7. Woodley

SEVEN

Woodley

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart / But the very next day, you gave it away.

2:23 pm

The bed envelops me the second I collapse onto it, the comforter like a soft cloud beneath my body. I let out a deep sigh, my limbs sinking into the plush mattress. It's the kind of bed that cradles you, makes you feel weightless, like you could drift off and sleep for a century. After the nightmare of last night's motel, this is heaven.

The temperature is perfect, too—just cool enough under the covers, with the faint warmth from the room's perfectly adjusted thermostat keeping the chill at bay.

I didn't even have to touch a thing, unlike our last landing pad. The ambiance is set, as if the hotel knows exactly what a person needs after a long day of travel.

Soft lighting from the bedside lamp casts a gentle glow over the room, and the faint sound of Christmas music from the lobby still rings in my head.

It's everything I didn't know I needed.

I could fall asleep right now. My skin is still warm from the long, hot shower and my body is definitely relaxed.

My eyes flutter closed for a second, the exhaustion pulling me under. I've been running on fumes for hours, and this bed is almost too inviting. I burrow deeper into the covers, the scent of fresh linen calming my senses.

But then reality kicks in.

Miles to go before I sleep. We still have work to do.

I sigh and force my eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow is the big day. The pitch. 7:30 in the morning. We've only got a few hours to finalize everything, make sure we're prepared to blow them away.

Luckily, the meeting's just a short walk from here, thank God. At least we won't have to battle traffic or find another way to complicate our morning. If I never get back in that rental car it will be too soon.

I run through the checklist in my mind. We've got the creative direction locked down, but the delivery, the way we split up the talking points, the flow—we need to go over it again. My attempt in the car gave me some clue, but I don't want there to be any question where my part ends and his begins.

I push myself to sit up, rubbing my hands over my face. I'm so damn tired. I could stay in this bed all night, not move an inch, and it'd be glorious. But that's not an option. Not tonight. I'll sleep for a full twenty-four hours tomorrow when I get back to Chattanooga.

With a sigh, I get up and pull on the plush hotel robe, running my fingers through my damp hair. The steam from the shower still lingers in the air, the room smelling faintly of the fresh-smelling hotel soap. I shake off the temptation to crawl back into bed, and instead, grab my phone from the nightstand.

I've got twenty minutes. If I hadn't taken such a long shower, maybe I could take a power nap. But by the time I brush out my hair and put on some clothes, I will have minutes left. I might as well stay upright and get an energy drink.

I toss my robe aside and get dressed, forcing myself into focus mode. Tomorrow is huge, and, like Thorne said, we've got this.

3:45 pm

The lobby bar is buzzing with life, the warmth inside a sharp contrast to the storm brewing outside. I sink into a plush armchair, pulling my coat a little tighter around me as I glance out the large windows. The sky is darkening, and the snow is coming down harder now, swirling in the wind like a scene out of a Christmas card.

It's not even four in the afternoon, but with the heavy snow and early sunset, it feels later—cozier. I take a sip of my vodka and Red Bull, grateful to be inside, away from the chaos of the road. Small miracles.

Christmas music plays softly in the background, and I can hear the distant laughter of children as they run past, their parents hurrying after them. Families are everywhere—checking in, heading to the restaurant, gathering by the massive tree in the center of the lobby. The decorations are perfect, the twinkling lights making everything seem magical. Almost makes you forget it's a work trip.

Almost.

I sit back in my chair, my fingers tapping absently on the rim of my glass. It's beautiful here—everything about the holiday atmosphere makes it feel like a scene from a movie.

And yet, there's this twinge of sadness sitting in my chest. I haven't thought about my family in a while, but seeing all these people together, celebrating, sharing the season makes me wonder what they're doing now.

Not that I'd be there, even if they invited me. Which they wouldn't.

Still, there's something about this time of year that makes me feel the absence more. It's the one season where everyone's supposed to be with someone—family, friends, someone special. And here I am, sitting alone in a hotel lobby, working.

God, if there was ever a modern day parallel with Ebenezer Scrooge, she's sitting right here sipping on her RBV.

I shake off the melancholy, reminding myself that this is what I chose. I've made my peace with it.

At least, most of the time I have.

I glance at the bar again, watching the bartender polish glasses, Christmas lights reflecting off the shelves behind him. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses fills the space. Still, even with the holiday cheer around me, I feel a pang of loneliness.

And then I see him.

Thorne walks in, looking completely different than I'm used to seeing him. His jeans are fitted, not too tight but just right, and he's wearing a relaxed shirt—something casual, unbuttoned just enough to be distracting. He's cleaned up, and the sharp lines of his jaw stand out against the soft glow of the Christmas lights. Damn.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as he approaches. My heart races, and I can't help but flash back to last night, to the moment when everything changed—and then snapped right back to reality: the chill of the winter coming in through the poorly insulated motel room.

Still, I remember the way his skin felt under my hands, the hard planes of his chest, the ripple of muscle as I ran my fingers over his abs. I had no idea he was hiding such a fit, strong body under those custom-tailored suits. The memory sends a shiver down my spine as my cheeks flush.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts. This is not the time nor place. We're here for work, and whatever happened last night can't happen again. It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment brought on by exhaustion and the stress of the trip. We keep moving forward and never look back.

As he gets closer, I can't help but let my gaze travel over him, taking in the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the confident stride of his long legs. He looks good. God, am I already tipsy?!

I force myself to look away, to focus on the drink in my hand. I can't let myself get distracted, not now. We have a job to do, and I refuse to let whatever this is simmering between us get in the way.

He reaches my table, and I look up, meeting his gaze. There's something in his face that seems softer, kinder. It's gone in an instant, replaced by his usual confident smirk, but it's enough to make my heart skip a beat.

"Woodley," he says, his voice low and rough. "You clean up nice."

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps at the sound of my name on his lips. "Thanks," I say dryly. "You don't look so bad yourself. I'm glad to know you own blue jeans."

He grins, and for a moment, it's like we're just two colleagues, trading barbs and keeping it light before diving into the real reason we are here. But then his gaze drops to my lips, and the air between us shifts, growing heavy with tension.

There is no mistaking it, something has changed between us. Whatever the reason, I feel it and based on his body language, I'm not the only one.

I clear my throat, breaking the moment. "We should probably take the plunge," I say, pointing to my file. "To our decks, I mean." Fucking A. Could I have found a worse set of words? "I think we both need an early night to be sharp tomorrow."

My pulse is slightly elevated, and I press the glass to my lips, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. Why the hell am I nervous? It's just Thorne. He's the same irritating guy who spent half the trip sulking silently and the other half sleeping.

I sit up a little straighter, smoothing out the front of my shirt. Must be the Red Bull.

6:16 pm

The last of the presentation flicks off my laptop screen, and I lean back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. "And that's a wrap. I think we're as ready as we'll ever be."

Thorne nods, his eyes scanning over his own notes before closing his laptop with a soft click. "Yeah. You did a nice job putting all of that together. I think it looks great."

There's a sense of relief between us—like the weight of tomorrow's presentation has finally lifted, at least for now. We've gone over every detail, every angle. There's nothing more to tweak. We're ready.

"Well," I say, stretching my arms overhead and stifling a yawn, "I guess it's time to call it a night."

Thorne glances at his watch, then back at me with a slight smirk. "It's barely 6:15. Don't tell me you're actually turning in this early."

I raise an eyebrow, already sensing where this could go if I'm not careful. "It's been a long day."

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "True, but... how about one more drink? It would be a shame not to enjoy this beautifully decorated lobby and live music. You know, as a nightcap—if we can even call it that at this time of the evening."

I feel my lips twitch into a smile. "A nightcap at 6:15?"

"Sure," he says, grinning now. "And we can order some more of those lobster roll sliders. You were practically drooling over them earlier."

I laugh softly, shaking my head. "I was hoping you didn't notice."

"It was cute, and they were good."

"Okay, you got me. But only if we get the sliders. Non-negotiable."

"Deal," he says, waving over the bartender to order.

I settle back into my chair, watching him as he orders. There's something different about this whole evening—the way we've been around each other. The tension, the irritation... it's all faded into something else. Something easier, less confrontational.

"So," he says, leaning forward slightly, "what's your favorite part of the holidays? You can't help but be happy around all of this, right?"

I blink, surprised by the casual question. "My favorite part?"

"Yeah." He smiles, more relaxed than I've ever seen him. "We're surrounded by all this Christmas stuff. I figure it's a fair question."

I take a moment, thinking about it. What is my favorite part? For so long, I've distanced myself from all of this—the family, the celebrations. But deep down, there's still something about the holidays that I love. Something I've never really let go of, even if I've been doing it alone for the last several years.

"I guess I like the music and the overall energy," I say slowly, glancing around at the decorations. "The lights, the music. Everything feels warm and safe. Even if you're not with family, it's like there's this universal feeling of connection."

He nods, his eyes softening. "I get that. It's the same for me. I also love the food. My mom puts on a big family dinner on Christmas Eve with extended family and friends that are family. I swear, I look forward to that single meal all year long."

I look at him, somewhat enamored by his excitement for the season. I wouldn't have pegged Thorne for such a sentimental guy. It's pretty sweet, and redeeming.

The bartender arrives with our drinks and the sliders, setting them down with a smile before heading off. I pick up my glass, clinking it lightly against his. "To surviving The Winter Storm of 2023—and the pitch."

He chuckles, raising his glass. "To surviving, in general."

"Yes! To surviving!"

8:04 pm

The laughter between us fades into something quieter, something heavier. The air around us feels different now, like it's charged with an electricity that emanates from our connection.

Thorne leans back in his chair, his eyes lingering on me a little too long. Suddenly, it's like the entire room fades away and it's just the two of us, sitting close in the dim glow of the lobby bar, the sound of Christmas music and clinking glasses nothing more than a distant hum.

The current between us is unavoidable and unmistakable. There are no ancient broken thermostats to blame here. An invisible thread tightens with every passing second. His gaze drops to my lips, just for a moment, and my pulse kicks up faster than I want to admit.

I swallow hard, trying to shake off the feeling. "Maybe we should get going. Early morning tomorrow, right?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes meet mine, and there's something dark and intense in them that sends a shiver down my spine. He leans in slightly, his voice low. "Yeah. We probably should. It's so hard to leave this night, though. I'm really enjoying it."

I nod but don't respond. I don't trust myself to not say something I might wish I could take back. Neither of us moves.

There's this breathless moment where everything feels suspended in the air. I can't look away from him, but I feel shy looking at him. I can feel the tension building, spiraling into something neither of us seem capable or willing to temper. I don't want to control it.

Thorne's hand brushes mine on the table, and even that small touch feels electric. I catch my breath, the air between us thick with unspoken need.

Without a word, he stands, offering his hand. I take it, my heart racing as I rise to my feet. We don't need to say anything. We both know where this is going.

As we step into the elevator, the doors slide shut, enclosing us in the tight, private space. The instant the doors close, it's like a switch flips. Thorne pulls me to him, his lips crashing down on mine with a fierceness that makes my knees weak. I gasp against his mouth, my hands gripping his shoulders as he presses me back against the cool elevator wall.

It's fire—pure, unrestrained passion. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as if he can't get enough. I'm lost in it, in him, the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine. It's overwhelming, consuming, and I can't get enough.

The elevator hums quietly as it ascends, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the sound of our ragged breathing. His lips move from mine to my neck, trailing hot, urgent kisses along my skin. I arch into him, my hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer.

I don't even know what floor we're on. I don't care. All I can think about is him—the way his hands roam my body, the way his breath hitches every time I respond to his touch.

The elevator dings softly, signaling our floor, but neither of us moves. It's like we're both caught in this magnetic pull, unable to stop. His lips are back on mine, rougher this time, more desperate.

"We should..." I manage between kisses, but my voice trails off when his hand slips to my waist, pulling me flush against him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "We should."

But we don't. We stumble out of the elevator, his hand firmly on my back, guiding me toward his room—or is it mine? I quickly pull out the keycard from my back pocket and unlock the door. The second we're inside, the door slams shut behind us, and everything else fades away.

His body is a wall of heat against mine, pinning me to the door with an urgency that sets my skin on fire. Every inch of me hums with a need I can't remember ever feeling before. It's as if the past few days of tension, of hating and wanting in equal measure, have all come to this single, scorching point.

Thorne's lips find mine with a hunger that devours any lingering exhaustion. His hands roam my body, each touch igniting a fresh wave of endorphins that obliterate any thought beyond the desire for more of him. I'm caught in a storm of sensation, desperate for the closeness only he can provide.

Last night was a frenzy of passion, an act of nature that neither of us could have stopped even if we'd wanted to. But tonight, there's a question in his eyes, a moment of lucidity amidst the chaos. "Protection?" he breathes against my lips.

I shake my head, the word tumbling out in a rush. "Still just the IUD."

It's all the reassurance he needs. His fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, a mirror of my own frantic need to be free of any barriers between us. I tug at the denim, pulling it down over his hips, and the fabric pools at his feet. His shirt follows quickly, the material barely clearing his head before I'm reaching for my own, shedding it like a second skin.

Each piece of clothing that hits the floor is a boundary crossed, a silent agreement that we're past the point of no return. We're stripping away more than fabric—it's vulnerability laid bare, a raw and unfiltered connection that leaves us both exposed.

Naked and unashamed, we're a tangle of limbs moving toward the bed. I jump onto the soft comforter, my body open and eager for him. Thorne crawls over me, his eyes locked on mine as he positions himself at my opening. There's a split second of anticipation before he thrusts into me with an abandon that steals my breath.

The feel of him filling me, stretching me, is overwhelming. He sets a pace that's fast and furious, each stroke of his cock stoking the fire within me. I'm awash in sensation—the slide of our skin, the taste of his kiss, the sound of our bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as time.

His thrusts are deep and deliberate, hitting a spot inside me that sends sparks of pleasure radiating through my body. I arch into him, my fingers digging into his back, as I meet him stroke for stroke.

I can feel the energy building, a coiling tension that threatens to burst. My own hands wander down my body, finding the place where we're joined, the slick evidence of our desire making my touch glide effortlessly. The added stimulation sends me hurtling toward the edge, every nerve ending alight with the promise of release.

Thorne's movements become more erratic, his breathing ragged against my neck. He's as lost in this as I am, driven by a need that transcends logic or reason. It's just us, caught in the throes of passion, chasing the ecstasy that only the other can provide.