Page 120 of Top Shelf

“She makes an excellent point,” one of the scouts states, looking mildly impressed.

Wren blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting anyone to agree with her.Christ, when her lips curl in a cautious yet optimistic smile, it nearly kills me.

For the next hour, Wren contributes cautiously whenever Coach prompts her, and every single time, she’s insightful. Sharp. Instinctive in a way only someone who truly loves and understands the game could be.

She’s a fucking natural. It’s the most stunning thing to watch—my little serpent coming out of her shell.

By the end of the meeting, the scouts are asking for her thoughts directly. Dean looks one inconvenience away from a stroke. All around, I’d say this is one of the best meetings of the season.

People start filtering out as soon as the meeting adjourns. Wren stays behind, gathering files into neat stacks and disposing of discarded coffee cups.

I move toward her, casting an eye toward the door to make sure no one else is lingering.

“You were good in there,” I tell her quietly.

She glances up, startled. “Thanks,” she says softly. “You didn’t have to…do all that.”

“Yes, I did.” I step closer, lowering my voice as the last few staff members disappear out the door. “Because you belong in rooms like this, Wren. More so than half the people sitting at that table.”

Her breath catches slightly.

“You see things other people miss,” I continue. “Not because of your last name or because of who your family is, but because you understand this world instinctively.” My gaze drifts over the files in her arms before returning to her face. “The way you broke down those prospects? The way you reorganized the charity weekend after the sponsors nearly pulled out? You’re good at this.”

She stares at me like she doesn’t know what to do with the words. Like no one’s ever handed her praise without strings attached before.

“And the really scary part?” I add with a faint smile. “I don’t even think you realizehowgood you are at it all.”

Something in her expression cracks.

Before I can even process what’s happening, she drops the files onto the table beside her and grabs fistfuls of my shirt, yanking me toward her.

Then she kisses me. Hard, desperate, and completely out of nowhere.

My brain short-circuits instantly.

One second I’m staring down at her in shock, the next my hands are on her waist as she fists the front of my shirt and kisses me like she’s pouring every ounce of emotion she doesn’t know how to voice into the kiss—Gratitude. Relief. Need.

Andfuck.

The tiny sound she makes against my mouth ruins me.

Every time I kiss her is like the first time all overagain. No matter how often I do it, I’m never prepared for what her soft moans do to me. For the way she melts against my chest while kissing me like she’s furious about it.

Grabbing the back of her thighs, I lift so her ass is resting on the edge of the conference table. Her pencil skirt bunches around her waist as her legs hitch over my hips, my hand moving up to cradle her jaw as I deepen the kiss.

She tastes like peppermint and stubbornness.

When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard. Her eyes are wide behind those damn indigo glasses.

“You do crazy things to me, Ronan Sterling.”

Before I can respond, she yanks on my shirt again, bringing my lips back to hers.

I kiss her like I mean it. Like I’m done pretending I don’t think about her constantly. Done pretending I don’t notice every little thing she does. How she plays with her hands when she is nervous. Or gets this stubborn crease between her brows when someone underestimates her. The fact that she comes alive when she talks hockey, even if she doesn’t realize it.

I’ve spent weeks holding myself back. Trying not to crowd her. Trying not to push too hard when she’s still healing from things that would’ve broken most people.

But right now?