Page 11 of Wolfish Player (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #2)

THE AUTHOR

HEATHER

W ednesday 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.