Page 42 of Top Shelf

“This weekend is important,” he continues, tone clipped. “It matters to the team. It matters to the sponsors,” he emphasizes, before sparing me a loaded glance. “Which is why I was planning to have someone competent run it this year.”

AKA someone who isn’t me.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“However,”—he lifts his chin toward Ronan—“Sterling here says he’s willing to pick up the slack. He has agreed to go beyond his duties and oversee the execution if you can manage not to trip over yourself.”

Wait, what?

My gaze snaps to Ronan. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares out the window, like this entire conversation is beneath him.

Why would he do that?

Why push for this?

“What do you say, Winslow? Do you think you can manage not to screw this up?”

“I—Uh…Yes. Y-yes, Sir.”

I’m in shock. Confused. Stumbling over my words as I try to piece together what is going on. What Ronan’s intention is.What is his game?

With an expression like he will believe it when he sees it, Carver continues on. “You’ll be responsible for scheduling players, confirming vendor contracts, and coordinating with PR and media. You’ll report to me, but Sterling will be your point of contact for anything involving the team. Try not to screw it up.”

My jaw clenches, but I hold my head high. “I won’t.”

So far, I’ve been given gopher tasks. Nothing in which I can prove that I am not the entitled princess he believes me to be. This event might involve coordinating with Ronan, but it’s my opportunity to prove myself. To prove I am worthy of this internship. That I am not deserving of Carver’s ridicule and demeaning.

Carver’s eyes flick to mine, full of disbelief. “We’ll see.”

I want to scream. To remind him that just because I didn’t ask to be here doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do my job. I’m no slacker. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and glance at Ronan again.

He’s no longer staring out the window, but at Carver, with a dark, calculated look in his eye that promises destruction. The look is so fleeting that, by the time I blink, it’s gone,replaced with his usual mask of antipathy and making me question if I saw anything at all.

What is he up to?

Is this a test? A trap?

Carver stands, already dismissing me with his body language. “You’ll get a full rundown this afternoon. A copy of last year’s timeline is in your inbox. There is a meeting with the PR team at noon; don’t be late.” He waves a hand toward the door. “Leave. Both of you.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I shove out of the office before I say something I’ll regret, my heels clipping angrily against the tile as I storm down the hallway.

The burn in my chest climbs fast, acidic and ugly.

I hate him—Carver.

The way he speaks to me like I’m a nuisance he’s forced to tolerate. The way he strips me down in front of people—in front of Ronan—like I should be grateful for the scraps he throws my way. Like I haven’t been bending over backward for the past two weeks to do every little thing he has asked of me.

I hate that I have to play nice.

That I have to keep my mouth shut and smile like he’s doing me a favor when every word from his mouth hits like a slap.

And Ronan?—

Ronan is worse.

This Kings Youth Charity Weekend project?

He knew what he was doing. He made sure I’d be forced to work with him. And for what? What does he want from me? What do all three of them want from me?