Page 38 of Christmas With the Jerk

“That’s so cool! I hate they are stranded, but, I’m not complaining about the windfall,” Woodley chimes in.

They’re singing “Jingle Bells,” and their voices carry across the room with that innocent, chaotic energy only kids can pull off. I guess we aren’t the only ones stuck, but they are certainly making the most of it.

Woodley glances over, and I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The heavy mood from just a minute ago seems to lift, and I feel it too—a lightness I wasn’t expecting.

The kids are completely out of sync, half of them a beat too fast, the other half barely keeping up, but it’s impossible not to laugh at their enthusiasm. One little girl in the front is practically screaming the words, while a boy beside her is waving around a tiny bell like it’s a full-on percussion instrument.

“They’re giving it their all,” Woodley says, her voice soft with amusement.

“They’ve got spirit, I’ll give them that,” I say, taking another sip of my scotch, feeling some of the tension ease out of my chest.

As the carolers finish up their song with an enthusiastic shout of “Hey!” at the end, the guests around the lobby clap, and the kids bow as if they’ve just performed on stage with the Rockettes.

The kids start on another song, this time “Silent Night,” and it’s a little more subdued. Their voices are softer, and more in tune. I glance over at Woodley again, and she’s watching them with a faraway look in her eyes.

There’s a softness in her face that makes me wonder what her Christmases were like. Based on what little I know of her and the few hints she’s dropped on this trip, I’m guessing they weren’t as idyllic as mine.

“They’re pretty good,” I say, nudging her a little.

She nods, smiling at the kids. “Yeah, they are. This whole place feels like a little Christmas bubble, doesn’t it? It almost makes me forget about all of the horrific turn of events that brought us here and made us hostages in this city.”

I glance out the window, the snow falling thick and fast, turning the world outside into a swirling white void. She’s right. In here, with the fire, the carolers, and the holiday spirit, it almost feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. Not stuck.

The carolers finish their song, and the guests clap again, the room filled with a warm, festive energy. One of the younger kids, a boy who can’t be more than five, runs over to the fire and almost trips over his own feet. Woodley laughs softly, shaking her head.

They move on to another part of the lobby, and the energy they leave behind stays with us. It’s like the Christmas spirit has settled in around us, wrapping everything in a glow that makes it perfect.

I turn to Woodley, my voice softer now. “You ever do anything like that when you were a kid? Caroling?” I figure a harmlessquestion about her childhood might soften her to want to open up some.

She shakes her head. “No, that wasn’t in our repertoire.”

Interesting choice of a word. Her tone is distant again. She smiles at the kids as they move away, their laughter echoing through the lobby. What are you holding onto so tightly, Woodley Price?

“Well,” I say, nudging her with my elbow, “my mom made my sister and me do it a few times. I resisted, but I will admit only to you, hearing these kids make me feel a little nostalgic.”

She laughs, the warmth returning to her eyes. “I bet little Thorne was a cute caroler.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but I was definitely the kid at the front yelling,” I say, standing up to head back to the bar.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised to hear that.”

As I order the drinks, I smile to myself that I’m actually enjoying myself. It’s Christmas, after all. Maybe we’re not as stuck as I initially thought.

As I wait at the bar for the drinks—another hot chocolate for Woodley and a scotch for me—a commotion near the front desk catches my attention. A woman’s voice rises, panicked, cutting through the general hum of the lobby. I glance over, seeing her frantically gesturing toward the hotel staff, her face pale and tear-streaked.

Something in me shifts, an instinct kicking in. I abandon the drinks and head toward the scene.

The woman is practically pleading with the staff. “My daughter Sophie…she ran off. I can’t find her anywhere!” Her voice cracks, and I see her hands trembling as she clutches a scarf to her chest.

“What happened?” I ask, stepping up next to the staff member, my tone calm but urgent.

The woman looks at me, eyes wide with fear. “She’s only five,” she says, her voice barely steady. “We came from the theatre, with the other kids caroling, and she... she got upset. Said she was going to run away because I wouldn’t let her have more candy. I thought she’d calm down, but now I can’t find her, and I’ve already checked the theatre. She’s not there.” Her voice breaks again, panic clear.

I glance out the window, where the snow is coming down harder now, wind whipping in fierce gusts. “You think she went outside?”

She nods, her breath hitching. “Yes, one of the children told me that she walked out while I was looking everywhere inside for her.”

“I’ll help look,” I say immediately. There’s no time to waste.

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