Page 77 of Top Shelf

Tonight, I wantherto seeme.

Wren doesn’t falter when I approach the bar, instead lifting a brow like she expected me to show up, but is surprised at my change in seating. I guess at this point, she would be expecting me. While she may not have caught on to the full extent of my stalking, since that first night when she caught me at The Crooked Crown, she’s been aware of my presence at the back of the room.

“Crimson Reign?” she asks without skipping a beat. While she has never served me before, apparently, she knows what drink I typically order. I smirk quietly to myself at the knowledge that she’s been watching me as closely as I’ve been watching her. Well, perhaps notjustas closely, but enough.

I nod, settling into a barstool and pulling out my trusty notebook and pen that I carry everywhere with me, setting them on the bar top before focusing back on her as she flips a glass, holding it beneath the tap to pour the ruby red liquid into. Her eyes linger on me while she works.

“I’m guessing I have you to thank for the…gifts…left outside my door yesterday?”

I shrug, neither confirming nor denying. She doesn’t need me to, anyway.

Huffing a quiet laugh, she shakes her head, but her lips are curled up in a ghost of a smile.

“Do I want to know if you just so happened to be there or if you followed me?”

Probably not.

One side of my lips lifts in a coy smirk.

“Yeah, thought that.”

Another half-laugh as she sets the pint in front of me,complete with a thick off-white head and minus a coaster. Why bother when the bar top is already riddled with rings from previously poured beers? Somehow, it only enhances the feeling of the place, adding to that industrial, raw-wood, and exposed-metal vibe.

“I—”

She’s interrupted when a customer calls her away, and I watch her over the rim of my glass as the first sip hits—molasses-rich maltiness layered with caramelized sugar, a scrape of toasted pecan, and the dark sweetness of fig. Then the spice hits. Rye. Cracked pepper. A brush of cinnamon. A flash of blood-orange peel sharp enough to sting before it disappears. I’m not much of a drinker, but I do enjoy a nice beer, typically after a win on the ice, but I have to admit, this is one of the best beers I’ve ever tasted.

I’d almost suggested coming here after our loss on Friday night, but the thought of everyone finding out this is where Wren worked, of them showing up and getting this personal, unfiltered view of her that I selfishly want to keep for myself, kept me quiet, and instead we went to our typical place on campus to commiserate.

Watching her work, I notice the little details. Like how her name tag is slightly askew, and her auburn strands have been plaited into a braid instead of scraped back and held with a hair tie that looks like it’s one slight tug away from snapping. The glasses she’s wearing tonight have a green frame that complements her honey-brown eyes and showcases the hints of gold that catch in the overhead light as she moves around behind the bar. She often wears different-colored ones outside of her internship and time spent on campus, as though she uses them to distinguish between two different parts of herself. It initially made me wonder which one was the real her, but I know now.Thisversion of Wren is. She’s carefree as she throws her headback and laughs at something a customer said, before twisting the drying towel in her hand and whipping it at the female bartender serving with her when she says something inappropriate.

I’ve seen little hints of the real her peeking through on campus—like when she let her guard down in the library, or a few times when someone on the team has joked with her, but they are rare and far between. Like she just can’t bring herself to be herself when she’s on Valehurst property. Is that because she doesn’t want to be there? Is it because of us? Because of what happened?

I have so many questions building on the tip of my tongue, and yet I don’t let any of them spill over. I’ll get my answers whensheis ready to give them to me, and not a minute sooner. For now, patience is my friend.

Rubbing the antique coin in my jacket pocket, I catch her gaze as she moves back behind the bar after delivering a tray of drinks to a nearby table. She stops just in front of me, head slightly tilted as her gaze runs over me. “How come you aren’t hiding out in your usual seat in the corner?”

Lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug, I flip open the notebook and quickly write,

Didn’t feel like hiding tonight.

She reads it, brows drawing together. “Does that mean you’re done stalking me? ‘Cause I know hanging out in a bar isn’t your usual scene.”

I arch a questioning brow, making her roll her eyes.

She leans in, resting her elbows on the bar top and bringingher face dangerously close to mine. I can see the different shades of umber and chestnut that make up the rings around her pupils, catch a hint of the vanilla-and-citrus shower gel she uses, spot the wrinkles that tell me she knows how to laugh, even if she has no cause to do it very often.

“You’re not the only one who watches, Silas.”

Fuck, the way my name rolls off her tongue, like it’s both a prayer and a curse, hits low and hard. It’s not as sharp as coaches or as flat and clinical as my professors. Nor does it carry the same easy camaraderie of teammates, either.

No one has ever said my name the way she does.

Like it belongs in her mouth.

Like she doesn’t even realize how close she is to owning me.

I want to hear her say it again. Over and over.