13
THATCHER
“Hi, Mick,”I say, waving at the VSE building night security guard as I tap in my access card.
“Back again, Mr. Charles?” Mick looks up from his crossword with a smile.
“Just need to drop off some party paperwork.”
The elevator ride gives me time to loosen my tie. I’m exhausted from the party, but I’m also on a high. The party was a success. I’d have loved to enjoy it more, but I’m very proud of my work.
What I’m not so proud of is almost kissing Pierce or teasing him. Bad Meatball.
The office floor stretches before me, dark except for security lighting and the soft glow of sleeping monitors. I make my way to my desk, ready to drop the paperwork and go home.
The light from my monitor casts blue shadows across scattered papers as I boot up the system. While I’m here, I may as well see if anything important came through since I left early to set up the venue for the party.
The email notification chimes softly, drawing my attention to the screen.
I do a routine check of the report for tomorrow’s board meeting, just making sure everything’s in order before… My heart stops as numbers jump out at me, suddenly wrong in a way they weren’t hours ago. The quarterly projections, the ones I triple-checked before incorporating them into the main report, show a significant discrepancy that wasn’t there this morning.
The whispered words from certain board members were loud enough that I didn’t miss them as I walked past them at the party earlier. I was called a “charity case,” “a disaster waiting to happen,” and even “Van Stern’s latest mistake.”
I’ve learned to ignore comments like those. If an incident is going to happen, worrying about those words won’t prevent it. I know that much. And maybe I sometimes try a little too hard, but I don’t know how to be any other way.
My fingers clench on the mouse and the numbers blur slightly as I stare at them, but the error remains clear. Someone updated the source data without adjusting the linked projections, creating a cascade of incorrect calculations that could undermine tomorrow’s entire presentation. If this goes uncaught… If Pierce stands before the board with wrong numbers…
I’m not about to let that happen.
Numbers have always made sense to me. Just because I find joy in chaos doesn’t make me less capable of creating order. It’s one of the things my father has never accepted. Why don’t I harness my natural talent in the business world instead of playing with crayons, as he calls it?
My jacket lands on the back of my chair, and I roll up my sleeves. The spreadsheet expands across my screen like a puzzle waiting for me to find the missing pieces.
“Quarterly projections assuming standard market growth,” I mutter. “Adjust for seasonal variations, factor in the Miller account’s unexpected gains…”
Time loses meaning as I trace the error to its source, following digital breadcrumbs through linked spreadsheets and nested formulas.
The sudden flood of overhead lights makes me jump. I look up to find Pierce standing next to my desk, his appearance so unexpected that for a moment, I think I’m imagining him. But no, he’s real, and he’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
His tie hangs loose around his neck, jacket over his arm, hair slightly disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it. The sight makes my breath catch.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice carrying equal parts concern and curiosity.
“I found an error,” I explain, forcing my attention back to the screen. “In tomorrow’s board presentation. Someone updated the source data without adjusting the linked projections, and if we don’t fix it…” I trail off as he moves closer, his presence making it harder to focus on numbers rather than his cologne.
“Show me,” he says, leaning over my shoulder to examine the spreadsheet. His skepticism is obvious in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes narrow as he scans the figures. But as I walk him through my discoveries, pointing out discrepancies and explaining my corrections, his expression shifts from doubt to admiration.
He pulls up a chair, settling beside me. Our shoulders brush as he reaches for the mouse, and the contact sends electricity through my whole body. “Show me what else you’ve found.”
We work in comfortable silence, broken only by softexplanations and occasional questions. His hand brushes mine when we both reach for the mouse, and neither of us pulls away immediately.
“Here,” I say, pointing to a particularly complex formula. “If we adjust the growth projections to account for market volatility…” My voice trails off as I realize how close we’ve gotten, how the space between us has shrunk to almost nothing.
Pierce leans in to examine the screen, his shoulder pressing warm against mine. “Impressive,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he means the calculations or something else entirely.
We turn back to the screen and continue working.
“There,” I say finally, voice slightly unsteady as I save the corrected files. “Everything’s fixed. Tomorrow’s presentation will be perfect.”
