10. Wrenley
A soft rap on my office door drags my attention from my computer screen, and I glare at my arch-nemesis. Berry-painted lips curl into a slight smirk as she takes in my still-pink-stained hair before meeting my gaze.
“Have you finished that piece on the Shadow Siren?” Dove asks, bubbly enough to be a glass of Dom. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, phone in one hand as she taps her nails against her bicep with the other. She’s absolutely insufferable, yet I find myself unable to look away.
My slacks tighten at the sight of her. The mini ruffled skirt and matching top she’s wearing today are white with pink floral designs, trimmed in lace, and entirely inappropriate for work. Yet, despite my best efforts, I appreciate the view, no matter how much I try to convince myself I want to gouge my eyes out from all the pink.
Her white platforms click against the hardwood as she approaches my desk, hands clasped behind her, inadvertently—or vertently… is that a word? I should know whether that’s a word or not… advertently —pushing her chest out. “Kitty got your tongue, Songbird?”
Snapping out of my daydream—one where she’s sprawled across my desk in nothing but those heels—I return my gaze to my computer and nod. “Yeah, I’m almost finished.”
I expect her to leave, but Dove rounds my desk and hops onto it like she belongs there. She sets her phone down and swings her feet gently, her sugar cookie scent making my stomach ache. My erection is impossible to ignore, and I shift in my seat, desperate to hide it.
“How many more salon sessions is it gonna take?” she asks.
“At least two more,” I reply dryly, retyping the last sentence before hitting send. “And you’ll be getting the bill.”
Her laugh warbles like she’s trying to hold it in, but softens as she reaches out. From my peripheral, I see her hand—and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t shock me when her fingers run through the top of my strands, nails dragging lightly against my scalp .
“I don’t know,” she teases. “I think pink suits you.”
Her hand falls as I look at her, my expression clearly shocked. The seriousness of her action quickly sobers her, and our eyes lock.
Fuck . I’m an idiot.
Dove showed her cards when she said we needed to sleep together to get it out of our systems. And I foolishly folded—not because I wanted to play it safe, but because the longer I spend around her, the more I realize one time won’t be enough to get her out of my head.
We both jolt when her phone rings, vibrating against my desk and ruining the moment. The name “ Mom ” flashes across the screen. She declines the call and hops down.
“I have to take Fang to his grooming appointment. When I get back, I’ll look over your article.”
“You get your rat groomed?” I ask, exhaling as she moves away. The further she gets, the better I can breathe, despite the way my chest clenches at the distance. She’s become an integral part of my day—to the point where I’m starting to miss our banter on the weekends. I’ve taken to stalking her social media just to feel some sort of connection to her. I know what book she’s reading in book club with Bunny, what she ate for dinner Sunday night, and what route she likes to take Fang for his walks. I’m becoming obsessed in a way I know will only end in disaster.
But what my body and head want are vastly different from my heart. Even though it’s been weeks, I still can’t disassociate her looks from the one person who caused me so much trauma that I can’t have a functioning relationship.
“Don’t call him a rat,” she scolds. “You’ll hurt his feelings.” She grabs the doorframe and swings herself into the hall. “I just have to drop him off. I should be back in twenty.”
“He has no hair! What’s the point of sending him to the groomer? Why don’t you just bathe him yourself?”
She turns and sticks her tongue out before disappearing down the hall.
The stupid, dopey smile lingering on my face doesn’t fade even when she walks by a few minutes later. Fang is wearing a hooded sweater, nestled in an oversized pink purse hanging off her shoulder, his tiny head poking out.
“Why don’t you just bleach your hair at home yourself?” she quips.
I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.
“Exactly. It’s better when a professional does it.”
Fang yips and wiggles in his pink prison as if trying to escape and say hi, but Dove turns and heads toward the elevators. Not that I’ve forgotten, but being reminded of my current hair situation breathes life into a way to get back at her.
Knowing she keeps a large calendar of her meetings and personal appointments in her office, I wait until her elevator is three floors gone before slinking down the hall, trying not to draw attention to myself.
No one so much as looks up at me while I duck into her pink-and-cream monstrosity of a workspace. Everything on her desk is lined up in pristine rows. If I’ve learned anything about Dove, it’s that she’s a perfectionist who needs all her tools to be precisely in order before she can get any work done. The calendar in question hangs on the wall behind her desk, littered with neon pink sticky notes in her perfect cursive, and cat stickers.
As I assumed, Fang’s groomer is listed, complete with a time and a sticker of a chihuahua wrapped in a towel. I glance behind me before pulling out my phone, ensuring no one has noticed me. Pressing call on the number under the listing, I hold my breath while waiting for someone to answer, debating whether to go through with this.
The rat didn’t hurt anyone. Technically, this won’t hurt the rat either, but I can’t wait to see the look on Dove’s face when she goes to pick up her little dog and –
“Good afternoon! Thank you for calling Fluff N’ Puff . How may I assist you today?” an overly chipper woman greets.
“Hi, my girlfriend is about to drop off our dog for an appointment—Fang. I want to do something special for our little guy’s birthday, but I want it to be a surprise for Dove. Can I count on your discretion?” I try to sound normal, so there’s no question whether I’m telling the truth, but I’m surprised by how easily the lie slips off my tongue.
Easy there. You’re calling her your girlfriend and talking about the rat like he’s your kid?
The woman squeals so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear so it doesn’t bust a drum. “Oh my gosh! I love this for her. I didn’t know Dove was dating anyone! You can absolutely count on my discretion, sir. We love Fang and would be more than happy to help. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, she recently convinced me to dye my hair pink, so I was thinking—” On second thought, maybe this is a stupid idea. Dove loves pink. Coloring her precious dog’s stringy mane will probably be the highlight of her week.
“I totally catch your drift. Oh! She’s walking in now. Don’t worry,” her voice drops to a whisper, “it’ll be our secret.”
Before I can tell her to forget it, the line goes dead, and I’m left standing in Dove’s office with a sense of dread sliding down my spine like thick, frozen sludge.
“Fuck. She’s gonna kill me.”
I browse the rest of her calendar absentmindedly, searching for anything that might tip me off about her source on the Baby Doll Killer. Since I’m here, I might as well go all in.
Every Saturday, the initials C.W. are scrawled in ink, encased in a heart, accompanied by a sticker of a cat wearing sunglasses. I pull up the Notes app on my phone and type in the initials with a question mark, my mind racing faster than Usain Bolt.
Why the fuck is there a heart around them?
Who else is a sporadic pillow partner besides Ryan?
Why does this jackass have a standing date with her every Saturday?
Why the fuck do I care?
Why the fuck do I care?
I fall into her chair with a sigh, straightening as I sink into the pink leather and realize—it’s not a standard office chair. Gripping the arms, I bounce slightly on the squishy seat before settling against the surprisingly luxurious backrest.
Why is her chair so much nicer than mine?
Pulling it in, I sprawl my legs out, deliberately nudging her keyboard a fraction of an inch before flicking her fluffy pen across the glossy, cream-colored farmhouse-style desk.
“If I were Dove’s notebook, where would I be?”
One of the large drawers holds a pile of folders, but the smaller ones contain only office supplies and stationery, all in shades of pink and cream. Another drawer on the opposite side reveals a few toys I assume belong to Fang, some granola bars, and a bag of… meat?
I turn the plastic bag over. Although there isn’t a label, the snack inside is clearly jerky. It seems like such an odd snack choice for Dove. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure the only things I’ve ever seen her consume—besides yogurt and coffee—are tacos and tequila. If anything, I’d expect her desk drawers to be stuffed with sunshine, rainbows, and a hoard of sugary treats.
I open the bag and take a sniff.
Hmm. Smells edible.
Removing a piece, I find it pleasantly pliable—softer than the usual jaw-breaking variety. I pop a small portion into my mouth. Not bad. Kinda… salty? With a hint of something I can’t quite place. It doesn’t taste like any jerky I’ve had before, though.
“Hey, Dove—oh! Wrenley. What are you doing in Dove’s office?”
Cecilia’s high-pitched voice filters through the open door, freezing me mid-chew like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. She scans the room, as if expecting to find Dove with her nose in the corner, before her sharp features curl into a pleased smile when she realizes we’re alone.
“Is that from Dove’s snack stash? Ooh, you’re so bad. Come on now, share with the rest of us. It smells good!”
Before I can react, she crosses the room and snatches the bag from my hand. I know for a fact Dove keeps her office door open nearly all the time, so there’s no justifiable reason for Cecilia to take the snack to the door and shout down the hall like she’s discovered the gateway to a holy land.
In seconds, the bag is passed around and completely obliterated.
All I can think about is how my retaliation prank has now become a two-for-one special, and Dove is going to murder me when she returns.
Was everyone raised in a barn?
Who steals someone’s snack and eats the entire fucking bag?
“What the heck is going on in here?” Dove’s curious, sunlit voice drifts above the chatter, reaching me where I still lounge in her chair.
Everyone scatters like cockroaches under a flashlight. Cecilia and Sharon let out simultaneous squeaks, practically fighting over who will be caught holding the evidence.
Dove, however… She’s staring at the empty bag.
Her expression? Wide-eyed horror.
“Where did you get that?” she snaps, her gaze locked onto the offenders.
Cecilia and Sharon throw me under the bus with a silent, unified glance before bolting back to their cubicles.
Dove’s head swings toward me, her big blue eyes darting between me, her desk, the open drawer, and back again.
“Did you feed everyone Fang’s jerky?” Her voice is high-pitched as her expression twists in sheer disgust.
“ Fang’s jerky?”
A slow, creeping nausea rolls through my gut, my stomach roiling in horror.
Our gazes lock. We both gag in unison.
“Oh my god, that’s fucking disgusting.” I scrub a hand over my face, hovering it over my mouth.
Dove laughs behind her hand, pressing it against her pouty lips.
Giggle . Gag. Giggle. Gag.
I inhale deeply, exhaling through my mouth, trying desperately to dislodge the taste of the dried meat without actually tasting it again .
“Do I even want to know what kind of animal it was?”
Dove seems to recover faster than I do. She leans against the doorframe, her giggles escalating into full-on guffaws that shake her entire petite frame.
“I can’t breathe!” she wheezes between gasping, maniacal-sounding cackles, completely ignoring my question. She clutches her chest, walking further inside, dropping her purse onto the cabinet behind her desk. “Serves you right. What are you doing in here?” she asks, sobering a little as she runs her eyes down my body, taking in the fact that I’m still sitting in her chair.
I think quickly, running my hands along the arms as I lean back, even though I still feel like throwing up into her pink, glittery trash can.
“Wanted to see how the other half lives,” I mutter. “Why is your chair so much nicer than mine?”
“Because I had it custom-made and paid for it myself, Songbird.”
She steps closer, her voice dipping into something silky. “Now scoot… unless you want me to sit on your lap while we review your article?”
I don’t remind her that she’s not my boss.
Mostly because Joe lets Dove do whatever she wants. And most of the time, she acts like she’s in charge because no one questions her .
She isn’t feared, though. She’s respected.
I don’t want to respect her, though.
I want to disrespect the fuck out of her.
I want to leave her a quivering mess, covered in my cum.
Her whispered words snap me out of my thoughts. “Keep telling yourself you don’t want me, Songbird.”
My breath catches. I barely register her leaning over me, hands braced on the arms of the chair, her lips near my ear.
Shit.
Did I say that out loud?
She pulls back slightly, gaze drifting downward.
To my lap.
Where I’m hard as granite, seconds from pulling her onto me, despite the open door and the very real risk of someone walking by and seeing us.
“I don’t think Junior here gets the memo.”
Two hours later, I’m pacing the downstairs lobby, checking my watch every few seconds. I called the groomer earlier to ask when Fang would be ready—apparently, they bring him back to Dove. Talk about good customer service. That gives me the perfect opportunity to intercept them and return him to his mother myself.
“You must be Wrenley!” a chipper voice calls from behind me.
I turn, and the sight that greets me feels like a punch to the gut. Fang’s once-pristine white fur isn’t just pink—it’s an explosion of color. His head, ears, paws, and tail are dyed in bright swirls of pink, purple, green, yellow, and orange. The poor rat looks like he was dragged straight out of a ‘90s rainbow art fever dream.
“Oh, fuck. She’s going to kill me.”
The girl freezes, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Sorry,” I recover quickly. “Yes, hi. I’m Wrenley. Come here, little dude.”
Fang wriggles furiously, his little tail wagging like a propeller as he squirms free of her grasp and launches himself at me.
I don’t know what I did to deserve his approval, but I’m grateful for it at this particular moment.
The girl’s frown melts into a smile. “You know, Dove’s been bringing Fang in since he was a pup. She’s never asked for creative coloring, so we went with a semi-permanent dye—just in case.”
“I don’t know what any of that means, but I trust your judgment. Thanks again for your discretion.”
Fang licks my cheek, stretching his tiny neck as if he can’t get close enough. I’ve never wanted a pet before, but I can’t deny that the warm familiarity of the rat’s affection makes me think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
As I step off on our floor, Joe catches another elevator. His eyes widen comically when he sees Fang, and just before the doors close, he asks, utterly deadpan, “Oh, Wrenley. What did you do?”
“About to get myself into a whole lot of trouble,” I mutter, heading for Dove’s office.
The tension between us earlier while reviewing my article had been thick enough to cut with a knife. Now, standing outside her door with this damn neon-colored dog in my arms, I regret every decision that led me here.
What we’ve been doing so far? Foreplay.
But this? This is the start of a war.
I attempt to tuck Fang inside my suit jacket, but the closer we get, the more determined he is to pop his head out. I hear Dove’s voice drifting through the hall, bright and bubbly as she laughs about something that happened at a restaurant during a work lunch.
Her gaze meets mine briefly when I step inside and immediately turn to shut the door behind me. The office walls are almost soundproof—but not quite. And I have a feeling they’ll be tested in the next few seconds .
“I have to call you back,” she says slowly.
I hear the soft click of the phone settling into the cradle of the receiver and I inhale deeply before turning around.
Fang yips, scrambling to free himself from my arms and into hers. I brace for impact—for the explosion of fiery, razor-sharp words I know she’s about to unleash.
I expect her to yell.
I expect her to tear me apart, her pretty pink lips forming the kind of scathing retort that’ll haunt me for weeks.
I expect her to make me think of that angry little chick meme—because she’s so short and I’m constantly reminded of it when we stand next to each other.
What I don’t expect is for her eyes to go glassy as she reaches for her dog, cradling him to her chest like he’s been wounded.
“Oh my god,” she whispers with a watery rasp. “Baby, what happened to you?”
My heart clenches, skipping a beat as she lifts her gaze to mine.
“Why would you do something like this?”
She’s actually crying now, and fuck —why do I feel so bad?
“It’s just a prank, Dove. You dyed my hair, I just?— ”
“He’s an innocent animal!” she cries.
Her face crumples as she buries it in Fang’s rainbow-colored fur. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this,” she whispers to him, voice breaking.
Her sobs are deep, ragged, and gut-wrenching. Fang whines, his little tongue swiping across her cheek as if to reassure her.
If I felt terrible before, now I feel downright fucking awful.
I hate seeing her cry. It doesn’t just make me uncomfortable—it makes me angry. Angry at myself for being the cause of her tears.
A woman like her shouldn’t be crying because of a bastard like me.
“Dove, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Her head snaps up, eyes blazing as they lock onto mine. “You’re sorry ? He’s an innocent animal!” she repeats, voice rising. “What kind of monster are you?”
Her breathing turns erratic, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She’s shaking, struggling to get air. My stomach drops.
Shit.
She’s either about to pass out or have a full-blown panic attack.
Alarmed, I gently take Fang from her arms and set him on the floor before gripping her shoulders. “ Breathe, Dove. It’s okay. It’s animal-safe dye—otherwise, they wouldn’t have used it. It’ll wash out.”
She doesn’t respond.
I guide her backward, one hand steady on her hip, pushing a chair out of the way before lifting her onto the desk. Smoothing her hair from her damp cheeks, I grip her face gently, forcing her to look at me.
“Dove. He’s okay. You need to breathe. Can you do that for me?”
She stares at me, eyes wild.
I inhale deeply, demonstrating. “In. Out. In. Out.”
Slowly, her breathing evens out. I wipe away her tears, wondering what the hell just happened.
I expected anger.
Not this.
Something about this triggered her, and I want to know why.
“Shh. It’s okay. He’s okay,” I soothe, pulling back as soon as she’s breathing normally.
Seconds later, her fist flies straight into my nose.
Pain explodes across my face. My vision blurs, eyes watering as a metallic tang fills my mouth. I glance down. Blood drips onto my lip, pooling in my hands.
Fang barks as Dove hops off the desk, roughly wiping her tear-streaked mascara from her face.
“You can do whatever to me, but do not bring my dog into it!” she snarls with a vengeance I’d never guess her capable of.
I blink through the pain.
Okay.
I deserved that.
“Mark my words, Wren,” she seethes, stepping toward the door and yanking it open. “You will regret this. Now get out.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I say again, knowing full well I fucked up.
She glares, lips curling into something almost cruel.
“Not yet, you aren’t,” she promises, voice soft and lethal.
Then, with an almost wicked smile, she delivers the final blow.
“But trust me, Songbird—you’re gonna be.”