your color, in all the ways you make my ordered world feel alive.”
A sharp knock at the door makes us both freeze. “Is there anyone there?” a voice calls from the hallway. “Fuck, I need to take a leak.” Whoever it is, his voice disappears into the hallway as he groans about out-of-service restrooms at such a big party.
I start to step back, but Thatcher’s hands on my tie hold me in place. “Wait,” he whispers.
His fingers slide up to my face, thumb brushing across my lips with a delicate pressure that makes my breath catch. When I open my mouth, he places his thumb on my tongue, and I taste the sweetness of buttercream. I suck his finger, delighting in the way his blue eyes go dark and his eyelids close a little.
“You had a bit of icing,” he explains softly, but his thumb lingers on my mouth longer than necessary. “Right there.”
He’s so close. There’s no doubt we’re both on the precipice of something, but before I can close that final distance, he’s sliding past me with fluid grace. “I should check on the party,” he says, his voice carrying new warmth that makes my skin tingle.
The door closes behind him with soft finality, leaving me alone with the ghost of his touch on my lips and the memory of how perfectly we fit together. When I finally return to my table, straightening my tie with hands that aren’t quite steady, I find a small sticky note hidden beneath my napkin.
The familiar handwriting makes my heart race:
I trace the lines with my finger, remembering how his thumb felt against my lips, how his eyes held mine, telling me without words that he’d snap in a heartbeat if he could.
Across the room, Thatcher is back to charming everyone he speaks to. Glasses are never empty, and I know he’s contracted a cab company to have rides available for everyone all night. When he catches me watching, his wink is pure chaos coordinator, bright and mischievous and everything I’ve been missing.
I touch my lips again, tasting sweetness that has nothing to do with cupcakes, and smile.
All the moments I’ve had with Thatcher, where I wanted to kiss him, are like tokens in a glass jar, and that jar is filling up so fast that it’s going to burst and shatter any day now.
So much for Mister Focused and Composed. Mister Workaholic.
