Page 3 of Top Shelf

“You might not want to do it now, but you will when you’re older. You’ll see.”

Then he stands; the conversation over, just like that.

“Come on.” He starts walking again. “We have a meeting to attend.”

The man beside him follows.

Neither of them notices that I haven’t moved.

I look down at the papers still scattered across my arms. At the drawings. The plans. The ideas.

The page at the top is the one I spent the most time on. It’s a drawing of an office with a desk and a wall covered in Serpents memorabilia, and sitting behind the desk is a stick figure with curly hair and glasses.

Me.

Written across the top in thick purple marker are the words:

WREN WINSLOW - TEAM OWNER

My throat feels funny; I don’t know why.

I stare at the drawing for another second before quietly closing the folder. Then I tuck it under my arm and hurry after my father.

Because that’s what I always do. I follow him.

Even when I wish he would stop long enough to ask where I want to go.

1

WREN

“This better be the last box,”Carson, my brother, complains as he drops the large cardboard box on top of the pile of other boxes.

“For a professional hockey player, you’re sounding awfully winded,” I tell him with a smirk lifting one side of my lips. “Might need to work on your stamina some more.”

He makes a noise of outrage and offense. “I have plenty of stamina; just ask any of our puck bunnies.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.

“Eww.” Grabbing a cushion from the couch, I chuck it at him. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life!”

He shrugs, clutching the cushion to his chest as he grins at me, showing off perfect white teeth. My brother has that charming boy-next-door look going for him. Messy blond hair, rich blue eyes, and dimples when he smiles that make me want to stab him. It’s no surprise that the girls are all over him. Still doesn’t mean I want to hear about it, though. “Your loss.”

Shaking my head, I return to taking in my new apartment. My supposed home for the next year. The smell is still there. The one I immediately noticed as soon as I opened the doorbecause it was so offensive to my nostrils. The overpowering stench of bleach and synthetic lavender—like something a realtor would spray before an open house. It looks like one too: an open house. Everything is brand new and staged. Cold and lacking in any life. It’s as far from the warmth and coziness of my old apartment as one can get.

My brother whistles, coming to stand beside me as he takes in the room too. “Mother really let her creativity shine.”

I snort. “Like she ever set foot in the actual apartment.”

He makes a noise of agreement before wandering further into the space. His eyes roam over the white walls, white sofa, and white carpet. White is everywhere you look. Only the clinically insane are allergic to color. Even watching reels online of people’s “neutral aesthetic” in their homes makes me shiver with revulsion. Why are people so offended by color? Seriously, color is life. Warmth. Comfort at the end of a grueling day. I’m going to go crazy if I have to live in this white box for an entire year.

It’s all beautiful, of course. Top-end appliances. Luxury furniture. Expensive artwork.

Only the best for the Winslows—even the spare one.

“I mean, it’s not bad,” Carson says absently, taking it all in. “Some of this stuff is probably nicer than what I have at my apartment.”

Yeah, the difference being thathepicked everything in his apartment, and anything he didn’t pick was because he didn’t care enough to do it himself. Me? I wasn’t consulted on a single thing in this apartment. Not that I would expect to be. It is my mother, after all. When has she ever asked for my opinion or cared about what I had to say?

“I guess,” is the best response I can give. The longer I’m here, the more I can feel the despair settling over me.