Page 12 of Christmas With the Jerk

I wasn’t thinking. Not clearly, anyway. Everything had been so chaotic—the blizzard, the stress, the horrible motel room, Christmas cheer all around except within me. And in the middle of it all, I let myself go there with Thorne, of all people.

Now I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping the blanket tighter. I feel a mix of shame and anger at myself. Thorne represents everything I’ve worked to distance myself from—entitlement, privilege, and the gross pursuit of money at all cost.

He's everything I despise in this world.

And yet... there was something about him last night. A vulnerability, maybe? Or was it just sheer exhaustion?

It doesn’t matter. I can’t dwell on it. We still have to get to Boston today. I glance over at the old clock by the bedside, the red numbers glowing faintly. Five days until Christmas, and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with him in a meat locker posing as a set from a bad seventies porno.

With a slight wince from the tenderness between my legs, I push back the blankets and stand. I hate that this happened, that I letit happen. I’m better than this. Last night felt like a betrayal of everything I’ve worked for.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers the truth I’ve buried for so long. You chose this path, but you could’ve had an easier one. It was always there, waiting for me. Just one phone call, one step back into the fold, and the doors would open. But no. I shake my head. That’s not who I am.

Thorne Chilton is not who I am.

But what kind of person does that make me? The kind that falls into bed with an entitled trust funder because of a long road trip and a blizzard? Get it together, Woodley.

I get up quietly and grab my clothes that are strewn about as I make my way to the bathroom. I need to focus on what’s ahead, not look back with regrets. Boston. The pitch. That’s what matters now. Everything else is irrelevant.

7:39am

When I step outsidethe room, the cold air hits me hard, biting at my skin, but it clears my head. The world feels crisp, raw, like a clean slate.

Coffee. I need coffee. Surely that small front office has some kind of mud water I can get until we can get to a more respectable coffee establishment on the road.

As expected, an old glass pot percolates in the corner. It might smell like coffee, but it is some pathetic substitute. It will do. Ishould get one for Thorne, but I'm nicer than that. I wouldn't give this shit to my worst enemy.

I spot Thorne by the car brushing snow off the windshield when I walk back. He got up and out of there quickly. I guess my short conversation with the desk attendant about the best route out of here back to the interstate was longer than I thought.

He doesn’t look at me right away, and I’m grateful for it. I’m not ready to face him. Not yet.

A vision of his broad shoulders and well-defined chest as he thrusted above me flashes through my mind.

I wrap my arms around myself, standing in the doorway for a moment longer. We still have six hours of driving left, and we’re both exhausted. Please, God, don’t let it be awkward all the way to Boston. Hopefully we can put it all behind us and focus on the task at hand.

I-95 North,somewhere in Virginia

8:12 am

The coffee cupin my hand is still warm, but I can already feel it cooling in the cold air of the car. It's one million times better that whatever Norman’s assistant had brewed up in the office.

The silence between us is thick and uncomfortable, despite the hum of the road and constant splashing of the wet slosh of snow and asphalt beneath the tires. I glance at the GPS. Seven hours and fifty-three minutes to Boston, but who's counting?

I shift in my seat, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. We left the motel in a hurry after deciding the room wasn’t worth freezing in any longer. The Starbucks stop barely thawed the chilliness between us, but it certainly gave me what I needed to plow ahead physically.

At least now we have the car’s heater and we have a properly heat-regulated environment. The chill in my bones has finally receded.

Thorne sips his coffee in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He hasn’t said much since we left. It’s not like I expected him to, but the silence is hard not to miss.

After last night, I'm sure he's as much at a loss for words as I am. Not that we ever had a prolific banter between us, but now, it’s like a heavy cloud is hanging over us, stiffling any chance at conversation.

I should say something, because this is getting weirder by the mile marker.

Anything to break the tension. I clear my throat. “So, any thoughts on how we’re going to handle tomorrow’s pitch? We've got time and daylight, might as well talk about it.”

Thorne glances over at me, his expression unreadable. “We’ve gone over the deck enough times. You’re leading the presentation, right?”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the road. “Yeah. I’ll start with the main overview and the client’s needs, but we should probably decide who’s handling what sections.”

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