9. Woodley

NINE

Woodley

Rockin' around the Christmas tree / At the Christmas party hop.

5:49 am

The hot water from the shower is the only thing keeping me grounded, washing away the remnants of that hot whatever it was with Thorne. Dear God, what am I doing with him? Is this turning into a habit or is there something more there?

I have got to clear my head. This morning I have to be one hundred percent focused on this meeting, not day dreaming about Thorne's tight ass. Or the fact that he is more well-endowed than I remember from the motel. Holy shit!

After the early alarm and the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours, I need to take a step back so that I can get it all out. A moment to breathe, to regroup, to prepare for what's supposed to be the most important pitch of our careers.

I'm grateful for the time alone to pull myself together. I don't need the distraction of his presence while I'm trying to put him out of my mind and wash him off my body.

As I step out of the shower, I grab the plush towel and wrap it around me, letting the warmth sink in. I glance at my phone sitting on the bathroom counter. The screen is on with a new message. I expect it to be a weather alert or maybe even a check-in from Dani about this morning, but when I see the name on the group text from Thom Vicary, my heart sinks.

I freeze, staring at the message. Tomorrow?

I walk into the bedroom and the towel slips from my shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind is racing. We're sitting here in a hotel a thousand miles from home, having survived a bombing and driven through a winter tundra to get here, literally across the street from their office, and he is going to casually postpone our meeting?

What in the absolute hell is this?

I run a hand through my wet hair, trying to process it. Tomorrow. The longer this is put off, the worse it's going to get. Delaying gives them time to rethink, time to consider other ad companies, time for someone else to swoop in.

My chest tightens, and a knot of panic forms in my stomach. We can't afford to lose this account. ValorTech is everything we've been working toward, and without this deal... I shake my head. I can't even let myself go there. We have to get this deal.

I pull up the weather app to try to understand what we are dealing with, here. It isn't looking good from my wannabe meteorologist eyes. There is an angry white mass moving east and it is almost sitting on top of Boston.

I stand up, pacing the room, the anxiety rising with every step. The storm outside is getting worse by the hour, if meteorologist Jim Cantore is to be believed. What if this pitch keeps getting pushed? What if they cancel altogether?

The thought of losing this client before we even get a chance to show him our idea makes my stomach churn. Thom Vicary, the director of marketing at ValorTech, is the man we have to convince. But, if his team can't make it, we're stuck, too.

And I hate feeling stuck.

I pull on my jeans from last night, my movements quick and jittery, and glance at my phone again. The snow is now blowing sideways outside of the window. By the time we're supposed to pitch tomorrow, the roads might be impassable. We have to convince them to try to get in to the office today.

This isn't just about being stuck in a hotel with Thorne for another night. That, I can handle. What I can't handle is the possibility of losing this deal. I worked too hard to get to this point. I've spent way too many late nights, too much preparation, all hanging by a thread because of something completely out of my control but only feet away from where I stand.

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's just a weather alert. More snow. Great.

I sit back on the bed, tapping my fingers against my knee, thinking through the possibilities. Maybe there's a way to do a remote presentation. The thought of doing that from a hundred yards away from their office seems comical, almost. But I'll take what I can get at this point.

We're losing time, losing momentum, and all I can think about is how close we were to locking this down. Literally.

I need to talk to Thorne. He was on this text, so if he didn't go back and fall asleep, he must be reeling, too. For him, it's about family, about proving something to his father. For me? It's about proving something to myself.

Adding an oversized sweatshirt to the jeans, not even bothering to dry my hair completely, I storm out of my room. The towel I half-heartedly ran through it didn't do much, and now wet strands cling to the back of my neck. But I don't care. Everything about me looks as disheveled as I feel.

But none of that matters right now.

I go directly next door to Thorne's room, my phone clutched tightly in my hand, the text from Thom Vicary still burning a hole in my thoughts, and knock.

This is insane. We can't just sit around and wait. We need action—now, or we risk giving it away. Considering everything we have been through on this trip, I didn't come this far to lose this.

I don't bother knocking softly or texting to see if he's awake. I pound on the door, probably waking him up because chances are he came back to go back to sleep. He needs to know we are in a dire situation.

After a few moments, the door swings open, and there he is, in all his breath-taking handsome glory. It takes me a moment to catch my breath, even in my rage about the text.

Thorne stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Water drips from his wet hair, sliding down his neck and over his bare chest. His skin is still damp from the shower, and for a brief moment, I just shudder in pleasure at the sight of him. Broad shoulders, toned abs, that infuriatingly smug expression that always manages to piss me off, even in my fangirl delusion.

I push those thoughts aside. This isn't about that. I'm here to get this job done, and fawning over his good looks will do nothing to that end.

"I'm guessing you saw the text?" he asks, rubbing a hand through his wet hair, clearly surprised to see me, as if this is no big deal. I guess he can calmly take a relaxing shower after learning about the postponement.

I don't wait for an invitation. I push past him, into his room. "Yes. You don't seem too concerned. But this is not cool. We need to talk about this now and figure out how we will respond."

"Um, I am concerned. You need to dial it back a little."

He closes the door behind me, but I'm already pacing. "We can't just sit here, Thorne. Like I said, this is not cool. We need to get ahead of this today, not tomorrow. Waiting until tomorrow is practically handing this account to someone else."

He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're overreacting. The meeting's been rescheduled. There's nothing we can do about the weather. Are you in a rush to get back to Tennessee, after all the hell you gave me about it at the airport?"

I'm not sure if he is projecting or attacking me. Hmph, if he knows anything at all about me, this has nothing to do with getting back home. What is home, anyway? This is about doing everything and anything to succeed at this job.

"Overreacting?" I stop, turning to face him, my heart pounding. "Are you kidding me? The longer we delay, the lower our chances of landing become! We can't just sit around twiddling our thumbs and making s'mores while they second-guess whether or not they even need us!"

Thorne sighs, clearly irritated, but also clearly trying to keep his cool. "We're stuck in a snowstorm, Woodley. You think he is staging this storm so he can interview someone else? This is Mother Nature. The roads are dangerous, half the city's shut down. Get a grip."

"Don't tell me to get a grip! I don't care about the roads!" My voice rises, fueled by the frustration bubbling inside me. "We've worked too hard for this. I've worked too hard for this. We can make it work. Hell, I'll drive to wherever they are if I have to. Anything's better than waiting for him to only postpone it further."

He looks at me like I've lost my mind. "You're going to drive through a snowstorm? In what, your tiny Kia Sportage rental car?" He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "The natives don't even want to drive in this, but you're going to trudge through a blizzard and present a pitch? Got it. You have lost your mind."

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. He's mocking me. "Don't be an asshole, Thorne." I don't know why I'm surprised by him resorting to acting like a petulant child. I guess I thought that with what we've been through these last thirty-six hours we would have been more of a team…that he cared more.

"We need to push for today, that's all there is to it. I don't care whether it's in person or video or whatever. I'm not going to sit here and watch this storm get worse when I know we can be aggressive to handle this now. We have to seize the moment and the moment is now, today."

He raises an eyebrow, his expression hardening. "You think pushing harder is going to fix this? Sometimes you have to wait, Woodley. Sometimes the moment isn't in your control, and right now, pushing them is going to make us look desperate."

"We are desperate!" I shout, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "This isn't just some random account, Thorne. This is our careers, our reputations. I'm not going to do it. You can either join me or sit in here and watch the world pass you by."

He takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "You think I don't get that? I want this deal just as much as you do, but you're acting like a maniac. Pushing too hard is going to screw us over. You need to calm down and take a breath."

"Don't ever tell me to calm down," I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. "That's rich, coming from you."

His jaw tightens. "No need to throw out the low-blows, so cut the bullshit."

I scoff. "I'll cut the bullshit when you stop acting like a child who doesn't own this. You might as well be throwing in the towel."

He glares at me, his voice lowering. "I'm not throwing in the towel. I'm trying to be smart about this. If we rush into a half-baked meeting, we'll blow it. We can't make them sit down and do this if they've already said they want to wait."

I shake my head, feeling the anger and frustration boiling over. "Fuck you." I'm so angry I could scream. Why doesn't he understand how urgent this is? I don't know why I thought we would be on the same page. This is why you don't sleep with your counterpart.

Thorne takes another step forward, his voice cold. "I'm done talking to you. You're being unreasonable. If you push, you're on your own. God, you're such a control freak."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I feel the sting of them, and for a second, I can't speak. My chest tightens, the air of the entire room is charged with anger.

"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, storming past him toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice sharp.

"Anywhere but here." I pull open the door, stepping out into the hall, my heart pounding in my ears. I don't look back.

I stomp down the hall, my footsteps thumping in the otherwise quiet space, even with the wall-to-wall carpeting. I don't care where I'm going, I just need to get away from him. From his stupid smirk, his calm, rational arguments that make me feel like I'm the one losing control.

If he had shown even a little bit of the same anger at the situation as I feel, then maybe I wouldn't have exploded like that. I'm not sure if I'm more mad at myself for expecting more from him or the postponement. This whole conversation went off the rails fast and I don't know what to do with all of my rage.

I spot the emergency stairs and push through the door, taking them two at a time. I need to move, need to walk off the anger boiling inside me. How did everything get so messed up?

Maybe he's right. He's not the first person to tell me I'm a control freak, but damn it, I've had to be. I chose to forge my own path, not having the luxury or desire to fall back on my family's wealth or influence.

I walked away from my support system, if it could be called that, to build something for myself. And it wasn't easy. It never has been. I have to be controlling if I want to pull myself up and actually make something of myself.

I swallow hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they're coming anyway, hot and fast. I wipe them away angrily, but they keep spilling over, my vision blurring as I make my way down the stairs. I hate that I'm crying. I hate that he got to me.

But it's not just him. It's everything.

I reach the bottom floor, pushing through the door into the lobby. The warmth and festive cheer of the Christmas decorations hit me like a slap in the face.

The tree, the lights, the music—all the things that made me feel happy and light last night now feel like a cruel joke. The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy, but right now, it feels like everything is unraveling around me.

I stop in the middle of the lobby, staring at the enormous Christmas tree. The train is still circling the snowy village display, the sound of carols filling the air. It should feel magical, like something out of a dream.

But right now I feel like I'm in the middle of a nightmare I can't wake up from. The pressure of it all is making it hard to breathe.

I'm so tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of proving myself over and over again, to everyone, to myself. It's been years of pushing, striving, never stopping to catch my breath. And for what? To stand here, in the middle of a snowstorm, days before Christmas, feeling like I'm about to fall apart?

It's ironic that I feel so alone while surrounded by so many people. I'm not sure I've ever felt so lonely.

I wipe at my eyes again, the tears coming harder now. I feel so out of control. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right, I do panic when I feel out of control. I can't stand the feeling of something I work for slipping out of my hands.

Ugh. I sink down onto one of the plush chairs near the tree, burying my face in my hands. The Christmas music, the laughter of families, it all feels so far away. All I can think about is how hard I've been pushing myself to be perfect, to prove I can do this on my own.

And now I'm not sure I can. Not like this.