8. Thorne

EIGHT

Thorne

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas / Everywhere you go.

Thursday, December 21

2:15 am

I wake up with a start, disoriented, tangled up in something soft and warm. My heart pounds for a second, and I blink into the darkness, trying to get my bearings. It takes me a moment to realize where I am—to realize who I'm with.

Fuck. Woodley.

The front of her body is pressed up against mine, her leg draped over me, her hair spilling across the pillow and onto my chest. Her arm is wrapped around my waist, and I can feel her slow, steady breaths against my skin. For a second, I just lie there, trying to process it. How the hell did this happen? Again?!

I know how. Something about being downstairs in that atmosphere, watching her shine in her element going through the slides—it caused me to lose all judgement and be pulled to her like a primal mating call. I couldn't think of anything except feeling her against me again.

I shift slightly, careful not to wake her, and I feel a twinge of discomfort. Bathroom. Right. I need to go.

Carefully, I untangle myself from her and slip out of bed, my feet hitting the cool floor. I pause for a second, standing there in the dark, trying to remember which room I'm in. It's Woodley's room.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, shaking my head as I head to the bathroom. I'm so angry with myself for letting this happen. Once can be written off, ignored and disappeared. But twice? That becomes a lot more tricky.

Inside the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the dim light casting shadows across my face. My hair's a mess, and I look as disoriented as I feel.

I splash some water on my face, trying to shake off the drowsiness. But even as I stand there, I can't stop thinking about her—about the way she felt wrapped around me, the warmth of her body next to mine.

Part of me considers going back to my own room. The rational part. The part that says this whole thing is complicated. That getting more involved with her is dangerous, especially with everything riding on tomorrow.

But the other part? The part that's still buzzing from the way we touched each other, the way we fit together like we've been doing this for years, is what resonates the most strongly. That part doesn't want to go anywhere but back to that bed and back into her arms.

I towel off my face, standing there for a second longer, then make up my mind. Screw it. We've already crossed the line, what is the harm in finishing out the night together?

I push the door open quietly and slip back into the room. Woodley's still there, curled up under the covers, her breathing soft and even. The moonlight from the window casts a soft glow across her face, and for a moment, I just stand there, looking at her. She's beautiful. Damn it.

I slide back into bed as carefully as I can, and almost immediately, she shifts toward me, her body finding its way back into mine, like she's done it a thousand times. Her head rests on my chest, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer.

The warmth of her body against mine is enough to make the rest of the world fade away. I breathe her in, the scent of her hair, her skin. It's... calming, in a way I didn't expect.

For once, I don't feel the weight of everything. Right now, it's just her. Just us.

I close my eyes, letting the exhaustion pull me back under, my hand resting on her back as I drift off again.

5:30 am

The shrill sound of an alarm cuts through the darkness, yanking me from sleep. I groan, rolling over and pressing my face into the pillow, trying to cling to the remnants of rest. My brain feels foggy, like I'm stuck halfway between dreaming and waking. It's way too early.

And then I remember, again, where I am. Maybe I should have gone to my room in the middle of the night after all.

I blink into the faint light filtering through the window and feel the warmth of Woodley's body beside me. For a second, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process the fact that I'm in her bed, not mine. She shifts next to me, reaching for her phone to turn off the alarm, and I feel the slight brush of her smooth leg against mine.

"Sorry," she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep. "Didn't mean to wake you. But I wanted to give myself enough time to get up and ready."

I grunt, still not fully awake. "We could've just stayed up all night. Would've had the same result."

She laughs softly, turning toward me with a sleepy smile. "Yeah, well, I'm glad I set it before we went down to the bar. I was worried I'd be too tired to wake up. Someone kept me up way too late."

I smirk, rolling onto my side to face her. "Someone, huh?"

She grins, her eyes still half-closed, and I can't help but smile back. Even in the early morning light, with her hair tousled from sleep and the faintest smudge of eyeliner under her eyes, she's beautiful. Effortlessly so. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you when you least expect it and grabs ahold of your balls and doesn't let go.

And then I remember when she did grab onto my balls. My erection grows at the thought of it. I know better than to go there, but damn, some morning sex would be amazing for mental clarity.

"Yeah, someone," she teases, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head.

I watch her, the way the soft light from the window catches on her skin, the curve of her back, the way her hair falls around her face. There's something almost surreal about this moment—waking up beside her like this, after everything that's happened.

A flicker of memory flashes through my mind—her body pressed against mine, the heat between us, the way she looked at me, completely unguarded. It wasn't just physical. There was something else. Something that lingers, even now, an emotional connection.

Woodley yawns, pulling me out of the moment. "I guess I should get up and start this full morning. We've been working for this moment."

I nod, forcing myself to sit up. Time to face reality. The pitch is in two hours, and we can't afford to be anything less than perfect.

"I'm gonna head next door, get dressed, and do... whatever I need to do at this ungodly hour," I say, pulling the sheets off me. My erection pops out, betraying me. She looks down and then away as if she didn't get to know it intimately last night. I quickly grab my boxers and throw them on.

She smiles, leaning back against the headboard, her eyes still sleepy but warm and flirty. "Sounds like a plan. I'll see you in a bit."

I stand, grabbing the rest of my clothes off the floor, and pause for a second before heading to the door. One last glance at her, still sitting there, hair messy, face flushed from sleep. She looks amazing. All I want to do is climb back in with her and relieve my morning needs.

I swallow, my mind flashing back again to last night. The way she felt under my hands, the way she kissed me like she couldn't get enough. I feel a pang in my chest, something I wasn't expecting. I didn't plan on this—whatever this is.

With a quiet breath, I slip out of her room and head next door to mine. But even as I close the door behind me, she's still there, lingering in my thoughts.

I step into the quiet, deserted hall and run a hand through my hair as I head toward my room. My mind is still reeling from everything. Was this a mistake? We've crossed the proverbial line. Twice.

I tell myself it's fine. We'll go to the meeting, crush the pitch, and then we'll head home for Christmas. Separate flights, separate lives. We won't even have to look back.

Maybe after we get this account I can be transferred to work out of the D.C. office. That's where I want to be, anyway, closer to home. I only took the Chattanooga job because it was a way to get my foot in the door.

As I reach for the door knob to my room, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. It's a text from Thom Vicary, and both Woodley and I are copied on it.

My stomach drops.

Due to the ongoing storm, a few key team members won't be able to make it to the office today. We'll have to reschedule the pitch for tomorrow, same time, pending this clears up. Apologies for the inconvenience. Stay safe out there.

The phone feels like a lead weight in my hand. Tomorrow. That's December 22, three days before Christmas. Mother fucker, they're pushing it off after all of this.

What the fuck?! He knows we both flew into Boston from Tennessee. Hell, I haven't even told him we literally drove through the night to get here because of a fucking bombing at our airport. And then he just cancels it an hour and some change before we are supposed to be there.

I am literally boiling right now I am so mad.

Panic grips my chest, tightening like a vice. I read the message again, hoping I misread it, but no—it's there, plain as day. I close the door behind me and sink down onto the bed, my heart hammering. This can't be happening.

We both have flights out this afternoon. We've already rescheduled twice, and now we'll have to do it again. It was hard enough before, and the likelihood of finding decent flights gets exponentially worse the closer we get to the twenty-fifth.

The news last night in the bar said something about widespread cancellations, road closures, basically pure chaos. And now we're stuck in this godforsaken state in a hotel feet away from their office twiddling our thumbs, waiting for it to clear.

Not to mention Woodley. I glance toward the wall separating our rooms. What happens when we're snowed in at this hotel for another night? Another night trapped in this Christmas wonderland, playing house instead of acting like responsible coworkers, maintaining appropriate boundaries.

I thought after last night, we'd have our meeting, shake hands, and go our separate ways. She'd fly back to Chattanooga, I'd head to D.C., and we wouldn't look back. Now? Everything is out the window.

For a second, I consider calling the client, suggesting we push the meeting until after the holidays. That would give us time to get home, avoid this storm, avoid another awkward night with Woodley and reset.

Surely Thom would prefer to enjoy his holiday and not have to deal with this at this point.

But if I go home and tell my father the pitch has been delayed, it'll be a disaster. He's been banking on this for months, and pushing it to January would ruin Christmas for sure.

I'm already dreading that conversation.

My thumb hovers over my father's number. Maybe I should feel him out. See if he's okay with delaying, or at least figure out how to soften the blow. But even as I hit the call button, I know it's a mistake.

The phone rings once, twice, and then his voice comes through, hard and cold. "Thorne." I'm sure he is already at the office on his second cup of coffee.

I swallow, already regretting this. "Hey, Dad. Look, we've got a situation."

"What is it, Thorne?" His tone sharpens, like he's already bracing for bad news.

I explain the storm, the client's text, the meeting getting bumped to tomorrow. I'm talking fast, trying to spin it, trying to make it sound like a minor inconvenience rather than the total cluster it really is. But I can hear him getting angrier with every word.

"Like hell you're going to ask him to reschedule it." His voice rises, the frustration clear. "You will stay right there and meet with him as he's requested tomorrow, Thorne. What are you in such a rush to get home for, anyway? You should've locked this down already. This is a multimillion-dollar client. Your entire job is to get them to say yes, that's it. You'll stay there through the new year if you have to."

"I know, I know." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of his disappointment crashing down on me. "But what if he can't get into the office, and he ends up pushing it back again? Or, worse, what if we can't get out of here?"

"Cry me a river," he snaps. "You're going to stay right there until you close this."

"Fine," I grind out, my jaw tightening. "Sounds like a plan. Just wanted to get your two cents."

"I've got to go," he says, his voice hard. "Don't be such a wuss."

The line goes dead, leaving me sitting there, staring at my phone like it's burned me. Damn it. He can be such a dick sometimes.

I toss the phone onto the bed and drop my head into my hands. My father's voice echoes in my head, the pressure squeezing my chest tighter. This was supposed to be simple. Get the pitch, close the deal, go home for Christmas. Now everything's falling apart.

And I'm stuck here with her .