Page 5 of Christmas With the Jerk

“I know.” I fold my arms tighter. “Goddammit.”

I’ve coasted by on connections for most of my life. I’m the first to admit it. The Chilton name opens doors that would stay slammed shut for most people. I’m not proud of it, necessarily, but I’m not stupid either. It’s how our world works.

But the best connections won’t help me here. I have to go to the meeting and I have to win the client. The only way to the other side is through the thick of it, which means, if we have to drive to get there, then we have to drive.

If I screw this up, it’s not just my job on the line. Myfather made a big investment in this company, and if this pitch doesn't get us this ad campaign, it’s going to reflect badly on him and the family, too.

That’s the unspoken agreement: I don’t get fired, not because I’m great at what I do, but because there’s too much riding on the Chilton name for me to fail publicly.

I let out a long breath, staring at the chaos in the terminal. The thing is, it would be so easy to just…walk away. Let it all crumble. I don’t need this job, not like Woodley does. I could pack up, leave this mess behind, slip into my tartan plaid pants and party with the rest of them for the holiday.

But that’s the trap, isn’t it? I don’t want to be the guy who needs his father to clean up every mess. I want to prove that I can see something through, even if it means driving from Tennessee to Massachusetts four days before Christmas with the world's biggest bitch.

I look over at Woodley who is still glaring at the rental counter, looking as tense as ever. She doesn’t have the luxury of toying with the idea of just saying, "to hell with it." Her drive, her willingness to stop at nothing, is admirable. I’ve heard people talk about her around the office, about how she works late into the night, how she’s never satisfied until everything is perfect.

We couldn’t be more different.

It’s also why we’ll never get along. She sees me as a fraud. And maybe I am one. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her walk all over me. She shouldn’t look down on me just because of the life I was born into. Just as I will do my level best not to do the same to her.

I glance at my watch again. “We should be halfway to Boston by now, somewhere over Pennsylvania. Instead, we haven’t even left the fucking state of Tennessee.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. You’re amazing at really getting to the heart of the matter.”

God, she’s such a bitch. I give my best “I hate you” smirk and bite my tongue. This is going to be an enormous exercise in self-restraint.

“Ready?” Woodley’s voice are like nails on a chalkboard. She’s staring at me, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.

I nod as I grab my roller-bag. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I-75 North,Heading Toward Boston

3:12 pm

“Continueon I-75 North for two hundred and eight miles.”

The tinny GPS voice fills the car, cutting through the thick silence. Of course, another female telling me what to do.

I glance at the screen, watching the estimated arrival time flicker in front of me. Sixteen hours. Woodley so confidently said fourteen hours. Sixteen fucking, god forsaken hours of driving, with no stops. We won’t even get to Boston until tomorrow morning if we drive straight through.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. It’s already after three in the afternoon. Deplaning,waiting for buses, then standing in line for hours while everyone panicked—it all ate up more time than I realized.

I glance over at Woodley. Shes staring out the window, her arms crossed, eyes seemingly locked on the blur of trees passing by. If she’s feeling any of the pressure, she’s not showing it, but I know better.

Who wouldn’t be feeling the pressure right now?

We were just in the airport when some kind of explosion happened, it’s the holidays and now we are driving through the night several states over for a meeting that will make or break our careers.

My phone rings, breaking the silence. I glance at the screen and see that it is my dad. Great. Just what I need.

“Hey,” I say into the phone, wishing we had turned the radio up a little louder so I didn’t feel so intrusive with my voice.

“Thorne.” My father’s voice comes through, sharp and clipped. “I heard about the bomb at the airport. Your mother told me. What in the world? Are you guys going to still get to Boston in time? Are you okay?”

I know that the last question is just a formality, an afterthought. It would have been nice if he had led with that, but at least it occurred to him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It was crazy, we were on the plane about to take off. The whole terminal was shut down, so we had to be bussed to another one to reschedule our flights.”

“Your mom told me you couldn’t get one to get you there before the meeting. Please tell me you didn’t cancel the meeting. You need to knock this out.”

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