8. Wrenley
I balk at the draft of my article Dove just sent over. Red splatters across the entire thing like someone flicked a paintbrush over my screen. Dove’s comments litter the margins, entire passages are crossed out, and a big red note at the bottom reads: It’s been long enough. You should know what we’re looking for by now. Better luck next week.
“Fuck!” My fist hovers over the desk, ready to slam down, but at the last second, I pull back, scrubbing my hand down my face instead.
So much for Dove cooling off over the weekend.
“Rein it the fuck in, Wren,” I mutter under my breath. This woman has me tied in knots, and I keep tripping and falling flat on my face.
I tab over to my email, skimming Joe’s latest message about why he’s siding with Dove—again. Sighing, I open another email, this one approving my piece on the company owner’s wife opening another family center—this time in the Bronx—and how the neighborhood had been skeptical at first, but public approval has skyrocketed as the grand opening nears.
A note at the bottom reads: Show me more of this.
I let out a disgusted snort. This isn’t what I was hired for. I made it perfectly clear what I wanted to write about when I applied for this job.
Grabbing my phone, I open my message thread with Hunter, ready to complain—until I remember he’s still pissed at me. There’s no love lost between him and Ryan, but using his name to threaten a cop could have put his job at risk if Ryan had filed a formal complaint. It would have been his and his buddy’s word against mine, and we all know how that would’ve turned out.
My phone rings in my hand as if she can sense my weakened state from nearly three thousand miles away. Her name flashes across the screen like a warning signal. I hesitate, finger hovering over the accept button.
A soft clicking sound enters my office, pulling my attention away from the device. My gaze flicks to the open door, but no one’s there. Still, the clicking persists. Setting my phone down, I lean over my desk and? —
What the hell?
The ugliest rat… dog... ratdog...? known to mankind stares up at me.
“What the fuck are you?” I drawl with disgusted curiosity, watching the creature as it rounds my desk to continue its unblinking scrutiny.
Its body is hairless, mottled brown and white skin exposed, while tufts of fluffy white fur cover its paws, tail, and head like some bizarre lion. A gauzy pink scarf is wrapped around its neck, and a darker pink fuzzy headband—complete with a puffball—sits atop its head, pushing hair into its eyes.
This has to belong to Dove.
The creature lets out a low noise, somewhere between a growl and a soft bark, tail wagging as it rears back and launches itself into my lap before I can react. My hands fly up, unsure if this thing has fleas, rabies, or some other disease I might catch.
It’s not that I hate dogs—it’s that I’m one hundred percent positive this thing is part New York sewer rat.
“Why are you in here, little dude?” I ask as it circles once before curling up on my lap. “No.” I wave a hand in a shooing motion. “Go away.”
It yawns, body shuddering with the movement, a tiny squeak escaping its maw before it settles, completely unbothered. A thick, bejeweled collar rattles against an attached tag I hadn’t noticed before .
“Fang,” I read aloud, letting the glittery skull-and-crossbones ID plate slip from my fingers. “Seriously? She named you Fang ? Aren’t dogs with that name supposed to be scary?”
Fang huffs in agreement before closing his eyes, perfectly content. A notification dings from my laptop. I glance at the sender—Mrs. Tailor’s office with information on the new family center—before turning back to work.
I barely notice how much time passes before I hear Dove’s frantic voice breaking through the office hum. “Fang!” Even in alarm, her voice is bright and chipper.
The heavy clack of her platforms echoes down the hall. A smirk tugs at my lips. Even if she looks in, she’ll never see her precious pup curled up in my lap.
No! Fuck! Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Play nice!
My proverbial angel groans in exasperation, but I flick him away like an annoying gnat. Dove appears just outside the glass separating my office from the rest of the floor, wide blue eyes scanning for her dog while others abandon their cubicles to help.
I glance down, smirking as Fang doesn’t move an inch. In fact—yep—he’s snoring.
Dove hesitates at my open door, unwilling to look inside. Instead, she calls for her dog again and starts toward the break room .
This time, the little bastard perks up, and he responds with a sharp yip.
Her head snaps around, fury ablaze in her sparking eyes. Yes, I mean sparking, not sparkling. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ashes on my chair. She stomps into my office.
“Fang!” she calls sharply.
Like something out of a cartoon, his head pops up over my desk, and he barks.
“What are you doing in here, you silly boy?” She ducks her head back out. “Found him!” Then, turning back to me, she narrows her eyes.
“Hey! He came in here. It’s not like I stole him. Maybe keep your ratdog on a leash if he runs off on you.”
“Ex—excuse me? Ratdog ?” Dove sputters. “His name is Fang! He’s a Chinese Crested and the cutest thing in all the city!” She coos at him as she scoops him up.
As she collects him, her fingers brush my thigh, and I go rigid. Instant arousal hits me like a truck. She doesn’t notice, too preoccupied tucking him into her arms like a baby.
“Maybe if you didn’t dress him in pink and glitter, he wouldn’t have run off,” I say derisively, leaning on my armrest, amusement curling my lips.
Inwardly, I berate myself. Shut. The. Fuck. Up .
Both the angel and devil on my shoulders take turns slapping me upside the head as they shout at me. One with his halo, the other his pitchfork, as I keep royally screwing myself six ways from Sunday with this woman.
To my surprise, she giggles. It’s terrifying. Especially considering she’s shown no form of retaliation for calling her such a nasty name—just aggressive edits and condescending notes in the margins of my work, but that’s really nothing new.
“Oh, Songbird,” she sighs, smirking. “What am I going to do with you?” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, her big blonde hair bouncing with the movement and falling over her bare shoulders.
Shamelessly, I drag my gaze suggestively down her body. Her outfit today consists of a bubblegum-pink button-down, collared, short-sleeved top with a matching skirt. For being so short, she has legs for days, made to look even longer by her heels. I flick my eyes back up, licking my lips. “I can think of a few things, but I’d really like it if you’d,” I pause, letting my overly sarcastic charm fall flat when I continue, “publish my damn articles about the Doll!”
Dove’s thick lashes flutter innocently as she leans in. “Well, Songbird! If you wrote something worth publishing, we would. I’ve been giving you my notes for over two weeks now. Be a team player and take some direction. Or,” she whispers conspiratorially, sugar cookie breath wafting my way, “stick to writing what you’re good at.”
With a wink, she spins away, pausing briefly when she sees my board of crime scene photos from the Baby Doll Killer videos before sashaying out of my office.
I won’t deny it—I watch her ass the entire way, and even then, I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, envisioning how the rounded globes of her breasts spilled over the top of her lacy bra when she bent over.
“Infuriating woman,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
Rubbing my brow, I exhale long and slow before pushing to my feet. If I’m going to finish this article before day’s end, I need coffee.
Stepping out of my office, I glance down the hall toward Dove’s. Her door is open. She’s perched behind her desk, fussing over Fang as she feeds him a treat. As if sensing my gaze, she looks up. For a second, I almost go to her, almost apologize for the other night at the bar. I haven’t felt this much turmoil over a woman since…
Cotton candy pink lips stretch into a wide grin as she lifts a hand, wiggling her French-tipped nails in my direction before tapping her delicate rose-gold watch—a silent reminder that I’m on deadline.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I head for the elevator. The building is eerily quiet for a Monday. Even the coffee shop on the ground level lacks its usual chaotic energy. No impatient employees tapping their feet, no irritable customers storming in off the street. But that’s par for the course in a Tailor Industry building. Sometimes, I forget that not all of New York operates the same.
“Hey, Wren,” Ted, the barista, greets me with a nod. “Your usual?” he asks as he scans my employee card.
“Yes, please. Thanks.”
As he starts my latte, my gaze snags on a cup sitting on the counter—Dove’s name scrawled across it in bold marker.
Ted follows my line of sight. “She busy up there? She usually doesn’t forget her afternoon Americano.”
“She lost her dog in the office. Probably forgot she ordered it.” With a sigh, I slide the iced drink closer to me. “I’ll bring it up.”
Condensation drips over my fingers as Ted chuckles. “Oh, Fang? He’s such a little cutie. Glad she found him. He never leaves her side. Wonder what caught his attention?”
I preen a little at that—because for whatever reason, the ratdog sought me out and deemed my presence nap-worthy. Not that I tell Ted.
“Mind adding a sprinkle of sugar to her drink?” Ted asks, already turning away to pump vanilla syrup into another cup. “She always does it herself in the afternoon.”
I narrow my eyes at his back before reluctantly stepping toward the condiment bar, where neatly arranged sugars, syrups, and milks await.
Grabbing the crystal container of sweet, addicting white granules, I drag the edge over the ice, scrawling a bold F and U before snapping the lid back on. By the time I get upstairs, the sugar will have dissolved. She’ll be none the wiser.
Licking a stray dusting of sugar off my thumb, I immediately recoil, grimacing.
Salt .
Gagging, I spin to tell Ted—then stop. Slowly, I turn back to where Dove’s drink sits innocently on the counter, looking completely unsabotaged.
If I had horns, they’d curl mischievously.
Smirking, I collect my own drink and head back upstairs, leaving Ted blissfully unaware that someone swapped the sugar for salt.
Dove sees me from halfway down the hall. Her gaze locks onto the cup in my hand, realization flickering across her pretty features. Fang yips, his tail wagging wildly as I step into her office and set the drink on her desk.
“Ted wanted me to make sure you got this.” I don’t give her time to reply before making a beeline for my office.
“Thank you,” she snarks, dripping with sarcasm, as though it’s my job to caffeinate her.
Three… two… one…
The sound of gagging and spluttering tears through the hall.
“WREN!”
Grinning, I shut and lock my office door just as people start standing from their desks, craning their necks to investigate the commotion.
My angel shakes his head. You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?
My devil smirks. It’s his own form of foreplay.
I should have slept with her when I had the chance.
Now, she’ll never want to fuck me.
Now, she’s just gonna want to kill me.