Page 19 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)
MILLIE
T he last thing I was expecting to wake up to on a Sunday morning after a few too many tequilas was an email from the boss from hell, Caroline, asking me to construct a board presentation from a bunch of haphazard and barely legible notes and a few screenshots of what looks like hieroglyphics on a whiteboard captured by Minh, one of the lead quantitative analysts.
Yet, here I am, more hungover than I’d like to be while perched on the outdoor sofa on the balcony, basking in the morning sunshine despite the frigid chill in the air, laptop balancing on my knees, cussing out PowerPoint for being a temperamental little bitch.
My date with Maverick last night was fun.
Although… it totally wasn’t a date. And I feel like such an idiot.
When Maverick asked me out, I assumed it was a date.
He bought me flowers. But two tequila shots into our non-date, and a hot guy suddenly appeared out of nowhere by our booth, smiling down at us.
I thought he was the waiter and asked him for a margarita, only for Maverick to laugh out loud, introducing the man as his boyfriend.
Yes, boyfriend. Maverick is as gay as they come.
He thought it was hilarious that I hadn’t picked up on his sexual or ientation from the tiny shorts he’d been wearing in the gym the night before, and the fact that he contoured better than anyone I know, but I just assumed he liked to take care of himself.
So, although my date actually turned into more of a third-wheel situation, I had the best time.
Maverick is a ball of fun; he and his boyfriend, Enrique, are grad students at Columbia, both of them studying their Master’s in mechanical engineering, so they’re that intimidating level of smart, but not cocky or arrogant. I really like them.
My laptop dings with a new notification, and I can’t help but smile as the name I designated for Maverick pops up in a notification.
Top Gun: You. Me. Bottomless brunch at a pop-up café in Central Park. Whatdya say?
Me: Me and champagne are not friends.
Top Gun: They do spicy margs…
Me: Sold!
I’ve been to New York a few times in the past couple of years, but it’s only ever been a quick trip to see Dallas or to come watch one of his games.
I’ve never seen the iconic sights of the city, and I have a long bucket list. Central Park is only three blocks away, so it sounds like the perfect place to start.
Top Gun: I’ll meet you in the lobby in half an hour.
Me: Perfect!
I’m startled by the sound of the heavy front door slamming shut from inside the apartment.
Suddenly nervous for some reason, anticipation coils in my belly.
Closing my laptop, I stand from the sofa and walk inside in time to see Logan enter from the hallway, and I’m brought to a standstill, my gasp ringing through the silence of the apartment.
Dressed down in a Thunder sweat suit and a backward ballcap, he’s wearing sunglasses inside, and I can see why, the bruising of two black eyes visible beneath the shades, accompanied by a fat lip and a split in his chin held together by a butterfly bandage.
Coming to, I place my laptop down onto the coffee table and rush across the room, stopping in front of him and reaching a hand up gingerly. “Logan, what happened?”
He flinches, taking a step back and forcing some space between us, and that stings more than I thought it would. Looking away, his jaw ticks before he mutters, “I’m a hockey player.”
“This happened during your game?” I gape up at him.
He nods once but says nothing, stepping around me and walking into the kitchen. And I stand rooted to the spot, watching him move about the space, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with ice and cold water from the fridge.
“I got a few groceries,” I say, awkwardly. “You can help yourself if there’s anything you like.”
He doesn’t respond, back to me as he sips his water, shoulders evidently tense.
He’s obviously ignoring me, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s pissed at the world—or pissed at me.
I haven’t heard from him since my message last night when I told him I was going on a date.
Maybe he’s jealous. I roll my eyes at myself.
Or, maybe he’s simply indifferent and couldn’t care less.
I glance at the time on the clock above the microwave. Thank God I have plans today because the last thing I want is to be stuck here with Logan while he’s in whatever the hell this mood is.
“Okay, well, good chat,” I murmur, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table. “I’m going to get ready. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” I turn and head down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Logan’s gruff tone stops me in my tracks.
I spin around to find him standing right there, backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the walls of glass. I assume he’s watching me, but I can’t see his gaze through the tint of his sunglasses.
I clutch my laptop to my chest, keeping my chin held high as I try to cut him with my words. “Maverick is taking me to Central Park.”
His throat bobs with a thick swallow, and a crease burrows between his eyebrows. “Maverick?”
Look, I know Maverick is nothing more than a friend, one-hundred percent gay and in a relationship, and I’m being an asshole right now, but the thought that Logan might actually be jealous only encourages me. I nod, smiling casually. “The guy I went out with last night.”
“Who is this guy?” Logan asks with an incredulous huff. “How do you even know him?”
“He lives here in the building,” I answer easily. “I met him in the gym the other night.”
Staring at me for a long moment, Logan says nothing, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. As if he’s realized he’s just staring at me, he snorts a derisive laugh. “His name’s Maverick ?”
I don’t react. “Yes.”
“Pfft.” He shakes his head and turns, walking back to the kitchen with a muttered and highly sarcastic, “Have fun.”
I glare at his retreating back, frustration getting the better of me. But before I do something stupid like humiliate myself by saying something I can’t take back, I spin on my socked feet and storm through to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me .
After a shower, I blow dry my hair, getting it nice and bouncy. With some tinted moisturizer, a dusting of bronzer, mascara and some cherry gloss, I get dressed for my brunch date with Maverick, keeping it casual in a pair of tight jeans and a cropped sweater.
Tentatively stepping out of my room, it's not quite time to meet Maverick downstairs in the lobby, but I decide to leave anyway, because I really don’t feel like dealing with Logan.
I stop by the door, grabbing my coat and shrugging it on, but as I’m looping my purse strap over my head, Logan’s bedroom door opens and again, and I’m glued to the spot when I see him walk out wearing nothing but a pair of motherfucking sweatpants—gray ones—and that backward ballcap.
His chest and stomach are completely on display, begging for my attention, but somehow I manage to refrain, keeping my focus safely above his shoulders.
Without his sunglasses, the bruises on his face are confronting, his left eye almost entirely closed.
That piercing gaze spears me, and he stops mid-step, looking down over me, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary over my exposed middle.
Tugging my coat closed, his gaze lifts, meeting mine again, and he removes his ballcap momentarily, raking his fingers through his hair before replacing it again.
“I’m going,” I say for some reason. I don’t know why. He’s not my father.
Logan stares down at me, his face emotionless.
Rolling my eyes, I turn, shaking my head at myself before opening the door. But before I can make an escape, I’m stopped by Logan’s gruff voice cutting through the silence.
“You wanna go to Central Park, Red?” he says suddenly, his voice slightly rasped, throaty and so close behind me I can feel his breath fan against the back of my neck. “I’ll take you to Central Park.”
Gripping the door handle tight, I close my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, and, without looking back at him, I open the door and walk out.
I take a moment outside in the hall, collecting what I can of my wits before I do something stupid like turn around and go back in there and risk getting my heart hurt. Again.