Page 147 of Top Shelf

Silas gently reaches over and covers one of her hands with his.

She looks down at the touch, then relaxes slightly. Blowing out a soft breath, she finally admits, “My parents are going to be there.”

“What about that bothers you?” Ronan asks, gaze fixed on her in concern.

Her nose scrunches in a way that would be adorable if she wasn’t looking so conflicted right now.

“They don’t know about”—she wiggles a finger between all of us—“us. And my mother is definitely going to say something.”

I scoff. “Let her say whatever she wants.”

Because honestly? The more I hear about Wren’s mother, the less I like her. Not because of any one thing. It’s the collection of little comments. The stories Wren tells like they’re funny when they really aren’t. The way she talks about disappointing her parents like it’s inevitable. The fact that she lights up whenever somebody simply tells her she did a good job.

And maybe the thing that bothers me most? She talks about her brother all the time. Her friends. Hockey. Us. But when it comes to her parents, there’s always this wall, like she’s spent so long guarding herself around them that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it anymore.

Whatever waits for us at that fundraiser tonight, one thing is becoming very fucking clear. If her mother comes for Wren? She’s not going to like my response.

One side of Wren’s lips hitch, but concern still floods her eyes.

Leaning closer, I rest my elbows on my knees, keeping my gaze fixed on her, on the way her lower lip disappears between her teeth.

Noticingit too, Silas reaches up to tug on her chin, encouraging her to release it before she ruins her lipstick.

“Little Moth,” I say carefully, “what exactly are you worried about?”

Her laugh comes out strained. “Take your pick.” She starts counting on her fingers. “My mother finding out I’m involved with three men.” A second finger. “You’re about to play for my family’s team.” A third finger. “And none of us have actually talked about…” She gestures vaguely between us. “…this.”

Ronan reaches over and takes her hand. “What part?”

Her gaze drops briefly.

“The part where I don’t actually know what to call you.”

Something twists in my chest. Because beneath all the family drama, future team ownership, and political fundraiser bullshit…

That’s her real fear.

Silas reaches for his notebook.

We don’t need a label. You just need to know where we stand.

“And where is that?” Wren asks after reading what he wrote. Her gaze bounces nervously between the three of us, her question hanging in the air.

I don’t even have to think about my answer.

“With you.”

Her eyes snap to mine.

I shrug. “Seems pretty obvious from where I’m sitting.” I continue. “If your mother starts something, we’re with you.”

Ronan nods.

You’re not in this alone,Silas writes.

Something fragile flashes across Wren’s face. Hope. Disbelief. Want.

All the dangerous stuff.