Page 24 of Christmas With the Jerk

Woodley

Rockin' around the Christmas tree / At the Christmas party hop.

5:49 am

The hot waterfrom the shower is the only thing keeping me grounded, washing away the remnants of that hot whatever it was with Thorne. Dear God, what am I doing with him? Is this turning into a habit or is there something more there?

I have got to clear my head. This morning I have to be one hundred percent focused on this meeting, not day dreaming about Thorne's tight ass. Or the fact that he is more well-endowed than I remember from the motel. Holy shit!

After the early alarm and the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours, I need to take a step back so that I can get it all out. A moment to breathe, to regroup, to prepare for what’s supposed to be the most important pitch of our careers.

I'm grateful for the time alone to pull myself together. I don't need the distraction of his presence while I'm trying to put him out of my mind and wash him off my body.

As I step out of the shower, I grab the plush towel and wrap it around me, letting the warmth sink in. I glance at my phone sitting on the bathroom counter. The screen is on with a new message. I expect it to be a weather alert or maybe even a check-in from Dani about this morning, but when I see the name on the group text from Thom Vicary, my heart sinks.

I freeze, staring at the message. Tomorrow?

I walk into the bedroom and the towel slips from my shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind is racing. We’re sitting here in a hotel a thousand miles from home, having survived a bombing and driven through a winter tundra to get here, literally across the street from their office, and he is going to casually postpone our meeting?

What in the absolute hell is this?

I run a hand through my wet hair, trying to process it. Tomorrow. The longer this is put off, the worse it’s going to get. Delaying gives them time to rethink, time to consider other ad companies, time for someone else to swoop in.

My chest tightens, and a knot of panic forms in my stomach. We can’t afford to lose this account. ValorTech is everything we’ve been working toward, and without this deal... I shake my head. I can’t even let myself go there. We have to get this deal.

I pull up the weather app to try to understand what we are dealing with, here. It isn't looking good from my wannabe meteorologist eyes. There is an angry white mass moving east and it is almost sitting on top of Boston.

I stand up, pacing the room, the anxiety rising with every step. The storm outside is getting worse by the hour, if meteorologist Jim Cantore is to be believed. What if this pitch keeps getting pushed? What if they cancel altogether?

The thought of losing this client before we even get a chance to show him our idea makes my stomach churn. Thom Vicary, the director of marketing at ValorTech, is the man we have to convince. But, if his team can’t make it, we’re stuck, too.

And I hate feeling stuck.

I pull on my jeans from last night, my movements quick and jittery, and glance at my phone again. The snow is now blowing sideways outside of the window. By the time we’re supposed to pitch tomorrow, the roads might be impassable. We have to convince them to try to get in to the office today.

This isn’t just about being stuck in a hotel with Thorne for another night. That, I can handle. What I can’t handle is the possibility of losing this deal. I worked too hard to get to this point. I’ve spent way too many late nights, too much preparation, all hanging by a thread because of something completely out of my control but only feet away from where I stand.

My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s just a weather alert. More snow. Great.

I sit back on the bed, tapping my fingers against my knee, thinking through the possibilities. Maybe there’s a way to do a remote presentation. The thought of doing that from a hundred yards away from their office seems comical, almost. But I'll take what I can get at this point.

We’re losing time, losing momentum, and all I can think about is how close we were to locking this down. Literally.

I need to talk to Thorne. He was on this text, so if he didn't go back and fall asleep, he must be reeling, too. For him, it’s about family, about proving something to his father. For me? It’s about proving something to myself.

Adding an oversized sweatshirt to the jeans, not even bothering to dry my hair completely, I storm out of my room. The towel I half-heartedly ran through it didn’t do much, and now wet strands cling to the back of my neck. But I don’t care. Everything about me looks as disheveled as I feel.

But none of that matters right now.

I go directly next door to Thorne’s room, my phone clutched tightly in my hand, the text from Thom Vicary still burning a hole in my thoughts, and knock.

This is insane. We can’t just sit around and wait. We need action—now, or we risk giving it away. Considering everything we have been through on this trip, I didn’t come this far to lose this.

I don’t bother knocking softly or texting to see if he’s awake. I pound on the door, probably waking him up because chances are he came back to go back to sleep. He needs to know we are in a dire situation.

After a few moments, the door swings open, and there he is, in all his breath-taking handsome glory. It takes me a moment to catch my breath, even in my rage about the text.

Thorne stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Water drips from his wet hair, sliding down his neck and over his bare chest. His skin is still dampfrom the shower, and for a brief moment, I just shudder in pleasure at the sight of him. Broad shoulders, toned abs, that infuriatingly smug expression that always manages to piss me off, even in my fangirl delusion.

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