Page 12 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

MILLIE

I don’t think I’ll ever not be in awe of New York City.

If it’s possible to be head over heels in love with a place, that’s what I am: in love with NYC.

It’s like nothing else. Millions of people existing in one place.

Historic architecture interwoven with contemporary structures that are like works of art soaring high up into the sky.

A palpable energy that thrums through the streets, snapping and fizzing in the air twenty-four seven.

It’s almost too much, but in the best possible way.

So far from Texas, it’s like a whole other world.

My love for New York is unmatched, and it has been since I was twelve-years old.

When my friends were swooning over Harry Styles and Justin Bieber, sticking posters of them on their bedroom walls, I hung pictures of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. Being here is like a dream come true.

After a morning clothes shopping for my new job, where poor Dallas’s black Amex got quite the workout thanks to Emily and Fran insisting that I needed far more outfits than one person can ever wear, my feet are aching by the time we find refuge in a cute patisserie across the street from Bloomingdale’s.

I sink down into the chaise by the window with a groan, looking at all my bags and shaking my head. “Do I really need two pairs of black high heels?”

Fran blinks at me and, with an exasperated sigh, says, “Millie, we’ve been over this. Pointed toe stilettos, and block heel Mary Janes. They’re two completely different kinds of heels.” She scoffs, glancing at Emily like I’m certifiable.

“I don’t even wear heels,” I guffaw.

Emily smirks.

“This is New York,” Fran says, waving a hand to emphasize the bustling city going about its business outside the big picture window behind me. “Not… Fort Worth ,” she says, dubiously eyeing the black cowboy boots I’m currently wearing.

I roll my eyes, although she has a point. When I interned at Better Petroleum last summer, I wore sundresses and cute boots every day. But New York City is a far cry from Texas, that’s for sure.

“You wanna look professional.” Emily nudges me playfully with a bony elbow. “And cute. Who knows? You might meet nice a finance guy.”

I grimace, looking down at the menu. “Ugh. No thanks. I’m so over men...”

“Maybe you need a nice hockey boy,” Fran says teasingly.

I feel my face flame, but I don’t look up, terrified that, if I do, they might see straight through me. Instead, I offer a dismissive, “Ew,” scanning the sandwich options.

“Oh, I like that,” Emily muses, ignoring my objection. “Who’s single?”

Oh, my God. I grit my teeth.

“Happy,” Fran says.

“Oh, God,” Emily guffaws, and they both break into fits of laughter.

“Could you imagine Dallas’s reaction if she started dating Happy!” Fran shrieks.

Emily snickers. “Logan.”

My spine stiffens .

“I don’t know about that,” Fran says, her suspicious tone causing my head to snap up of its own accord.

“He’s not single?” Emily’s eyebrows draw together.

“I don’t know for sure.” Fran shrugs. “But I feel like there might be something going on between him and Hannah.”

Emily’s eyes bug. “Stop!”

Fran nods, biting back a conspiratorial grin.

“Logan left his wallet in the locker room after practice a few weeks ago, so Robbie stopped by his apartment to drop it off to him, and… Hannah was there.” Fran waggles her eyebrows as she continues, “And, I don’t know… I kind of get a vibe between them.”

“Now that you mention it,” Emily begins, “she does seem to be overly friendly with him. Like when she showed up at Ned’s last night, they were giving serious couple energy.”

“I think we need a girls’ night.” Fran arches a brow.

“Interrogation.” Emily nods.

My stomach roils as I watch the back and forth between the two of them.

I almost believed Logan last night when he looked me dead in my eyes and told me that nothing was going on between him and Hannah, that they were just friends.

Now, listening to Fran and Emily, maybe Logan’s just a really good liar.

As much as it still hurts, maybe it was for the best that I found out he was a cheating son of a bitch before I fell too hard.

Because I was. Falling. Hard . Between our late-night texting marathons and the random phone calls throughout the day when I was between classes and he was bored, I really thought Logan was going to be the guy to officially sweep me off my feet.

I felt giddy any time his name flashed up on my phone screen.

I was falling so hard for him. But then I found her in his apartment, wearing his jersey and nothing else.

Logan is no better than fucking Parker. And every other guy.

I slam my menu shut, suddenly pissed.

“Do they sell liquor here?” I ask no one in particular .

“I think just champagne,” Emily says, looking toward the counter.

“Let’s get a bottle.”

“My kinda gal.” Fran winks, holding up a hand to signal the server.

Fran Keller is a bad influence. The worst.

A bottle of champagne over lunch turned into sunset cocktails at some fancy roof top bar, and now, here we are, in a Downtown nightclub where her friend’s boyfriend is DJing, and I’ve lost track of how many shots I’ve consumed.

I’m seriously starting to regret not leaving with Emily after cocktail number one back at the rooftop bar.

But Fran is persuasive, to say the least, and her friend, Vera, the intimidatingly beautiful runway model-type, is just as bad.

“Who wants a wet pussy?” Vera shouts, returning to our private table with a tray of shots.

“I do!” Fran bounces up and down on the sofa next to me, her hand held in the air.

I take one of the small plastic cups, sniffing the concoction before taking a tentative sip. I’m a tequila and beer girl. After a day of champagne and cocktails, I’m not sure my stomach can handle a wet pussy .

“You’ve never had a wet pussy before?” Vera asks, shot glass poised at her lips, a conspiratorial quirk to one of her perfectly arched brows.

Fran snorts a laugh and I deadpan, forcing myself to throw the shot back and trying not to wince at the sickeningly sweet after burn.

“Bleh!” I retch, sticking my tongue out. “That is disgusting!”

Fran and Vera laugh.

“You’re so adorable!” Fran wraps an arm around me and rests her head on my shoulder with a contented sigh .

When Tyler, Vera’s boyfriend and the club’s resident DJ, joins us on a break, the three of them are talking about something I’m not familiar with, so I decide to check my phone, shocked to see five new messages all from the one person who has absolutely no right to be texting me.

L: Where are you?

L: It’s after midnight.

L: Are you okay?

L: Red?

L: Millie, please respond because I’m seriously worried.

I have to close one eye to try and make sense of the words on my phone because I’ve got be hallucinating. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

Me: What the hell is your problem?

Me: Who the hell do you think you are?

Me: Leave me alone!

My phone starts to ring with his name on the screen, and honestly—what is this guy’s deal?

With a growl, I answer. “What?”

“Red, I’m not fucking playing.” His voice is low, gravelly, with a tone of danger that causes the skin at the back of my neck to prick. “Where are you?” he seethes.

“None of your bus?—”

“You tell me right fucking now,” Logan interjects, his voice startlingly demanding. “You’re out in a strange city you don’t know. You’ve been drinking all day. You can’t even construct a goddamn text message.”

Confused, I pull my phone away from my ear and look down at my messages, narrowing my eyes and holding the screen far enough away to see that he’s not wrong.

Me: Wahat the HTML ass your problematic?

Me: Why the hill you do thank hoo set?

Me: Levee me the duck a loan!

Jesus. I’m drunker than I thought…

“Millie!” Logan shouts through the phone, so loud that I can actually hear him over the thundering din of the club.

Rolling my eyes, I go back to him. “What?”

“Where are you?” he asks again, slightly less growly.

I look around, finding Fran texting on her phone while Vera practically dry humps her boyfriend. And, if I’m being honest, this scene isn’t really me at all. So, with a sigh, I say, “I’m at a club with Fran and her friend.”

“Vera?”

“Yeah.”

“Her boyfriend DJing?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in twelve minutes,” he gruffs.

I scoff. “Yeah, right, okay .”

“Millie, I’m not fucking playing,” he snaps. “I want you waiting outside next to the bouncers in eleven fucking minutes, or I will come in there, throw you over my shoulder and carry your drunk ass out. You wanna test me, babe?”

I snap my mouth shut, shocked and surprisingly turned on by his bossiness, forced to cross my legs in some sad attempt to quell the sudden neediness that’s blossomed between them. When the phone goes silent, I look down to see the call is dead, and my jaw falls open.

That asshole hung up on me.