Page 41 of Wolfish Player
He moves to my side, waiting for me to look at him, but I don’t give him the satisfaction.
I can’t.
“Is there anything in particular you need from me today, sir?” I ask. “I have a lot to get through.”
“We need to talk.”
“I’ll send you my notes via email.” I pick up a few manuscripts. “Then I’ll let you know when I’m available.”
“I guess with all your time off, you’ve forgotten who the boss here is.”
“I know who he is.” I pick up a pen. “Unfortunately.”
He moves closer, tilting my chin up with his fingertips, sending a flush of warmth through my body.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “And I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve only missed the sex.” I move back before I can make a huge mistake. “I’ll see you via your inbox soon.”
I carry the manuscripts down the hall and step onto the elevator, feeling his heated gaze watch me the entire way.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
At six o’clock, I’m highlighting the final pitch lines of a sports romance when the door to the café opens.
“I need everyone except Miss Barrett to leave the room.” Adrian steps inside, his glare sweeping the room before landing squarely on me.
I freeze, helpless, as everyone scatters—interns fumbling notebooks, assistants clutching scones—until the last one slips past him. He shuts the door with deliberate calm, turns the lock, and the click echoes through the empty space.
Then he strolls toward me, the stride predatory, deliberate. In his hand: the bound manuscript of my finalWildwoodbook. My pulse stutters.
He sets it down on the table with care, then fixes me with an unblinking stare. The weight of his eyes pins me to my chair. When he finally moves, it’s to come behind me and tug me to my feet, his hand warm, firm at my waist.
“You and I have some issues we need to discuss, Miss Barrett,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Immediately.”
“It should only be work-related at this point,” I manage. “Is there something wrong with my book?”
“Very wrong.”
“I’m open to rewriting it, but I’ll need extra time since I’m busy working on a few tours, so if you?—”
“You’re fired,” he cuts me off.
“What?” My breath catches, my instinct to step back short-circuited when his grip tightens, steadying me in place.
“You. Are. Fired.” He enunciates each word, his stare blazing. “Effective immediately.”
“Because I shut down our ‘casual’ relationship?” My voice wavers. “Are you really that petty?”
“Yes,” he admits, mouth quirking, “but that’s not why I’m firing you.”
“There are no other valid reasons.” My voice cracks. “Like, you can’t be serious.”
“You’re fired because you wrote an incredible fucking book and it needs to be on shelves as soon as possible,” he says. “It’s perfect story-wise, but if we’re going to release it as soon as I’d like, you need to spend your time on some minor edits.”
My chest loosens in relief, but my heart is still hammering.
