Page 4 of Wolfish Player (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #2)

THE CEO

ADRIAN

“ H ow much would it cost our company if I put a five-year ban on signing self-published authors?”

“Seriously, Adrian?” My younger sister Theresa sighs over the line. “You ask me this question every three months.”

“Remind me of the answer.”

“We’d lose a minimum of fifty million in profit.”

“But would I have fewer headaches?” I ask. “And how many times would I have to read an article about how my firm has acquired another series that we haven’t delivered on?”

“The traditional authors miss deadlines, too.”

“They don’t post crying videos on TikTok about it…” I clench my fists against my steering wheel.

Today has been a day from hell, and the “ Author Goes Viral After Receiving ‘You have one F*cking Month to Finish’ Email from Grey Wolf Publishing ” headline is about to send me over the edge.

“All publicity is good publicity,” Theresa offers. “Right?”

“Wrong.” I shake my head. “Tell Marcia I’m not coming to the office tonight. If she needs me I’m at my favorite bar.”

“Take a shot for me.”

“I will.” I hang up and step out of the car, walking into Everly.

Inside, the place is empty and the only sound is the soft rain tapping against the windows.

I settle at the bar and wait for my usual service.

“There’s your first customer.” A soft voice echoes off the wall. “Go and greet him like I’ve taught you, and then I’ll walk you through the rest.”

Heels click against the floor as I scroll my inbox, pausing at a subject line.

Subject: Advance Repayment (Plan)

Dear Mr. Wolfson,

I’m sorry my client wasn’t able to produce the book on time and understand the need to repay the advance.

Attached is her plan to pay it back over the next three years, starting with $50 a month while she seeks proper employment.

Sincerely,

Joanna Parker

P.S. Aren’t you a billionaire? Can’t this be a tax write-off instead of robbing the poor?

I roll my eyes and reach for my typical whiskey, but it isn’t there. The bartender isn’t there either.

I turn around and spot a woman rushing across the room with a tray.

“Sorry, it’s my first day,” she says, sliding behind the counter. “I haven’t actually had to use my skills since college, so… What can I make you for tonight?”

“My usual.”

“I just said it’s my first day.” She shows me a lethal smile. “How would you expect me to know what you usually get?”

“I’m not used to talking to the bartenders when I come here,” I say, not in the mood for small talk. “You can ask one of your coworkers what their bar’s best customer prefers to drink.”

“Or, you can stop behaving like an uptight asshole and just tell me what you want.”

What did she just say? I take a long look at her lips.

“Macallan whiskey,” I answer evenly. “Do I need to show you what type of glass it needs to be poured in, as well?”

“That would honestly be helpful.” She lifts a glass. “Unless you’re okay with drinking from this one.”

“That’s a champagne flute.”

“So?” Her mouth quirks. “The shape of the cup doesn’t affect the taste of the alcohol. That’s just something out-of-touch people think.”

I blink. Either I’m stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone against my will, or this woman has no business being a bartender.

She picks up a sheet that features pictures of proper glasses and taps her lip. “Ah, so it’s this one.”

Her perfume drifts over to me as she bends for the proper glass, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth.

She picks up the bottle of Macallan and fills my glass way too far.

“Here you go,” she says, sliding it to me. “I gave you a little extra since you walked in here like you owned the place.”

I do own this place…

She walks away without offering me a cigar, without a “Pleasure to see you again, sir,” without doing any of the things I’m accustomed to getting here.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.” The manager, Mr. Tyler, suddenly appears at my side. “The chef has updated the menu for the season, so would you like to try one of our new desserts? It’d be on the house.”

“You know I’ll gladly pay for it.”

“Uh, well…” He smiles and signals for Terrible Bartender Woman.

“How may I be of service, Mr. Tyler?” she asks, coming over.

“Our top guest here would like to try one of our new fire-top desserts.” He smiles. “Since you took a class on making them this morning, would you like to make him one?”

“Am I allowed to say no?”

What the hell?

“Not at all.” Mr. Tyler laughs, but I’m pretty sure this woman wasn’t joking.

“I would love to make you a dessert.” She hands me a menu. “What would you like to enjoy tonight?”

You… If you could stop with your smart-ass mouth.

“I’ll take the vanilla bean mousse with strawberries.”

She nods, and just like the whiskey, proves that she knows nothing about bar desserts. Instead of handling this in the kitchen, she’s preparing it in front of me.

After lining the glass’s rim with sugar, she slices the strawberries and arranges them in a heart shape. Then she pulls out a jar marked “Mousse: Only Use in Kitchen” and pours it.

A moment later, the glass wobbles under the weight of the dessert, and then it tips over—splattering across my suit.

Goddamnit.

“Oh my god, sorry!” She hands me a napkin, eyes wide. “I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash. Or maybe it just needs a few sprays with OxiClean.”

“Does it look like I know what the fuck OxiClean is?” I dab at the fabric.

“If you did, you probably wouldn’t be panicking about a small spill…”

“This is a custom suit,” I say. “I can’t just throw it in the washing machine.”

She mutters something that sounds like, “How is that my fault?” And I narrow my eyes at her.

“Since this is your first day,” I say, “I won’t ask Mr. Tyler to take this out of your paycheck.”

She narrows her eyes right back.

“What our bartender means to say—” Mr. Tyler interjects. “Is that she’s sorry.”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I say. “Can she say it with a little less condescension?”

“I’m… so sorry?” Her face reddens. “Is that better, sir?”

“I think so.” The manager looks at me. “But it’s up to our guest.”

“Hold on then.” She leans closer across the bar, bringing her beautiful face closer to mine. “Allow me another chance to make my apology even better.”

I stop smoothing my tie.

“I am sorry for my subpar service tonight, sir,” she says, tone low and teasing. “So incredibly sorry.”

“You’re incredibly forgiven.”

“I’m not done.” She leans in, her breath grazing my cheek. “I’m also sorry that you have the audacity to come in here and expect someone to kiss your ass just because you can afford to waste eighty dollars on a shot of whiskey.”

I arch a brow.

“I’m sorry that you think you’re too good to wash your Tom Ford suit?—”

“It’s an Armani.”

“It doesn’t make you any better than me or anyone else.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough…” The manager whispers to her. “You need to stop.”

“Yes, you do,” I finally say, low enough for only her to hear. “Unless your goal is to get fired by the end of the night. I’ll have another whiskey neat—preferably served with a side of your silence.”

“Fine.” She pours slow, deliberate, every flick of her wrist like a challenge. Then her wrist tilts.

The whiskey splashes over my face, dripping down my jaw and soaking my tie, ruining it further.

“I fucking quit.” She storms off, and employees rush from the kitchen armed with towels for me.

With the liquor still dripping from my face, I turn toward Mr. Tyler. “Give me her full name… Now.”