Page 15 of Top Shelf

Lucian, with his messy black hair, unreadable gray eyes that convey everything and nothing all at once, a sharp jaw, and high cheekbones designed to intimidate. He is all brawler muscle—the kind of man who takes up space and doesn’t apologize for it. Nothing about him is soft or forgiving. Everything screams predatory. Brutal. Without having ever seen him play, I know he enjoys destroying others. That he gets off on their pain. Just looking at him made my pulse spike in panic…and something else I’m too ashamed to name.

Next, there is Silas—Lucian’s opposite in every way. White blond hair, cool blue eyes, and a lean, angular body. He is the picture of haunted elegance. Stillness carved in ice. Silas radiates pain, suffering, and anguish. I felt it when our eyes met, sharp and cutting like my own. While he might appear softer, more delicate than Lucian, I can tell from the way his gaze tracked my every movethat he is just as dangerous. I felt myself unraveling under it. My heartbeat ticking up, my thighs pressing together, as if that broken, beautiful boy could see right through me. Worse, that he could see all ofmybroken pieces. The ones evenIrefuse to acknowledge.

And finally, there’s Ronan, whose every feature is meant to lure you in, only for the snake to bite when you get too close. He is all deep brown hair, perfectly styled, and dreamy hazel eyes with flecks of gold that catch the light, making it difficult to spot the calculation hidden within. Everything about him is polished and charismatic. Right down to his neatly trimmed beard. It makes you want to trust him. To trustinhim. He’s the quiet storm you don’t see coming, and that makes him the most terrifying out of the three.

What all of them have in common?

They are the most strikingly beautiful men I’ve ever met.

Andthatmakes me the most fucked up woman alive, because for one sick, shameful second, I wanted them to keep looking at me. Iwantedthem to come after me.

Groaning, I hug my knees tighter to my chest. I can feel my cheeks flaming with mortification, and I find myself grateful that I hid in a supply closet and not a bathroom with its bright lights and mirrors on the wall.

My head tilts to rest against the wall behind me, my eyes falling closed. What am I going to do? I can’t avoid them forever. What will happen when they eventually catch up to me? Demand to know why I’m here? What I know? Try to shut me up before I say too much?

They’re going to think I came here for revenge, when in reality, all I’ve wanted for the past three years is to forget that night. I’d been doing a bang-up job of it, too, until that fateful run-in at The Stanley. It was like some higher power saw me actually succeeding at moving on and decided, “Oh no, we can’thave that. Let’s sprinkle a little trauma throw-back on her and see how she copes.”

Now I’m fucking drowning in the past. In memories I want to forget. In half-truths and whispers heard in the dark.

It’s not the blurry outlines of memories that kill me.

It’s the gaps between them.

The not knowing is a noose around my neck that is growing steadily tighter.

The clip of footsteps has me snapping upright, stifling a pained gasp when a box of cones digs into my ribs. Holding my breath, I stare unblinkingly at the strip of light beneath the door.

Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

The door handle rattles. Every muscle in my body goes tense.

Then the door swings open.

And I freeze, caught in the blinding glare of the hallway fluorescents.

I’m still blinking against the brightness when Dean Carver’s sharp, clipped voice cuts through the haze.

“There you are.”

I flinch so hard, I nearly upend the shelf beside me. He’s silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lights, with his arms crossed over his pressed shirt, and a scowl twisting his face. He stares at me like I’ve personally wasted the most important hour of his life.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he snaps.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, stumbling to my feet. My limbs are stiff, my skirt rumpled. It rides up as I move, and I yank it down, flustered. “I didn’t hear it. I just needed a minute?—”

“Is this what you plan on doing for the rest of the season?”His eyes narrow. “Hiding out in closets and shirking your responsibilities?”

“N-no.”

He takes a slow step into the cramped, narrow room, instantly making it feel infinitely smaller. “In case I didn’t make myself clear this morning, Winslow. I don’t care who your father is. You’re not going to skate through this internship just because your last name buys you special treatment.”

I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on the floor.

“This morning was your chance to prove you aren’t the spoiled progeny I pegged you to be.” He gestures vaguely around him. “Instead of showing me that you might have something useful to offer, you’re hiding in a janitor’s closet like a homesick freshman.”

Damn, this guy knows how to cut me to the quick.

I can tell he wants to say more. He chews on his tongue, debating the words, before shaking his head. “Get upstairs. You’ll be spending the rest of the day with the admin team. Patricia is already waiting on you.”