Wolfish player, p.8
Wolfish Player, page 8
“Mr. Wolfson.”
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 final Wildwood book. 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.
“What about the advance on the office romance?”
“I still expect that book from you, too…” He pauses, his eyes softening, just for a second. “But I think you’re in a much better headspace to write it now, correct?”
“I’m halfway finished.”
“Good to know.”
“I’m not sleeping with you again,” I say, finding the last scraps of my backbone. “I meant that.”
“I thought you only meant it if we weren’t in a relationship.”
“Seeing as though that’s ‘not your thing,’ then—”
“I would like to be with you,” he interrupts, his hand squeezing at my waist. “That’s why I don’t want you to work under me anymore.”
I blink, stunned. “I’m not trying to be your first relationship project.”
“Then be my first girlfriend,” he says, voice sharp but eyes almost pleading. “And please stop making this difficult.”
I stare, throat dry, unable to form words.
“If you’re waiting for me to beg you, I will.” His jaw flexes. “I’ve really missed you, and it’s not just the sex.”
“I’ll take you on dates, Heather,” he adds, softer now. “Not because you asked for them, but because you deserve them.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes. His finger presses against my lips, silencing me.
“I meant what I said about being sorry.” His grip tightens, possessive at my waist. “Give me another chance and I promise you won’t regret it.”
Silence.
“Heather, I’m fucking trying here…” His voice is hoarse. “Can you say something?”
“I’m still processing the ‘girlfriend’ part.” My lips curve into a shaky smile. “I haven’t really heard anything else.”
He lets out a low laugh, the sound rough with relief, and pulls me against him, his lips crushing mine. The kiss is urgent, claiming, and it drags every memory of what I’ve missed straight back to the surface. My knees weaken as I melt into him, and when he finally pulls back, his breath still mingling with mine, I’m left trembling, undone.
“I’m serious about the edits on the Wildwood book,” he says, voice rough. “I’m offering you a seven figure deal on that one…”
“You want me to work on it tonight?”
“You can start this weekend.” He tugs me against his side, already steering me toward the door. “We’re spending tonight making up for lost time.”
—The End—
—
EPILOGUE
HEATHER
Several Months Later
The rooftop of Grey Wolf Publishing is louder than I expected—champagne popping, readers waving books in the air, cameras flashing against the skyline.
It’s my release party, though it feels more like a whirlwind. Everywhere I look, someone’s clutching The Final Terms—the contemporary office romance that started all of this.
It doesn’t seem real, not when I remember how close I came to never finishing it.
The Wildwood saga is still holding steady on the bestseller charts, and this winter the third book is set to hit shelves—with a nationwide tour to follow. Rumor has it I might not be traveling alone. A certain fellow author has been dropping hints about finally stepping out from behind his pseudonym.
But I know that he’s still mulling a certain “conflict of interest” …
Either way, I’ll be there. Writing. Signing. Meeting readers who remind me why I kept going.
Adrian never asked for a dime back from my advance, and now he doesn’t have to. I’m writing every day again—some mornings harder than others—but the words come because I show up, and because he makes sure I do. Coffee. Eye rolls. Stolen kisses across my desk. Most mornings, it’s him and me, and the page.
Tonight, though, it’s this rooftop.
I finish the last signature, the crowd thins, and the fairy lights finally settle into quiet. I’m still gathering myself when I feel him at my side.
“Come with me,” Adrian says. His hand finds mine, steady, certain, guiding me off the rooftop and back inside.
The halls are empty now, our footsteps echoing against marble and glass. He doesn’t stop until we’re in his office—the place that once terrified me, then tempted me, then became the start of everything.
He closes the door behind us and turns, his eyes sharp but unguarded.
“I’ve never once been happy when an author reneged on a deal,” he says slowly, each word deliberate. “Until you. You broke every rule I set, crossed every line I drew. And instead of destroying everything, you forced me to admit the one truth I’ve spent years avoiding—I don’t want control if it means living without you.”
He slips a hand into his jacket, pulls out a small velvet box, and lowers to one knee. The sight of Adrian Wolfson—the Grey Wolf himself—kneeling on his own office floor nearly knocks the breath from me.
“I’ve negotiated every kind of contract in this building,” he continues, voice low but steady. “But this one is different. This is the only deal I’ll ever put everything on the table for. My only offer.” He opens the box, eyes locked on mine. “Marry me.”
The words land like a signature across the page of my life. My throat tightens, my vision blurs, and then it’s there—the only answer I’ll ever give him.
“Yes.”
And for the first time in forever, I’m not dreading the blank page. I’m looking forward to it—looking forward to penning the next chapter of my life with him.
—The End, Again—
If you want to read The Final Terms, my upcoming full-length office romance (wink wink), you can preorder it here.
—
THE END
A NOTE + OTHER OFFICE ROMANCES BY ME
Thank you so much for reading this spicy office romance novella!
If you want more in this vein, be sure to check out the other two books in this steamy collection: Selfish Suit & Devilish Bully via the blurbs and links on the following page(s)!
And if you want to read any of my upcoming releases in advance, in exchange for an honest review, join The ARC Team—I’d love to have you!
In the meantime, check out Two Weeks Notice & Reasonable Doubt (also by me) which have similar vibes! I’m including a short sneak peek of each on the next page!
F.L.Y. & thank you for reading,
Whitney G.
SELFISH SUIT~
WHITNEY G.
SYNOPSIS
UberEats App (A$$h*le Customer):
You're now officially 15 minutes late, so I'm docking your tip for every second my dinner isn't in my hands.
By the way, this was my first—and likely last—time using this app…
The moment I received that message, I should've opened the guy's $300 pasta and wine order and thrown it out the window.
If I wasn't in desperate need of the money, trust me, I would've.
By the time I deliver the order to a hotel suite in Manhattan, I'm soaked from the rain, exhausted, and shocked as hell at who the customer is.
Dominic Sutton.
As in billionaire Dominic Sutton—and the selfish a$$hole who runs the other place I work.
I really should've kept my mouth shut…
When he has the audacity to tip me 3%—three freaking percent—I snap. I tell him exactly what I think of his revolving door of interns, his policy that staff can't even look him in the eyes, and let him know he's the worst CEO in the world.
The sexy smirk on his face makes it clear that my rant doesn't faze him in the slightest.
That's when I take his pricey food and storm back downstairs to my car.
(Yes, it tasted amazing…)
I honestly thought he'd forget all about me—he has far bigger things to worry about.
Until I get to work the following Friday.
There's an email waiting for me:
Subject: Report to the executive floor to see me. Now.
Something tells me I'm about to find out just how ruthless—and selfish—this man really is.
One click Selfish Suit via Amazon & Kindle Unlimited!
DEVILISH BULLY~
SYNOPSIS
Employee Satisfaction Survey Response
Answer: 0/10 stars. If I could give this a**hole CEO a negative rating, I would. He’s never been wrong a day in his life, turns our meetings into hostage situations, and I swear he cuts people off mid-sentence just to hear himself talk.
Ithought employee surveys were supposed to be anonymous.
I also thought it was a great idea to fill one out after half a bottle of cheap tequila… instead of finishing the quarterly project he’s been hounding me about for weeks.
Turns out, I was wrong.
One week later, our CEO is in the middle of a boardroom speech about “transparency” when he pulls my survey up on the big screen—and reads it aloud, word for word.
Including my name.
I’m so effin screwed…
Firing me would’ve been the merciful option.
Instead, he decides to “make an example out of me.”
Now I’m his shadow—dragged into every meeting, roped into client dinners, and shoved onto impossible deadlines that mysteriously appear on my desk after midnight.
He says it’s a “lesson in professionalism.”
I say it’s punishment from a devilish bully with a very long memory.
And if hell hath no fury like a scorned boss, mine is about to make me believe it…
One click Devilish Bully
TWO WEEKS NOTICE~
PROLOGUE
Tara
“Winners never quit, and quitters never win …”
If I had a dollar for every time my mother said those words to me, I would be sipping wine on my own private island off the Amalfi Coast at this very moment.
When I cried about hating ballet, she squished my feet into those ugly pink flats and made me go to practice anyway. When I told her that I wanted to change my major from Business to “something more creative,” she threatened to stop paying my tuition. And when I told her that I was seconds away from telling my first real boss to go fuck himself, she would only sigh and give me her tried and true words of advice.
She insisted that all my late-night emails were “wasteful whining,” that my screams of hatred were “misplaced admiration,” and that all the times he made me work over a hundred hours in a single week were “much-needed character building.”
After two long years of working for him, I’ve finally accepted that none of those things are true.
Preston Parker is an asshole boss. That is it. End of discussion.
My mother can call me a “quitter” all she wants, but she’ll never know what it’s like to work for a man like him. A man whose ego is bigger than all of New York and Vegas combined.
Yes, he can make any woman wet by uttering a single syllable from his perfectly molded mouth. Yes, his deep emerald and grey eyes are downright breathtaking, and the way he’s able to make any suit look like it was made explicitly for him, never ceases to amaze me.
But I’ve had more than enough.
I can’t take working for him anymore, and I’m finally drafting the two weeks’ notice I should’ve drafted the very first month we worked together. (No, the very first week we worked together.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I can’t start this story from the bitter end or the miserable middle. I need to start it from the very unfortunate beginning …
Read the rest of Two Weeks Notice by one-clicking here!
Whitney G., Wolfish Player
