Page 16 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

MILLIE

“ S o, this is Logan Cullen’s apartment, huh?”

“It’s a lot less single bachelor than I imagined.”

I’m breathless as I place the last of my things onto the pile by the front door, following the sound of Emily and Fran’s voices.

They stand in the entryway of the open-plan living area, assessing the space like curators at an art gallery.

A small but modern kitchen overlooks a great room with a four-seater breakfast table, a big gray U-shaped sectional that faces a huge television hung up on the wall, and a wall of glass with doors that open to a small balcony that looks out over a south-facing view of the city.

The place is mostly white with light oak accents, a big cream rug, and some framed pictures placed about.

There’re even potted pants. Real ones, not fake.

I’m quietly impressed as I take it all in.

“He probably had someone come in and clean it,” I say, looking around at how spotless the place is. Not a beer can in sight. “Either that or he’s Patrick Bateman.”

Emily flashes me a knowing smile. I opened up to her last night about how nervous I am living not only with Logan, but with a man in general.

The only men I’ve ever lived with have been my brothers and my father.

But they’re family. I don’t even know Logan.

At least not like I thought I knew him. Who knows what kind of person he is.

What if he has a bad habit? Like drinking milk straight from the carton or, I don’t know, picking up prostitutes and carving their bodies into pieces with a chainsaw.

Logan is away on a road trip until Sunday, but he said I could move in whenever I wanted.

I’ve been so busy trying not to quit my job every day this week that it’s taken me until now to get my shit together.

Plus, it’s been nice just living with Emily at the apartment, without the constant fear of walking into a room to see her getting fucked by my brother.

“Okay.” Fran claps her hands together. “Who wants to snoop?” Her blue eyes are wider than saucers as she looks from me to Emily and back again before huffing a laugh. “I’m joking…” She quirks a brow, looking at us both one more time as she says, “Unless you guys want to—then I’m totally down.”

“We’re not snooping ,” Emily chides, swatting Fran’s arm.

Fran’s shoulders fall on a sigh. “Boring.”

I chuckle.

“Let’s order pizza,” Emily says.

“And wine!” Fran shouts from where she’s not snooping in the kitchen. I watch as she pulls open the fridge door, peering inside, moving to the cabinets. “There’s literally nothing here, except this… random industrial-sized vat of Nutella.”

I snap my head up, eyes bulging at the giant tub of Nutella in Fran’s hand, and I don’t miss the way something unfamiliar winds itself around my heart.

I’m forced to tamp down the smile that tries to tug at my lips.

Nutella is my one comfort food. I eat it by the spoonful at the end of bad day.

And the fact that Logan has ordered it in bulk and left it here for me is infuriatingly sweet.

“Maybe our boy Loges has some sort of secret Nutella kink…” Fran waggles her eyebrows, twisting off the lid and looking inside. “No obvious penis-shaped holes,” she adds with a casual shrug .

“Fran!” Emily laughs out loud.

Fran scoops a big dollop of Nutella with her finger, sucking it into her mouth before placing the jar back where it was.

“So gross,” Emily mutters, shaking her head at her friend.

I pull my phone from the pocket of my sweats, scrolling to my messages while Fran and Emily bicker about food hygiene.

Me: Just letting you know that I’m here.

His reply comes through so fast it’s borderline creepy.

L: I know. I saw you on the camera.

My jaw drops and immediately I look up, scanning the corners of the room, looking for cameras because like hell am I going to live here if he has cameras hidden around.

Me: Ew, you have cameras?

L: Calm down, Red. Just one by the front door.

My shoulders ease just a touch.

Me: Your place is weirdly clean, by the way. You’re either a neat freak or a serial killer, and frankly, I don’t know what’s worse.

L: A little from column A, a little from column B...

Me: I’ll be sure to keep my bedroom door locked at night.

L: Fun sucker.

L: Oh, I almost forgot, I left you a little housewarming gift.

Me: Fran already sniffed it out. She assumes you have a Nutella kink. Even checked the contents for a penis-shaped hole.

L: Is this really what women do when they’re hanging out together?

Me: No, soon we’ll be sure to strip down to our bra and panties and practice our French kissing

L: Be sure to do all that by the front door.

Me: Pervert.

“Han’s on her way over.”

I snap my head up from my messages, brow furrowing as I notice Emily smiling down at her phone.

“She’s bringing wine.”

“My hero!” Fran gushes.

Are you fucking serious?

Fran and Emily both spin around then, eyes identically wide, and I’m pretty sure I just said that out loud. Fabulous. I force a laugh that sounds more like a choke. “I hate wine…” Nice save.

The motherfucking audacity of Hannah to show up here, tonight, on my first night in Logan’s apartment, with a bottle of fucking wine?

Emily looks from me down to her phone and back again. “I can get her to pick up something else, if you like.”

Okay. Time to pull out the big guns. “No, it’s fine. I actually have a headache, so I probably shouldn’t drink anything.”

For the record, I don’t have a headache. Not even a little bit. But desperate times call for fake headaches apparently.

“Oh, no,” Emily laments, cocking her head to the side. “Do you want us to leave so you can get some rest? We can do girls’ night another time.”

Great, now I feel like an asshole. In my defense, I didn’t realize tonight was some unofficial girls’ night. I thought they were just helping me move in. “No.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. It’s just this fucking job.”

“Not a vibe?” Fran asks.

I groan. “Unless the vibe is 1960’s girl Friday to an office of misogynistic dude bros, then no… definitely not a vibe.”

“Ew, that sounds horrible.” Fran grimaces.

“We won’t stay long,” Emily assures me.

“I can’t stay too late, anyway. I have to meet a client tomorrow morning out at Montauk to look at a place he’s thinking of renting over the summer for a mere forty-five thousand dollars a month,” Fran deadpans.

“It is absurd what some of these athletes get paid,” Emily sighs.

I smile, but honestly, I’m not really listening. My mind is far too consumed by the fact that the woman I caught Logan with red-handed after flying half-way across the country is about to show up for an apparent girls’ night. As if we’re besties or some bullshit.

Maybe I should have stipulated her as one of my house rules when I set them with Logan. I said no women, but perhaps I should have been more specific. What if this is the norm? What if she’s always here?

“I’m just going to put my things in my room,” I announce, turning quickly, in desperate need of a moment to mentally fall apart.

“Let us help,” Emily says from behind me.

I stop, spinning around and forcing a smile despite not meeting her eyes. “No. I’ve got it. Why don’t you see if you can figure out the television so we can watch the game?” I suggest with a shrug, turning again before she can insist.

I open the door at the end of the hall, flicking on the light, the space illuminating in a soft, low glow, and as I step inside and take it all in, my momentary Hannah-panic starts to subside.

The room is small, but it’s nice. An entire wall of built-in shelves and cabinets, all white.

A big bed with a mountain of pillows, all creams and whites, light grays and pale pinks.

The closet is small, but I don’t have a lot, so that’s okay.

I open the door to the right and peer inside to see the bathroom; it, too, is small, but there’s a rainfall shower big enough for at least three of me, a beautiful vanity, and a window that looks out over the city.

Closing the bathroom door, I pad back through the bedroom.

The carpet is thick and plush, my socked feet sinking into it, and honestly, it’s a gorgeous bedroom, but probably most beautiful of all is the wall of glass with a door that opens up to a small east-facing balcony that will catch the sun rise over the East River.

It’s dark now, nothing but city lights shining against the blanket of night sky, but I bet in the morning it will be breathtaking.

With a ragged exhale, I take a seat on the edge of the bed which is when I spot a big gift-wrapped box that sits on an armchair in the corner. I reach over and grab it, my brows knitting together. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the card on top, shocked to see a handwritten note.

Welcome home, Red.

I know you’ll feel anxious sleeping here for your first few nights, especially on your own, so I hope this helps. But just remember, I’m only ever a phone call away.

Loges x

Shocked by his sweet words, I clamp my bottom lip between my teeth.

Tugging on the white ribbon, I lift the top off the box, my mouth falling open on a soft gasp at what’s inside.

Tears prick my eyes as I pull out the heavy, thick looped wool, reveling in its softness.

I stand, allowing the big weighted blanket to unfurl, and I pull it up to my face, rubbing it against my cheek, my pesky tears winning their battle and spilling over.

It isn’t just that Logan bought me a weighted blanket; it’s that he remembers back to when I told him that I hate being alone at home, and when I am, I can’t sleep.

I’d called him late one night when my roommates back in Ann Arbor were all out of the house.

It wasn’t common; five girls living in one house, there was usually at least someone home with me.

But that night, I was all alone and I was terrified.

So, I called Logan, and despite him having just played a game, and that he was due to be awake early to fly out somewhere new the following morning, he stayed up and talked with me for hours.

All I remember is waking up to my phone resting on the pillow beside me with one unread text message time stamped four thirty-two a.m.

L: Sweet dreams, Red x

I think that was the moment I knew Logan was more.

And it was then that I realized when he told me he would fight for me, that first night in my bedroom, that’s what he was talking about.

He wasn’t talking about physically fighting, although I don’t doubt that he would physically fight for those he cares about; Logan was talking about fighting for me any time I needed him to.

And that night on the phone, talking to me until I fell asleep, he was fighting the monsters I’d made up in my mind.

By the time I manage to get myself together, I walk out from my bedroom to the sound of laughter coming from the living area. I glance sideways at the front door as I pass, noticing a foreign pair of boots and a coat that wasn’t there earlier. My heart drops into pit of my gut .

I knew I’d eventually have to face being in the same vicinity as Hannah, but I’m nowhere near prepared enough.

Plus, I’m an actual mess, dressed in a black sweat suit, my hair still damp from my earlier shower after work and thrown up in a messy pile of knots.

Hannah is a literal beauty queen. I did my reconnaissance.

Hannah Draper, daughter of New York Thunder head coach and two-time Stanley cup winner, Lance Draper, won Miss Teen America when she was sixteen.

When I was sixteen, I had braces, acne, a flat chest, and, thanks to my brother, there was a rumor going around that I kept my ear wax in a jar.

Tugging down my sweatshirt, I lift my chin a little higher and walk through the entryway, seeing Emily, Fran, and Hannah sitting on the rug, surrounding a mammoth pizza on the coffee table while the pre-game lead-up plays on the television.

“Oh, hey, girl.” Fran smiles at me, holding up a slice. “Come on over here before there’s none left.”

“This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!” Emily mumbles around a mouthful.

“Sure about that?” Fran smirks, nudging her conspiratorially.

I make a point of clearing my throat, spearing Fran with a warning look as I walk around the sectional. I don’t need them to carry on that conversation in my presence.

Sitting down on the throw cushion next to Emily, my gaze flits across the coffee table to Hannah. She’s watching me, a tentative smile ghosting her lips, and I force one right back at her with a muttered, “Hi.”

Thankfully, before any awkward small talk is required, the announcer introduces the singer for the national anthem, and we eat in silence as “The Star-Spangled Banner” is butchered by some old white man wearing a sequined top hat.

“Look at that mustache, ladies!” Fran openly swoons as the camera zooms in on Robbie.

I laugh quietly, chewing on a slice of pizza, but when the camera moves to Logan, I’m caught off-guard by just how handsome he looks.

His jaw is shadowed by a few days’ worth of stubble, his face veiled by a steely indifference, but his eyes?

Oh, my God, those eyes. I swear, you could get lost in Logan Cullen’s gaze.

And for a moment, I do. But when I suddenly remember where I am, and with whom, I square my shoulders, glancing sideways to find Hannah watching me, a slightly smug smirk curling her lips as she quickly looks away.

Bitch . I silently curse her, and myself, turning back to the TV as the players line up for the faceoff.