Page 19 of Christmas With the Jerk

And yet, there’s this twinge of sadness sitting in my chest. I haven’t thought about my family in a while, but seeing all these people together, celebrating, sharing the season makes me wonder what they’re doing now.

Not that I’d be there, even if they invited me. Which they wouldn't.

Still, there’s something about this time of year that makes me feel the absence more. It’s the one season where everyone’s supposed to be with someone—family, friends, someone special. And here I am, sitting alone in a hotel lobby, working.

God, if there was ever a modern day parallel with Ebenezer Scrooge, she’s sitting right here sipping on her RBV.

I shake off the melancholy, reminding myself that this is what I chose. I’ve made my peace with it.

At least, most of the time I have.

I glance at the bar again, watching the bartender polish glasses, Christmas lights reflecting off the shelves behind him. The humof conversation and clinking glasses fills the space. Still, even with the holiday cheer around me, I feel a pang of loneliness.

And then I see him.

Thorne walks in, looking completely different than I’m used to seeing him. His jeans are fitted, not too tight but just right, and he’s wearing a relaxed shirt—something casual, unbuttoned just enough to be distracting. He’s cleaned up, and the sharp lines of his jaw stand out against the soft glow of the Christmas lights. Damn.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as he approaches. My heart races, and I can't help but flash back to last night, to the moment when everything changed—and then snapped right back to reality: the chill of the winter coming in through the poorly insulated motel room.

Still, I remember the way his skin felt under my hands, the hard planes of his chest, the ripple of muscle as I ran my fingers over his abs. I had no idea he was hiding such a fit, strong body under those custom-tailored suits. The memory sends a shiver down my spine as my cheeks flush.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts. This is not the time nor place. We're here for work, and whatever happened last night can't happen again. It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment brought on by exhaustion and the stress of the trip. We keep moving forward and never look back.

As he gets closer, I can't help but let my gaze travel over him, taking in the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the confident stride of his long legs. He looks good. God, am I already tipsy?!

I force myself to look away, to focus on the drink in my hand. I can't let myself get distracted, not now. We have a job to do, and I refuse to let whatever this is simmering between us get in the way.

He reaches my table, and I look up, meeting his gaze. There's something in his face that seems softer, kinder. It's gone in an instant, replaced by his usual confident smirk, but it's enough to make my heart skip a beat.

"Woodley," he says, his voice low and rough. "You clean up nice."

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps at the sound of my name on his lips. "Thanks," I say dryly. "You don't look so bad yourself. I’m glad to know you own blue jeans.”

He grins, and for a moment, it's like we're just two colleagues, trading barbs and keeping it light before diving into the real reason we are here. But then his gaze drops to my lips, and the air between us shifts, growing heavy with tension.

There is no mistaking it, something has changed between us. Whatever the reason, I feel it and based on his body language, I’m not the only one.

I clear my throat, breaking the moment. "We should probably take the plunge," I say, pointing to my file. “To our decks, I mean.” Fucking A. Could I have found a worse set of words? “I think we both need an early night to be sharp tomorrow."

My pulse is slightly elevated, and I press the glass to my lips, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. Why the hell am I nervous? It’s just Thorne. He’s the same irritating guy who spent half the trip sulking silently and the other half sleeping.

I sit up a little straighter, smoothing out the front of my shirt. Must be the Red Bull.

6:16pm

The last ofthe presentation flicks off my laptop screen, and I lean back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. “And that’s a wrap. I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Thorne nods, his eyes scanning over his own notes before closing his laptop with a soft click. “Yeah. You did a nice job putting all of that together. I think it looks great.”

There’s a sense of relief between us—like the weight of tomorrow’s presentation has finally lifted, at least for now. We’ve gone over every detail, every angle. There’s nothing more to tweak. We’re ready.

“Well,” I say, stretching my arms overhead and stifling a yawn, “I guess it’s time to call it a night.”

Thorne glances at his watch, then back at me with a slight smirk. “It’s barely 6:15. Don’t tell me you’re actually turning in this early.”

I raise an eyebrow, already sensing where this could go if I’m not careful. “It’s been a long day.”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “True, but... how about one more drink? It would be a shame not to enjoy this beautifully decorated lobby and live music. You know, as a nightcap—if we can even call it that at this time of the evening.”

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