Wolfish Player, page 1
WOLFISH PLAYER
WHITNEY G.
CONTENTS
Synopsis
Author’s Note
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
—
Two & a Half Weeks Later
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The CEO
Adrian
The CEO
Adrian
The Author
Heather
The Author
Heather
—
Heather
—
A Note + Other Office Romances by Me
Selfish Suit~
Synopsis
Devilish Bully~
Two Weeks Notice~
Prologue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by Whitney G.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover design by Qamber Designs & Media
For 2025.
Book number seven.
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
SYNOPSIS
Subject: Congratulations! We are thrilled to offer you an advance on your next book!
The moment I got that email, I swore my days of being a broke indie author were officially over.
I bought a new house, traveled, splurged on things I definitely didn’t need… and, um—kind of forgot to actually write the book.
By the time my deadline rolled around, I had almost nothing to show for it. My endless “Just need a little more time for my muse” excuses weren’t cutting it anymore.
So, I swallowed my pride and came clean—while hatching a plan to get “inspiration” and pay back some of the advance at the same time. The plan? Get a job at the very publishing company that gave me the deal, so I could:
1 Make money to keep a roof over my head.
2 Start repaying the advance.
3 Gather firsthand material for the office romance I was two years late delivering.
It sounded like a good idea… until I actually got the job.
Until I realized the CEO of the publishing house was an arrogant, cunning wolf in a bespoke suit—
The same man I told to f*ck off several nights ago.
The same man I may have thrown a drink on (but that’s a story for another day).
Now I swear being his so-called “intern” is an exercise in hell… and from the way he’s circling me, I have no intention of being his prey.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up Wolfish Player—a spicy and fast-paced office romance novella! (I’m including an extended sneak peek of Two Weeks Notice, a full-length office romance, at the end.)
If you want to be the first to learn of my upcoming releases, sales, and special things that I only offer to my readers, be sure to sign up for my Exclusive F.L.Y. List. (F.L.Y. = Effin Love You. Because whether you hate or love this story, I still love you for giving it a chance!)
Sincerely,
Whitney G.
THE CEO
ADRIAN
It takes a certain type of author to make me hate publishing books. The rare and uncomfortable loathing comes every blue moon, but whenever it arrives, it’s always because of an indie author…
I’ve been running Grey Wolf Publishing since the day my father handed it to me at eighteen, and I’ve grown it from a small newspaper business to a conglomerate that lands books on bestseller charts, runs popular podcast networks, and distributes award-winning films.
I know what it takes to pen a compelling story—all the proper avenues to drive it to success—and yet, every last Friday of the month, I find myself bracing for “Red Flag Day.”
With a senior-level editor, we pull up the list of books we’re owed, analyze which authors are on time versus which ones are not, and then try to figure out what the hell is going on.
Every missed deadline isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a six-figure marketing campaign stalled, an investor breathing down my neck, a brand that looks weaker with every broken promise.
“I’m ready if you are.” Marcia, one of my longest-standing team members, approaches my desk with a coffee. Loyal to a fault, she’s been with me since the early days, sharp enough to anticipate my reactions before I speak. “Let’s start in reverse this time, shall we?”
“Go ahead.”
“First up is Russell Swanson, the social media all-star we signed to a six-figure deal last year,” she says. “He’s penning a highly anticipated sci-fi saga.”
“I remember him.”
“Well, he just turned in his final manuscript, and the editors love his draft, so I’m going to remit part of his payment today.”
“Why is he on our red flag list if he’s not late?”
“He wrote ‘Fuck Adrian Wolfson’ on his dedication page.”
“Tell him I appreciate his offer, but I only fuck women.”
“Do you want me to make him change that page?”
“I’m shocked you’re even asking me that,” I say. “Next author.”
“Shelby Ellington,” she says. “Fantasy author who’s penning the long-awaited Realm of Ruby. She’s asking for another extension.”
“We just gave her one two months ago.”
“Her editor says she really needs it, too.” She tosses me a map of the fictional world. “They’re shifting some things around.”
I glance at the intricately drawn sheet, tracing my fingers from the forsaken mountains to the endless plains.
“Give her one hundred and eighty days to be sure,” I say. “And pair her with another developmental editor for the extra support.”
“Will do.”
We spend the next forty minutes speeding through extension requests, and to my surprise, there aren’t that many today.
“Last up, we have romance.” Her tone suddenly shifts from optimistic to uneasy. “The uh, newest indie romance authors we acquired…”
“I need another cup of coffee first.”
She calls for an intern to refill my cup, and I glance at my printed copy of the list.
Romance is our most profitable genre—the crown jewel of Grey Wolf—but if readers knew half the insane shit these authors pulled behind the scenes, they’d petition to send them to an asylum instead of a book signing.
How the hell can eighteen authors miss their deadlines?
“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Wolfson.” Marcia clears her throat. “Just say the word.”
I say nothing.
“Okay, fine.” She lets out a sigh. “Let’s start with the books that we’ve been waiting on the longest.”
I sip my coffee, hoping deep down that this will zoom by as fast as the other genres.
“The Final Terms by Allyson Harmony,” she says. “It’s the second standalone in an international bestselling office romance series.”
“I remember that one,” I say. “The author didn’t show up to the high-priced re-release party we threw for her.”
“She’s very shy, sir. She always has been.”
“Right… What’s the status of the next book in the series?”
“She was supposed to turn it in last year, but she kept having some personal issues so we kept giving her extensions.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” I lean forward. “What’s the status of the book?”
“She’s requesting an extension via her agent before she reveals anything this time?”
I roll my eyes. “What was her reason last time?”
“Her pet fish died.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was coming off the heels of an intense battle with writer’s block, and she said she needed time to deal with her anxiety.”
Bullshit.
“How much more time is she claiming to need now?”
“A full year.”
I lean back in my chair, jaw tightening. “Remind me how much her deal was worth.”
“Two million dollars.”
“We paid that upfront?”
“No, we only paid half up front. A quarter is due on draft delivery, and we’ll pay the rest on publication.”
“If there’s a publication…” I pull out my phone and venture to this author’s social media. None of her posts feature her face, and she doesn’t have a photo on her “about” page on her website either.
Her bio reads like she pulled it from a How to Write the Vaguest Shit Ever guide:
Allyson Harmony loves writing romance and thriller stories. She also loves drinking coffee with her best friend.
“Are we sure this person actually exists?” I ask. “I’m getting fraud vibes.”
“She’s real.” She shakes her head. “But she’s writing under a pen name. I’d have to look at her contract to see her real name, if that’s what you’re after.”
“What I’m after is this goddamn book.” I glance at the dates on her latest social media posts; she’s posting at least five times a week about “how in love” she is with this story, how the “characters are challenging her to do her best work,” and how “you’re going to LOVE this next office romance,” and yet…
We have nothing to show for it, and she hasn’t sent us shit…
“Would you like me to request a few pages of the manuscript, or do you want to grant the extensions?”
“Neither.” I’ve had enough of this shit. “Get her agent on the goddamn phone.”
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?
That 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…”
