Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
When I finally manage to breathe, he pulls back just enough to smirk up at me, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his fingers through my hair, possessive and taunting.
“When was the last time you wrote on your book?”
“A couple weeks ago.” I’m still coming down. “I wrote two chapters.”
“Hm.” His gaze lingers on me, unreadable, before he finally stands.
“Do you feel better now, Miss Barrett?” His tone shifts as if his mouth wasn’t just on me.
I can only nod.
“Good.” He straightens his cuffs. “You can make up the time I spent massaging and tasting you by coming in three hours early tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
It’s four a.m., and my body is staging a full rebellion. Every step toward Grey Wolf feels like I’m dragging cement blocks instead of feet.
When I step into the lobby, Mr. Wolfson is sitting at the receptionist desk, holding the second book in my Wildwood saga.
I stare at him, completely confused.
“What happens next in this story?” he asks, flicking his gaze between the cover and me.
“What?”
“It ended on a cliffhanger,” he says. “What happens next?”
“A lot…”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s on my laptop,” I say. “I got halfway through it but stopped writing it years ago.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t selling,” I admit. “I think it sold like two hundred copies total, and I…I just couldn’t afford to finish it, you know? I had to keep moving on to something that did.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
“If you’re that interested, I can print out what I have and—”
“Yes,” he interrupts me. “I would like that.”
“Okay…” I wait for him to insult me so I can take the elevator upstairs. “Well, my boss insisted that I come in super early today, so I’m going to go upstairs if you don’t mind.”
“He doesn’t want you upstairs just yet.” He moves from behind the desk and walks to me. “Come here.”
He places his hand against the small of my back, sending a jolt of warmth through my body as he leads me down the hall and into one of the lounges that’s named after one of the firm’s top-selling authors.
Bright lights spill across the room, illuminating rows of chairs and framed covers lining the walls—every one belonging to M.L. Emerson, the elusive powerhouse whose books never leave the charts.
Their work spans nearly every genre imaginable, and the sales rival even John Grisham’s and Stephen King’s.
“What comes to mind when you think of this author?” he asks.
“That he probably has a stable full of ghostwriters,” I say. “There’s no way he publishes this damn fast.”
“Or maybe he plants his ass in a chair for a set amount of hours a day and writes like a professional author.”
“His ghostwriters probably plant their asses down, too.”
“Two thousand words a day—” He doesn’t entertain my theory—“for thirty days comes to sixty thousand words a month. But he happens to write five thousand a day, so you do the math.”
“Oh…” I bite my tongue, unable to say anything else.
“Your books tend to be on the shorter side—a la fifty thousand words for a novel and twenty thousand for your novellas, correct?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“So, is there any reason why you haven’t been able to sit down and write at least five hundred words a day since you signed for your book deal?”
“When you break it down like that, it sounds a lot easier than it is…”
He crosses his arms.
“It takes a lot more than just sitting to write a book,” I say. “I need inspiration, and I have to feel like it.”
“Do you think doctors feel like going to work every day?”
“Yes…”
“Do you feel like coming here to work every day?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I have to.” I shrug. “It’s my livelihood at this point.”
“Exactly.” He pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit.
I pull my tablet from my purse—prepared to take down notes about upcoming book campaigns—but he lifts it from my hands.
Then he opens the side drawer and pulls out a laptop.
An intern slips into the room and sets down a steamy cup of coffee on the desk before walking over to the windows and pulling back the drapes—giving me a view of rainy Manhattan.
“You’ve got until lunch,” he says. “For the rest of this month, you’re going to come in here at four in the morning and write. And you’re going to check in with Gloria in editorial and give her daily updates.”
“What?”
“I’m not repeating myself,” he says. “Write, so you can finish this story for me. Then you can finish the one you owe me.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“You’re talented as hell, Heather,” he says, his voice slightly softening, “and I think this is a better use of your time while you’re here.”
I swallow. That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever heard from him, and I hate that it almost makes me want to prove him right.