Page 23 of Christmas With the Jerk

Maybe after we get this account I can be transferred to work out of the D.C. office. That's where I want to be, anyway, closer to home. I only took the Chattanooga job because it was a way to get my foot in the door.

As I reach for the door knob to my room, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. It's a text from Thom Vicary, and both Woodley and I are copied on it.

My stomach drops.

Due to the ongoing storm, a few key team members won’t be able to make it to the office today. We’ll have to reschedule the pitch for tomorrow, same time, pending this clears up. Apologies for the inconvenience. Stay safe out there.

The phone feels like a lead weight in my hand. Tomorrow. That’s December 22, three days before Christmas. Mother fucker, they’re pushing it off after all of this.

What the fuck?! He knows we both flew into Boston from Tennessee. Hell, I haven’t even told him we literally drove through the night to get here because of a fucking bombing at our airport. And then he just cancels it an hour and some change before we are supposed to be there.

I am literally boiling right now I am so mad.

Panic grips my chest, tightening like a vice. I read the message again, hoping I misread it, but no—it’s there, plain as day. I close the door behind me and sink down onto the bed, my heart hammering. This can’t be happening.

We both have flights out this afternoon. We’ve already rescheduled twice, and now we’ll have to do it again. It was hard enough before, and the likelihood of finding decent flights gets exponentially worse the closer we get to the twenty-fifth.

The news last night in the bar said something about widespread cancellations, road closures, basically pure chaos. And now we’re stuck in this godforsaken state in a hotel feet away from their office twiddling our thumbs, waiting for it to clear.

Not to mention Woodley. I glance toward the wall separating our rooms. What happens when we’re snowed in at this hotel for another night? Another night trapped in this Christmas wonderland, playing house instead of acting like responsible coworkers, maintaining appropriate boundaries.

I thought after last night, we’d have our meeting, shake hands, and go our separate ways. She’d fly back to Chattanooga, I’d head to D.C., and we wouldn’t look back. Now? Everything is out the window.

For a second, I consider calling the client, suggesting we push the meeting until after the holidays. That would give us time to get home, avoid this storm, avoid another awkward night with Woodley and reset.

Surely Thom would prefer to enjoy his holiday and not have to deal with this at this point.

But if I go home and tell my father the pitch has been delayed, it’ll be a disaster. He’s been banking on this for months, and pushing it to January would ruin Christmas for sure.

I’m already dreading that conversation.

My thumb hovers over my father’s number. Maybe I should feel him out. See if he’s okay with delaying, or at least figure out how to soften the blow. But even as I hit the call button, I know it’s a mistake.

The phone rings once, twice, and then his voice comes through, hard and cold. “Thorne.” I'm sure he is already at the office on his second cup of coffee.

I swallow, already regretting this. “Hey, Dad. Look, we’ve got a situation.”

“What is it, Thorne?” His tone sharpens, like he’s already bracing for bad news.

I explain the storm, the client’s text, the meeting getting bumped to tomorrow. I’m talking fast, trying to spin it, trying to make it sound like a minor inconvenience rather than the total cluster it really is. But I can hear him getting angrier with every word.

“Like hell you're going to ask him to reschedule it.” His voice rises, the frustration clear. “You will stay right there and meet with him as he's requested tomorrow, Thorne. What are you in such a rush to get home for, anyway? You should’ve locked this down already. This is a multimillion-dollar client. Your entire job is to get them to say yes, that's it. You’ll stay there through the new year if you have to.”

“I know, I know.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of his disappointment crashing down on me. “But what if he can't get into the office, and he ends up pushing it back again? Or, worse, what if we can't get out of here?”

“Cry me a river,” he snaps. “You're going to stay right there until you close this.”

“Fine,” I grind out, my jaw tightening. “Sounds like a plan. Just wanted to get your two cents.”

“I've got to go,” he says, his voice hard. “Don't be such a wuss.”

The line goes dead, leaving me sitting there, staring at my phone like it’s burned me. Damn it. He can be such a dick sometimes.

I toss the phone onto the bed and drop my head into my hands. My father’s voice echoes in my head, the pressure squeezing my chest tighter. This was supposed to be simple. Get the pitch,close the deal, go home for Christmas. Now everything’s falling apart.

And I’m stuck here withher.

NINE

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