Page 21 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

MILLIE

“ M illie!”

At the abrupt and chiding sound of my name, I snap my head up from my computer, my eyes widening at the sight of Caroline walking through the doorway to the office I share with Michelle and Steph, or the assistant hole as I’ve affectionately come to call it, a murderous look on her face.

I sit up a little straighter, squaring my shoulders, and when she stops at my desk, I force a smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes because what the fuck does she want now ?

“Did you forget to finalize the impact assessment for Jonathon like he asked?”

I blink in response, my brows knitting together with confusion as I turn back to my computer, scrolling frantically through my emails and messages because I haven’t received anything from anyone named Jonathon.

“He said he spoke to you this morning,” Caroline presses, and I can see her toe tapping impatiently from my periphery.

“Spoke to me?” I glance at her, unable to conceal my own scoff. “No one ever speaks to me.” Unless it’s used as a tactic to stare at my tits , I don’t say out loud .

Caroline huffs, placing a hand on her hip, the look in her eyes dubious like she doesn’t believe me.

“I don’t even know who Jonathon is.”

“My boss ,” she says as if I should have known. And, I suppose I probably should have, but Caroline hasn’t bothered introducing me to anyone. Especially not her boss.

“Well, he didn’t ask me, so…” I shrug, trailing off because it’s almost six o’clock, and it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it now.

Rolling her eyes, Caroline shakes her head to herself as she looks down at her cell. “I’m forwarding you the email, so you can get it done and sent to him, and I’ll just tell him you were too busy or whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand.

I grit my teeth. “When does he need it by?”

“Now.”

I gape at her. “A full impact assessment?”

Without looking up from her phone, she nods.

“And you want me to do it now?”

She nods again.

I glance at the time on my computer monitor. “At five fifty-two?”

Finally, she tears her gaze away from her phone for long enough to meet my eyes, arching a brow. “Is there a problem?”

Is there a problem? I swear to God, I have to bite my tongue until I taste blood, because is she fucking serious?

Instead of telling her to go fuck herself, I roll my lips together, take a deep breath and, not trusting myself to speak, I shake my head, focusing on my computer as an untamed rage threatens to break free.

As soon I click on the email Caroline forwarded me, I can see the issue straight away. Jonathon asked Caroline to create the impact assessment at ten o’clock this morning. There’s no mention of my name anywhere in his email.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

But, of course, before I can even work up the courage to question her about it, she’s gone, nothing but the sickening stench of her perfume left lingering in the air around me.

It's after eight by the time I finally drag myself through the door of the apartment.

Fucking Caroline and her lazy bitch ass. I must be getting my period because I’m not normally vindictive, but the way I want to take her down, I could be arrested for conspiring to inflict grievous bodily harm.

Hanging my coat on the hook by the door, I kick off the stupid heels I’ve been wearing for far too long, tugging my blouse off over my head on my way to my bedroom.

Logan is currently playing at Madison Square Garden, so I don’t have to worry about accidentally flashing him as I disrobe.

Not that he’d acknowledge me even if he were here.

Things have been tense between us since he got back from his road trip.

I think I might’ve crossed a line I didn’t know existed, first with the text message telling him I was on a date, and then the following day, when I walked out on him to meet Maverick for our Central Park fake-date.

He’s been avoiding me ever since, to the point where last night, I was in the kitchen making a cup of hot chocolate, and Logan came around the corner, saw me there, turned, and went straight back to his bedroom.

In fact, he’s in his bedroom so damn often, I’m already starting to feel like I’ve outstayed my welcome.

After a shower, I slip into my most comfortable pajamas, and I indulge in a mini pamper session to try make myself feel better after the day from hell.

I’m not consistent with my skincare; I’m lucky to do it once every few days, but tonight I decide to go all out, even applying a collagen sheet mask.

Sure, I look like Michael Myers, but it matches my murderous mood so there’s that.

With my emotional support Nutella, I migrate to the sofa and switch on the game, happy to see that the Thunder are leading by two, six minutes into the third period.

I dig out a spoonful of chocolatey, hazelnutty goodness, sucking on the spoon, my attention snagged when the announcer mentions Logan’s name, accompanied by a shot of number fifty-two being escorted to the penalty box.

“Cullen’s always been a defensive forward, but these last few games we’ve seen a much more physical side to the twenty-four-year-old.

If the threat of suspension after his game misconduct on Saturday didn’t scare him enough to snap him out of it, then I guess Coach Lance Draper has a lot to think about.

For the first time in four years, the New York Thunder are in position to progress to post season, but with a loose cannon like Cullen on the team, all it takes is one player to jeopardize everything a team has worked for. ”

I watch as Logan yells something at the ref before slamming the door to the penalty box, shaking his head to himself and falling onto the seat.

I’ve never seen him look so angry. His bruises remain from the other night, eyes glaring up at what I assume is the Jumbotron in the arena as he shakes his head again, his lips moving around a very obvious “This is fucking bullshit.”

The screen flicks to an older man up in the stands. An older man who looks uncannily like Logan, the same piercing eyes, the same perfect nose, the same full lip, seated next to a beautiful blonde woman about half his age, probably not much older than Logan.

“Cullen’s father there, Geoff, who played a few seasons with New Jersey before an injury forced him into early retirement, looking none too happy with his son.” The announcer chuckles as the man—Logan’s father, apparently—mutters an expletive while shaking his head .

Grabbing the remote, I switch from ESPN to Netflix instead because, a) hockey bores me to tears and I will only ever sit through a game when beer is involved, and b) listening to the announcers talk badly about Logan, and seeing his own father shaking his head in disgust at his son, is only pissing me off far more than it probably should.

I settle in with my Nutella and Friends repeats, trying so hard to keep my mind off Logan, Caroline, and the taunting thoughts that I might have made a serious mistake moving out here.