Page 33 of Wolfish Player (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #2)

THE AUTHOR

HEATHER

A t 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 ? —