Page 14 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

MILLIE

A s I stand outside the sky-scraping building, looking up at the sleek lobby entrance, I’m so nervous, I feel physically sick.

“Watch out,” someone utters, pushing me as they pass.

I stumble ever so slightly on my black stiletto heels, collecting myself at the last minute, and step out of the way of the chaotic Monday morning throng filing out of the Wall Street subway station.

Taking a big, fortifying breath, I clutch the strap of my bag, closing my eyes a moment and reminding myself that I belong here before walking through the glass doors and into the art deco foyer, taking it all in.

A Starbucks is tucked away to the right.

To the left there appears to be some sort of lounge bar that’s obviously closed at this time of morning, and straight ahead, situated between the two banks of elevators, is the security desk I’m to report to.

Tugging down the slightly too-tight pencil skirt Fran and Emily suggested I wear for my first day, I click-clack my way toward the security desk, smiling at the man as he looks up at me from his computer monitor.

“Name?” he grunts on my approach. Friendly .

“Millie Shaw,” I say with a warm smile.

The man clicks his mouse a few times, scanning the screen. “Company?”

“Hyde and Mercer.”

He taps something into the keyboard.

“It’s my first day,” I continue for some reason, despite the man’s obvious disinterest.

“Use this.” He slides a plain white card across the desk. “It’ll get you up to the thirty-second floor only .” God, the way he looks at me, you’d think I was the Unabomber. “They’ll get you checked in up there.”

I look down at the card, glancing over to the left bank of elevators. “Do I just use any elevator?”

With a frustrated sigh, the man rolls his eyes, pointing upwards to a sign I didn’t see earlier. “You want to go to floor thirty-two,” he says slowly, his smile sickeningly patronizing. “See how that sign is clearly marked for floors thirty and above?”

What a dick.

“Thank you,” I mutter through gritted teeth, turning away and following the crowd.

When I step off the elevator and onto the thirty-second floor, I’m met with a blinding all-white lobby, complete with a drop-dead gorgeous blonde perched behind a glossy desk.

“Hi, welcome to Hyde and Mercer.”

I grip the strap of my bag so tight I can feel my nails cutting into my own skin, my best smile set firm. “Hi, I’m Millie Shaw. I’m here for my first day.”

The woman smiles, but the smile doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Take a seat, Millie,” she says, nodding to the long white bench against the far wall. “Caroline will be right out.”

As instructed, I take a seat, placing my purse and my carry-all onto my lap, scanning the space.

Unlike the main lobby downstairs, it’s quiet, tranquil, and it smells of lavender and vanilla, soft music filling the void.

If it wasn’t for the occasional trill of a phone, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were in a waiting room at some high-end spa instead of one of the world’s top hedge funds.

I take my phone from my purse, checking it quickly, unable to conceal my eyeroll when I see the myriad of message notifications on the screen.

Dallas: Good luck, little sis.

Dallas: Eyes up on the train. And don’t turn your back on anyone.

Dallas: Be alert walking through the subway.

Dallas: Did you make it?

Dallas: Are you okay??

My God. Anyone would think I’d gone to war.

Me: Thanks, D. I’m fine. Currently sitting in the lobby waiting. Still in one piece.

Dallas: Make sure you Uber home tonight. I don’t want you riding the subway after dark.

Stifling a groan, I ignore his last message and scroll to the rest of my notifications.

Emily: Good luck today, babe.

Emily: And again… I’m so sorry about last night.

I shudder at the memory of last night. It was late.

I’d been in my room, catching up on some last-minute market research, preparing for my first day.

I walked out to grab some water from the kitchen, only to stumble across my brother plowing Emily from behind against the damn island where I’d prepared a sandwich not three hours earlier.

Apparently, they thought I was asleep. I was very much not asleep, and I didn’t sleep much at all after that.

Me: Thanks.

Me: And please can we never mention last night for as long as I live.

With a grimace, I scroll to the next message in the list.

Momma: Be careful today, baby. And remember, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come home. We love you so much.

As I re-read the message from my mother, anger curls around my chest.

The sentiment is sweet, yes; there’s no denying that.

But it’s the undertone of the words that causes a visceral reaction to course through me.

There’s no good luck . There’s no you’ve got this .

There’s no we’re so proud of you . It’s just reassurance that if—or, more likely, when —it doesn’t work out, I’ll be okay because I can go home, and they will be there to take care of me.

This was my goal. New York City was my endgame.

Being here right now is what I dreamed of.

But it feels like instead of people being proud of me, they’re simply waiting for me to screw it up and run back to Texas with my tail between my legs.

Ignoring Momma for now, I scroll through the rest of the messages to see a few from my college friends, wishing me luck, one from Parker, randomly asking about some t-shirt he’s missing that I quickly delete because not today Satan , and then one from Logan that I really, really want to ignore but don’t. Because I’m a sucker, that’s why.

L: Knock ’em dead today, Red. I’m proud of you .

Conflicted, my stomach lurches at the same time as my heart skips at least one of its beats.

I haven’t spoken to Logan since he dropped me back at Dallas’s on Saturday night.

I didn’t say a word to him as I stormed out of the diner after he received a text message from his apparent non-girlfriend, Hannah.

When he walked out and found me on Houston Street trying to hail a cab, he quickly intervened and said over his dead body was I getting into a taxi.

So, he promised not to talk to me if I agreed to get in the car with him.

I did, and he kept his promise on the journey back to Brooklyn.

I got out without so much as a word, slammed the car door shut, and walked inside without a second glance back in his direction.

I haven’t heard from him since. Until now.

Out of everyone, Logan Cullen is the only person who has told me he’s proud of me.

Why does he have to be so goddamn thoughtful? And sexy.

“Millie?”

Startling, I look up from my phone to see a tall brunette standing in the open doorway, watching me with an arched brow and a smile that feels forced.

I stand, tugging down my skirt with one hand, gripping my bags with the other, hurrying across the lobby.

“Hi, you must be Caroline,” I say through a rushed breath, holding out a hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Caroline looks down at me, gaze scrupulous. Instinctively I cower, feeling smaller than I’ve ever felt, while trying to remain confident.

Caroline shakes my hand quickly and turns. “Come.”

I follow her through a quiet corridor lined with glass offices, and it opens to a bustling trade floor.

I take in the excitement of dealers on the phone, furiously tapping on their computers, yelling at one another across the space, tossing a football around.

It’s exactly how I imagined it would be, although, as I look around, I can’t help but notice there’s a lot of…

men. Literally every desk is occupied by a man. Where are all the women?

“Hey, yo, C-dog!” someone yells .

Caroline stops, turning with a smile a lot less forced than the one she’d offered me moments ago.

“Who’s the fresh meat?”

I snap my head to the side, because what the fuck ?

My eyes narrow on a tall, generically handsome twenty-something dressed in a too-tight shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the football that’d been flying around seconds ago now clasped between his big hands.

He grins at me, a slightly predatory gaze assessing me with obvious appreciation.

And I can’t help but balk because firstly, how dare he, and secondly, fresh meat ? Gross.

“This is Millie,” Caroline says, indicating me.

“What’s up, Millie ?” he says, lifting his chin in greeting with the kind of smile I’m sure makes most women weak at the knees. But I’ve only had one coffee so far this morning. My dickhead tolerance is waning. And, right now, his cocky-ass smile is giving me a serious case of the ick.

“You’ll meet her soon enough.” Caroline shakes her head, glancing at me with a wry smirk. “These boys…”

The men all chuckle between themselves, and my jaw clenches painfully as I follow Caroline down a corridor lined with offices occupied by even more men.

When we reach a door that opens to a room with four desks and a window that looks out onto the trade floor, two women talking quietly between themselves glance over, eyeing me curiously.

“Good morning, ladies,” Caroline announces like a third grade school teacher.

The women stand up a little straighter, identical smiles that, yet again, don’t meet their eyes, plastered on their pretty faces.

“Good morning,” they chorus.

My brows tug together because what in the Stepford Wives is going on?

“Girls, this is Millie,” Caroline points at me while looking down at her phone. “She’s the newbie.”

“Hi, Millie.” A stunning woman with sleek black hair, dressed in a figure-hugging Fendi dress, begins toward me, holding out a hand. “I’m Steph, one of the assistants.”

“And I’m Michelle, another one of the assistants.” The gorgeous blonde, wearing a silk blouse and a pencil skirt, smiles from me to Caroline and back again, before taking a seat at one of the desks.

“Girls, if you can show Millie around.” Caroline stops at the desk next to Steph and looks at me. “This is you.”

My brow furrows as I look at the desk, sufficiently confused. “My desk is in here?”

Caroline bites back a bitter smirk. “Unless you want me to have it moved into the kitchen?”

I suppress an eyeroll. “I assumed I’d be sitting out there.” I point to the trade floor through the window.

Caroline laughs as if that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all month, her smile falling when she meets my eyes. “Oh, you’re serious?”

Steph and Michelle giggle between themselves.

“Maybe one day,” Caroline says, her tone dripping with arrogance.

I swallow the trepidation that lurks at the back of my throat and hesitate before moving to my designated desk.

“Tasks will be assigned after the morning meeting,” Caroline says to no one in particular as she walks out of the room with her chin held high.

I place my things down, scanning my desk, glancing at Steph and Michelle, and I don’t mean to appear ungrateful for the opportunity, but as I glance at the two assistants as they touch up their lipstick at the same time, I can’t help but worry that maybe this isn’t quite the opportunity I thought it was going to be.