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

THE AUTHOR

HEATHER

@Harriet Ledger

Omg! The SEX in this book is so FUCKING HAWT!

@Brianna Harmon

I LOVEEE this man and his filthy mouth! Give me more!

@Emily Hilton

Do you have a release date for your next book?

T hat last comment is always my cue to log off the internet for the rest of the day.

As much as the readers’ excitement should inspire me, it triggers heart palpitations, sweat, and guilt—and then it forces me to open my laptop and return to where I left off in my manuscript.

The cursor doesn’t even blink in anticipation anymore. It’s like it knows nothing is coming.

My document still features the same two words that have lived there for months: Chapter One.

As much as I want to believe the “There’s No Such Thing as Writer’s Block” and “Just Sit Your Ass in a Chair and Write” notes taped to my desk, my silence on the page speaks for itself.

“You can do this, Heather.” I refuse to surrender today. “You can totally write some epic words today.”

I take a deep breath and briefly shut my eyes, envisioning what this story is supposed to be about.

Alpha male boss who rules the real estate industry. Heroine who stumbles into his world somehow—maybe housekeeping?

She’s a maid, I think.

And then um… spice. Lots of spice.

Hot banter. More spice…

“I’ve got it!” My eyes flutter open and I face the screen, stretching my fingers before adding the first new words in months. A centered timestamp under “Chapter One.”

“The start of this story.”

“Welp, that counts!” I smile, glancing at another note taped to my desk: “Any progress is good progress.”

I close the document and log back into social media to read more comments from my readers.

My next romance novel, whenever I finish it, will be hot as hell and amazing.

I swear.

Later that evening

The walls in my office are lined with framed covers of every story I’ve ever published.

There are twenty-six of them, and the last one was the charm. An office romance that did something none of my other books ever managed. It actually sold.

At first, it was a hundred copies a day—a personal record. Then a hundred books an hour. Then a thousand.

Before I knew it, I was swept onto a side of indie authorland I never knew existed. Readers were messaging me. My newsletter was gaining subscribers instead of spam reports. And whenever I looked at the sales dashboard, I felt hope instead of regret.

But the more successful I became—the more books that sold and the more deals that came in—the tighter fear wrapped its hand around my writing hand and my heart. It has yet to let me go.

As I’m readjusting the frame that holds my favorite story—a romantic suspense saga that’s sold eighty copies to date—I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.

My best friend and literary agent, Joanna.

“Hey there,” I answer, and her face instantly appears on my screen. “What’s up?”

“A lotttt!” She’s always super dramatic. “I have good news, great news, and some super awful news.”

“What’s the great news?”

“I finally got a stylist to give me a haircut I actually love!” She shakes her head back and forth. “The layers are perfect and the highlights are divine.”

“It does look great on you… What’s the good news?”

“I bought a bottle of your favorite wine. I have a feeling it might come in handy soon.”

“Um, okay… Thank you very much.” I hesitate, waiting for the real reason. “What’s the super awful news?”

“Your publisher is refusing to give you another writing extension. They said ‘hell no’ to every request I made.”

“So, they want me to turn in an unfinished manuscript next month?”

“No, they um… they don’t even want the book anymore.” She pauses. “They just want their money back.”

“Wait, what?”

“You can pay it in installments,” she says quickly. “They’re willing to accept it over a nine-month period. So, do you want to send me a check so I can submit part of it today?”

“Define ‘part of it.’”

“Like, ten thousand in good faith?”

“Um…” I blink, mentally calculating what I can spare. “What about ten dollars?”

“Come again?”

“I can maybe swing fifty, but… um… I don’t really have extra money outside of my mortgage and bills for the rest of the year, you know?”

“No, I don’t know, Heather.” She sucks in a breath. “We just went on a week-long trip to Hawaii!”

“That was for writing inspiration.”

“Did you get any?”

“I wrote five new words this morning.”

“Five thousand, you mean?”

“Your use of numbers is triggering my anxiety…”

“You told me you had chapter one finished last month.” She narrows her eyes. “You literally said, ‘Oh my gosh! I’m making so much progress and I just finished chapter one.’”

“No, I said I’d written the words ‘chapter one.’”

“Oh my effin god, Heather…” She sucks in a breath, and I can’t tell if she’s seconds away from yelling or rushing over to strangle me. Probably both.

“How much of your book is actually done, as of today?” She keeps her voice calm. “If I wanted to send a partial to the publisher as a Hail Mary, how many words would I be sending?”

“Seven,” I say. “Not thousand. Just seven.”

Her left eye twitches, and her face reddens by the second. She grabs something I can’t see, and I’m convinced it’ll be classified as a murder weapon days from now.

“So, not only have you not written a goddamn thing in over a year, but you’ve spent your entire advance?”

“No, not all of it… just most of it.”

“On what ?”

“My house, remember?” I wave my hand around my living room. “And I bought that expensive Audi you suggested.”

“I did not make you buy an Audi, Heather.”

“You told me not to get the Honda I was looking at…”

“Bullshit.” She shakes her head. “What else?”

“Trips to New York, Vegas, Charlotte, Florida, Costa Rica?—”

“I get the point on travel.” She narrows her eyes. “Next category.”

“Lots of paperbacks and hardbacks…” I walk to my home library. “Sprayed pages, special editions… it all adds up, you know?”

“It’s not adding up to your entire advance just yet.”

“New laptops, gym membership, podcast stuff…”

“Did you ever start that podcast?”

“The microphone is still in the box.” My chest aches as the past year flashes by in an expensive blur: dinners at restaurants I’d always dreamt of, first-class flights for me and my family, shopping at places with names I can’t pronounce.

“I can’t believe I’m just now realizing this.” Tears sting my eyes. “How the hell did I not see this before?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She exhales. “I’ll help you figure something out.”

“Can the publisher actually do this? Like, legally?”

“It’s not typical, but yes… I’m sure it’s in your contract.”

“Can you come over and help me check for loopholes?” I’m starting to hyperventilate. “And maybe draft a pleading letter for a little more time?”

“I’ll be right there.”