5. Woodley

FIVE

Woodley

Said the night wind to the little lamb / Do you see what I see?

7:02 am

The cold wakes me. A biting chill that seeps through the thin sheet and blanket and into my bones. I blink awake, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the worn-out window coverings, if they could even be called that.

The first thing I notice is that Thorne isn't beside me. I'm alone in the bed, the warmth of his body long gone.

I roll over, immediately shivering. Whatever we did to the thermostat last night must've worked because it feels like a freezer in here now. I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders and glance at the unit across the room under the window.

The once noisy furnace, or whatever it was that was injecting the flames of hell into this room, is silent.

My body feels like it was run over by a snowplow. I'm exhausted still, even if I got a little rest. Oh, and the soreness on my inner thighs hits me and I rub my hand across it, remembering the force that caused it.

A flood of memories rush back—his hands, his lips, the heat between us. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to push it all out. What was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking. Not clearly, anyway. Everything had been so chaotic—the blizzard, the stress, the horrible motel room, Christmas cheer all around except within me. And in the middle of it all, I let myself go there with Thorne, of all people.

Now I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping the blanket tighter. I feel a mix of shame and anger at myself. Thorne represents everything I've worked to distance myself from—entitlement, privilege, and the gross pursuit of money at all cost.

He's everything I despise in this world.

And yet... there was something about him last night. A vulnerability, maybe? Or was it just sheer exhaustion?

It doesn't matter. I can't dwell on it. We still have to get to Boston today. I glance over at the old clock by the bedside, the red numbers glowing faintly. Five days until Christmas, and I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with him in a meat locker posing as a set from a bad seventies porno.

With a slight wince from the tenderness between my legs, I push back the blankets and stand. I hate that this happened, that I let it happen. I'm better than this. Last night felt like a betrayal of everything I've worked for.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers the truth I've buried for so long. You chose this path, but you could've had an easier one. It was always there, waiting for me. Just one phone call, one step back into the fold, and the doors would open. But no. I shake my head. That's not who I am.

Thorne Chilton is not who I am.

But what kind of person does that make me? The kind that falls into bed with an entitled trust funder because of a long road trip and a blizzard? Get it together, Woodley.

I get up quietly and grab my clothes that are strewn about as I make my way to the bathroom. I need to focus on what's ahead, not look back with regrets. Boston. The pitch. That's what matters now. Everything else is irrelevant.

7:39 am

When I step outside the room, the cold air hits me hard, biting at my skin, but it clears my head. The world feels crisp, raw, like a clean slate.

Coffee. I need coffee. Surely that small front office has some kind of mud water I can get until we can get to a more respectable coffee establishment on the road.

As expected, an old glass pot percolates in the corner. It might smell like coffee, but it is some pathetic substitute. It will do. I should get one for Thorne, but I'm nicer than that. I wouldn't give this shit to my worst enemy.

I spot Thorne by the car brushing snow off the windshield when I walk back. He got up and out of there quickly. I guess my short conversation with the desk attendant about the best route out of here back to the interstate was longer than I thought.

He doesn't look at me right away, and I'm grateful for it. I'm not ready to face him. Not yet.

A vision of his broad shoulders and well-defined chest as he thrusted above me flashes through my mind.

I wrap my arms around myself, standing in the doorway for a moment longer. We still have six hours of driving left, and we're both exhausted. Please, God, don't let it be awkward all the way to Boston. Hopefully we can put it all behind us and focus on the task at hand.

I-95 North, somewhere in Virginia

8:12 am

The coffee cup in my hand is still warm, but I can already feel it cooling in the cold air of the car. It's one million times better that whatever Norman's assistant had brewed up in the office.

The silence between us is thick and uncomfortable, despite the hum of the road and constant splashing of the wet slosh of snow and asphalt beneath the tires. I glance at the GPS. Seven hours and fifty-three minutes to Boston, but who's counting?

I shift in my seat, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. We left the motel in a hurry after deciding the room wasn't worth freezing in any longer. The Starbucks stop barely thawed the chilliness between us, but it certainly gave me what I needed to plow ahead physically.

At least now we have the car's heater and we have a properly heat-regulated environment. The chill in my bones has finally receded.

Thorne sips his coffee in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He hasn't said much since we left. It's not like I expected him to, but the silence is hard not to miss.

After last night, I'm sure he's as much at a loss for words as I am. Not that we ever had a prolific banter between us, but now, it's like a heavy cloud is hanging over us, stiffling any chance at conversation.

I should say something, because this is getting weirder by the mile marker.

Anything to break the tension. I clear my throat. "So, any thoughts on how we're going to handle tomorrow's pitch? We've got time and daylight, might as well talk about it."

Thorne glances over at me, his expression unreadable. "We've gone over the deck enough times. You're leading the presentation, right?"

I nod, keeping my eyes on the road. "Yeah. I'll start with the main overview and the client's needs, but we should probably decide who's handling what sections."

He shifts in his seat, sitting up straighter. "I'll take the market analysis and projections. You're better with the creative side anyway. Does that work for you?"

It's nice to hear him defer to me. Usually, he acts like he knows best. Maybe I should give him a little head every now and then to get him to chill out at the office.

"Sounds good." I keep my voice even, trying to focus on the road, keeping the tires on the cleared parts of the highway.

Talking about work is safe. We both need to be on our A-game tomorrow if we're going to win this campaign. "And the closing? I think we should tag-team that, keep the momentum going."

"Agreed." His tone is clipped, business-like. It's like he's trying just as hard as I am to keep things professional. We can do this, we can do this, I keep reminding myself.

I take another sip of coffee, the bitterness settling on my tongue. There's more to say, but I can't bring myself to address it. We both know it's better left unsaid. At least for now.

"So, what do you think our odds are?" I ask, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. "Winning this account, I mean."

He chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Our odds? I'd say they're good. We've got a solid concept, and you've got the execution down. The client's looking for innovation, and we're giving them that. Not to mention, we are literally driving through a blizzard to show up. He can't deny our tenacity and hunger."

"Yeah, but the competition's tough. You saw what else is on the table."

"I'm not worried," Thorne says, a little too confidently. "We've got this. Plus, it's Christmas. Who insists on a pitch days before the big guy comes down the chimney and then doesn't give us the job? I think that alone speaks to our odds."

"Interesting outlook," I blurt out, trying to be kind while also unable to hide my amusement that he is talking about Santa Claus. Is he five?

"Just trying to bring a little levity. But I do think we only lose this if we shit the bed. It's ours for the taking."

His confidence rubs me the wrong way, just like it always does. Easy for him to say. He's used to getting what he wants without having to fight for it. But I bite my tongue. Now's not the time to dig into old wounds.

I focus on the road, watching the miles slip by. The trees lining the highway are dusted with snow, the sky gray and heavy with more to come. Five days until the big guy comes down the chimney, as young Thorne says.

I glance at the radio. It's playing some soft instrumental track, but the silence between us feels louder than anything the radio could offer.

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," I find myself singing along with Michael Bublé. I love this version. As the song ends I look over to him and ask, "Any preferences on music? Feel free to change it if you like."

An olive branch, of sorts.

Thorne shrugs. "Whatever you want. I'm easy."

"Right. Of course." I flick through the stations until something familiar comes on—"Houdini," by Dua Lipa. That's what I need right now: magic to disappear from this slow walk through hell frozen over.

The road stretches out ahead, the hours looming over us like a challenge we have to endure.

We've only just begun this drive, but it feels like the weight of last night, the pressure of tomorrow, and everything in between is pressing down harder than the snow outside.

I-95 North, New Haven, Connecticut

1:23 pm

As we pass the sign welcoming us to New Haven, my mind briefly goes to my mother. Her family is from here and I have fond memories of coming here as a child. I wonder if her Great Aunt Hilda still lives on Chapel Street.

The snow flurries outside seem to mirror the icy silence in the car. It's been hours since we left that freezing motel, and aside from a few words about the GPS or which way to turn, we haven't really talked.

The radio drones on, another holiday song playing softly in the background, but my mind is miles away. We stopped for a bathroom break about forty-five minutes ago, which feels like another lifetime ago.

The silence between us has stretched on for hours now, only interrupted by the occasional road sign or the occasional nostalgic song on the radio. The elephant in the car from this morning still hangs in the air, but both of us seem committed to will it out of our consciousness.

I glance at Thorne again. He keeps checking his phone for something, but has for now resumed his constant staring out the window. His fingers haven't stopped drumming on his knee and it is about to drive me bonkers. He's closed off, like a vault, and I wonder what it's going to take to crack it open, just a little.

This pitch—it's important to him. More important than he lets on. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens every time we mention it, the way his eyes flicker when the topic comes up. Maybe I underestimated him a smidge.

Even with his unnatural confidence that "we've got this," felt almost like he was saying it more to himself than to me. But why? He's the one who said himself he doesn't need this job. So, why is he sticking around?

My curiosity gets the best of me. Why hasn't he just bailed? We need to break ice, no pun intended. I might as well try to understand this man I slept with.

I take a deep breath, keeping my eyes on the road. "Can I ask you something?" I keep my tone light, almost casual.

Thorne turns his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge me. "Depends on what you're asking."

I huff a small laugh. "Don't worry. I'm not prying into your personal life." I glance at him before turning back to the road. "Can't help but wonder why this pitch is so important to you. You've said before you don't really need this job, so why stick around? Especially after everything that's happened. The bomb scare, the blizzard, the horrific motel that surely wouldn't pass a health safety inspection in the civilized world... You could've walked away, gone home to DC, or wherever. But you didn't. Why?"

He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he's going to ignore me altogether. Maybe I shouldn't have asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," he says, finally, his voice calm but still carrying that edge. "Why are you still here?"

I shrug, trying to brush it off. "Work's work. I have bills to pay. I take it seriously. Plus, it's a big opportunity."

He's still looking at me, and I can feel his gaze lingering longer than usual. "Yeah, well, same here."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's it? Same here?"

He sighs, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't need this job, but it's not about that. My father's invested in ValorTech. It's not just about landing the campaign. It's about showing him I can actually handle something like this and not embarrass the family in the process. It's almost like a little test, I guess."

I glance at him, surprised he's letting me in on anything. "Your father invested in ValorTech?"

"Yeah," he mutters. "It's part of the company's portfolio now. He's trusting me to pull this off. If I don't..." He trails off, and I can tell he's weighing how much to say. "Let's just say it wouldn't go over well."

"Wouldn't go over well? I thought you said your dad didn't care if you stuck around or not."

Thorne smirks, but it's not a happy smirk. "He doesn't care about me screwing around in the day-to-day stuff. But this is different. He's got real money tied up in this company. And I know he's banking on me to make sure it pays off."

I nod, letting his words sink in. I hadn't expected this from him—this level of introspection or concern about proving himself. I thought he just coasted through life without a second thought. Turns out, there's more to him than that smug exterior.

"So, you want to prove to him that you're worth it," I say, keeping my tone neutral, even though I'm a little surprised by the shift in the conversation.

He's quiet for a beat, then nods. "Something like that."

There's a pause, and for the first time, I don't feel the urge to fill it with noise. The silence between us feels different. Not exactly comfortable, but less hostile.

"Well," I say after a moment, "it's not like we haven't faced every obstacle possible to get to this point. You've stuck it out this far. I imagine your father will be proud of you for that."

I guess his eternal optimism and confidence is more complex that it seems. He actually does have a pony in this race.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure he is reserving all praise until he sees if I can actually see it through with a win." Thorne glances at me, and I see something shift in his expression—just for a second. "So, regardless of what you think about me, I'm in it all the way."

I nod, feeling a small thread of understanding between us. We're both here for our own reasons, but I can respect his determination. I know a little bit about pressure from family. Maybe I can even have a little bit of empathy for him.

"Well," I say, offering a faint smile, "let's hope we don't hit any black ice between here and the hotel. Then, no one comes out on top."

Thorne chuckles softly, surprising me. "Yeah. That's a good plan."