Page 18 of Wolfish Player
“You’re very welcome, Miss Barrett.” I glance at her office, then back at her. “Can you please step out of my sight now?”
“Gladly.” She walks away, and as much as I try to resist, it’s futile. I watch her ass until she disappears and slams the door.
I spend the rest of the day in my second office, sending her another list just to keep her at a distance.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Wednesday bleeds into Thursday, Thursday into Friday—a blur of empty coffee cups and dog-eared schedules.
And somehow—between being bombarded with hundreds of authors’ release schedules and sitting through endless pitch meetings—I manage to survive three weeks, measuring time in cold takeout boxes and meetings that never end.
But not without wanting to scream every hour…
Any time I complete a task and get a chance to breathe, Mr. Wolfson sends another task to my cell phone without explanation. It buzzes mid-bite, goes off while toothpaste foams in my mouth, buzzes again while I’m flat on my back staring at the ceiling.
I’ve never hated the sound of a vibration more in my life.
When his shoulder brushes mine in the hall, heat spikes so sharp I nearly drop the files in my hands. In the office, his gaze glances off mine and I glue my eyes to anything else—the clock, the potted plant, the crack in the wall—pretending the air between us isn’t humming like a live wire.
Every night my notebook waits on the nightstand, pen clipped to the same blank page, another day gone without a word written.
At the start of week four and upon receiving my first paycheck, I decide that I need to detach from everything in my old indie author life.
I log out of every single one of my social media accounts. Mute my author email. Block every book-related site in my browser’s history—Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes & Noble, The Ripped Bodice, Flutter Bookstore, Whimstery, Audible.
One by one, I log out—every click slamming shut like a door I won’t reopen.
THE CEO
ADRIAN
Sometimes book pitching sessions are as relentlessly long as Red Flag Days. There’s always a chance that we’ll get to hear a storyline that makes the reader inside us jump at the chance to experience the finished book, but I haven’t heard a single decent story today.
I don’t make a habit of sitting in on these sessions, but the agent across from me represents a powerhouse author, so I always give them the courtesy.
I really wish I hadn’t…
To make matters worse, all morning I’ve been trying not to stare at Heather. She’s made it impossible—her hair is pinned up again when all I want is to snatch it down, drag my fingers through it, turn her around and make her submit.
Three weeks of blue balls is more than any man should endure, and she doesn’t have a clue.
“The heroine is having an affair with the hero’s brother,” the agent says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “It’s an emotional one, but it turns physical one night when they’re driving home.”
“I’m sorry,what?” I glance down at my folder, making sure that this meeting is for Author Helen Meyers—a contemporary romance author. “She wants her next book to have cheating?”
“Cheating that leads to the ultimate love story.” She keeps talking. “After sleeping with the hero’s brother, she tells his father… which leads to them having an intimate night together in his bed.”
Okay, we’re done here.
“Feeling overwrought with emotions, she realizes she has feelings for all three men, and even though they have other relationships, they eventually move to a compound and… connect. After that?—”
“There’smoreto this story?”
“There’s a plot twist.” She nods, beaming. “The compound is haunted, and overnight they realize they’ve somehow ventured onto another planet.”
“Tell your client she needs to go on vacation and get some inspiration.” I refuse to let her go any further. “We’re not moving to the next stage with that story.”
