Barclay

The five head editors for Hammond Press are gathered around a large rectangle table in the boardroom connected to my office, and I sit at the head, presiding over an emergency meeting.

Don Black, our company’s prized author, has been missing in action for two weeks—something he’s never done in the fourteen years we’ve published his books. If anything, he and his agent are high maintenance, communicating almost daily, requesting numbers or extra publicity.

“I’ve called his agent two or three times a day. Sent emails too. All unanswered. It’s like he’s ghosting me.” Marcus Gunderson, my editor-in-chief, wipes sweat from his forehead, as if he just finished a marathon. The dark circles under his eyes and ashen complexion make him appear ten years older. “His agent says he’s, and I quote, ‘taking a break.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

“There can only be one answer. Another publisher is trying to lure him away from us. Our company depends on him. Hell, all of us do.” I glance around the table, stopping to look at each of them. “Those nice vacations you all take during August? The checks you write to your kids’ prep schools? Well, kiss them goodbye if he jumps ship to one of our competitors.”

Marcus turns white as a sheet of copy paper. He has two sons at The Dalton School on the Upper East Side, where the tuition is over forty thousand a year.

“I’m at a loss.” Marcus runs shaky fingers through his brown hair. “I’ll try his agent again after the meeting.”

“At this point, we don’t have a firm answer on whether he’s attending the Warwick Awards this weekend, correct?” I ask as my jaw tightens. “He has to be there. Rumors are circulating that he’s won book of the year.”

Marcus shakes his head while all the other editors avoid eye contact with me. I give my employees plenty of space to do their job, but I demand excellence and pay them accordingly. And when I feel like they miss the damn mark, there’s a price to pay.

It’s not just about the money the company loses. It’s about people’s lives. How they feed their children. Pay their mortgages. One mistake can have an avalanche effect on the entire company.

“We need an answer today.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the company’s future pressing heavy on my shoulders. “Losing Black isn’t an option.”

Silence lingers, making one thing crystal fucking clear: no one has a plan for reaching Black.

“Marcus, you have until five o’clock to get a yes from either Black or his agent, or else.” I rise out of my chair, towering over the table. “And believe me, you don’t want to know what ‘or else’ means. Now, get to work. The meeting’s adjourned.”

“Understood, Mr. Hammond.” The fact that Marcus called me by my surname further drives home the point. His neck is on the line, and he knows it.

The editors gather their belongings in quick fashion before scrambling out of the room. I walk over to the window, needing a few minutes to reflect on the repercussions of Black leaving. Nothing is forever in this business, and hell, we’ve published him for fourteen years—an eternity in today’s fickle business climate of reaching for the biggest brass ring.

Leaning a hand high on the window, I gaze out at the shining copper building across from Hammond Press. It houses our largest competitor, Seamen & Schilling, with Mort Tuckerman sitting on the penthouse floor as CEO.

He’s tried to end our company countless times over the years, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s behind Black’s lack of communication. My blood boils at the thought of him winning over our prized client.

I can’t fail, and it’s not just about my own ego getting bruised. Hammond Press’s success or misfortune will be my father’s legacy. He poured his life into making this company a publishing trailblazer.

I will not fail him, and in the end, the company’s fate lies in my hands. I need to handle this potential catastrophe myself.

I push off the glass window and head out of the conference room knowing what I have to do to handle the problem. Forget the unanswered phone calls and ignored emails, it’s time to knock on Don Black’s front door.

His home is in Greenwich, Connecticut, just over an hour away, and as a self-professed hermit, Black only ventures out on special occasions. If he won’t answer his door, at least I gave it a try.

If only I had something in hand to lure him out of hiding. Maybe a chocolate cake from the bakery across the street would do the trick. Black doesn’t seem like the type for sweet frosted cupcakes. First, I need to order the car and have Mrs. Mackenzie sort out the dessert.

Entering my office suite, I come to a dead stop. Mrs. Mackenzie stands near my desk, but she’s not alone. Right beside her is the blonde bombshell from last night—the one I swore to avoid at all costs.

Forget the pink ruffled dress that exposed her soft skin. This time she’s wrapped in a leg-baring khaki coat with a belted waist showcasing hourglass curves. Hell, she’s standing in my office like a fantasy stripper here to entertain me.

I blink a couple times, not believing what I see, but nothing changes. She’s still there, gazing at me with bright blue eyes and glowing porcelain skin, making her look even more young and beautiful up close.

Hell, is she even twenty-one? Not that it matters. Either way, I’m too old for her.

Helpless to stop my feet, I move to her like a black magnet to shiny steel, needing to know what the hell she’s doing in my office, besides being a distracting dish of temptation, making my better judgment melt away. For all I know, she’s a spy for the enemy next door. Though, I highly doubt Mort would deliver a beauty like her to me. He’d more than likely keep her for himself.

“Hello again.” I can’t stop the rare smile that crosses my face. “Barclay Hammond.”

I extend my hand, and she reaches for it. Her soft and delicate fingers fit into my grasp like a matching puzzle piece. A small shiver passes through her touch—a vulnerable and dangerous revelation.

No one would call me a wolf, at least not to my face, but I’ve never been labeled as an angel either.