Page 24 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)
MILLIE
M y lashes flutter against a gleam of bright light.
I open my eyes, momentarily blinded by the sun shining in through the wall of glass.
It takes me less than a few seconds to remember where I am.
And when I realize that I’m not in my bed, that I’m in Logan’s bed, I don’t freak out like I probably should.
Instead, with his mouthwatering scent wrapped around me, I snuggle deeper inside the cocoon of his soft duvet.
Smiling contently, I roll over to see if he’s awake, to check that he’s okay, but when I’m met with nothing but a mess of tangled sheets, I startle, sitting bolt upright and searching the room.
“Logan?” I rasp, my throat dry and croaky with sleep.
Nothing but silence follows, and worry curls around my stomach. Throwing the duvet off, I hop out of the bed and check inside his bathroom, but it’s empty. I hurry out of the bedroom and pad down the hallway, but the apartment is empty too.
He’s not here.
After everything that happened last night.
He just… left.
And I’m equal parts pissed because rude , but also concerned because he was not in a good way last night. Is he okay now? What if he’s not?
I run back into Logan’s bedroom and snag my phone from where I left it on the nightstand. And I don’t even care that it’s way past the time I would normally be riding the subway downtown to the office; Caroline can kiss my ass. All I care about is making sure that Logan is okay, that he’s safe.
Me: Are you okay?
Me: Where did you go?
I sit on the edge of the bed—Logan’s bed—chewing on my nail while staring at my phone, waiting to see if he’s going to reply.
The longer I’m forced to stare at my own unanswered text messages, the more I feel my heart climb its way up the back of my throat, lodging itself right there, making it hard to breathe.
Scrolling through my phone, I find Caroline’s contact and call her. Much to my dismay, she answers after the first two rings. Damn. I was hoping for voicemail.
“Mille?” she says, in lieu of greeting me like a normal person.
“I can’t come in today,” I say. “I’m sick.”
“Sick?” she repeats, her tone dubious.
“Yeah,” I continue.
“What’s wrong?”
“Diarrhea,” I say without missing a beat.
“Ew,” she mutters. “Well, did you get that impact assessment done, because I don’t see it in my inbox.”
I bite back my smirk. “Yes. I sent it straight to Jonathon last night.”
“You what ?”
I contain my smugness as best as I can. “Yes, I assumed since it was so urgent and already delayed, it would be best to send it straight to him. ”
“Fuck,” Caroline hisses under her breath, and it takes all I have not to laugh.
“Okay, well, I’m going to go back to bed,” I say, adding a cough for effect. I don’t know why someone with diarrhea might have a cough, but I don’t have it in me to fake a fart.
“Bye.” Ending the call without waiting for a response, I check my text messages, annoyed and worried that Logan still hasn’t responded.
Me: I’m really worried about you. Please let me know you’re okay.
When my message goes unanswered, again , I huff a groan and push up from the bed, wandering back out in search of coffee because it’s barely eight a.m. and I can already tell today is going to be a whole-ass day.
I’ve consumed two coffees, stood in a steaming hot shower for at least twenty minutes, watched two episodes of Love Island , and I still don’t have a reply from Logan.
Sitting on the very edge of the sofa, I study my phone, considering my options. And I know there’s really only one option right now, but with every fiber of my being, I absolutely do not want to choose it. But I need to know he’s okay. And right now, Logan’s safety takes priority over my own pride.
Scrolling through to social media, I find her in Emily’s friends, and I look at her profile not for the first time.
Her grid is all perfectly curated, aesthetically pleasing photos of herself, her and her dad, the coach of the New York Thunder, a few ice hockey photos, a cute tan dog, a few artsy pictures of places she’s been.
Ugh. God, she’s pretty. She’s almost too pretty. Too perfect.
Oh my God, Millie , my subconscious chides me, and I shake my head at my jealous thoughts as I draft a message.
Me: Hey, Hannah. This is Millie. I was just wondering… is Logan with you?
The message is sent, and suddenly she shows as online. I momentarily panic, and I don’t even know why.
Hannah: Hey, Millie! How are you?? No, Logan isn’t with me. Why would he be? Is everything okay??
I roll my eyes at the why would he be? Gee, I don’t know Hannah, maybe because y’all are fucking.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I consider my words before tapping them out.
Me: I’m worried. He was here last night but he wasn’t himself. He had a major panic attack, and I?—
My fingers freeze mid-message at the sound of the front door opening, and I abandon my message, jumping up from the couch and almost skidding on the tile in my socked feet as I round the corner and run down the hallway.
Dressed in sweats and a backward ballcap, Logan is oblivious to me as he dumps his big bag by the front door and tosses his keys into the bowl on the table. He turns and stumbles once, coming to a stop himself, eyes widening as he takes me in.
“What are you doing here?” he rasps, eyebrows tugging together.
With an are-you-serious guffaw, I place my hands on my hips. “First of all, I live here,” I sass, reeling in my anger because I’m more concerned than pissed right now. Looking him up and down, he looks okay, but is he? “Secondly, I woke up and you were… gone .”
Logan looks from me over his shoulder to the door and back to me. “I-I was at morning skate. Like I am most mornings at this time. ”
“Oh,” is all I can say, my bravado waning. “Well… after what happened last night, I was worried.”
Logan closes his eyes and bows his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we… not talk about last night?” He looks up again, only this time he refuses to meet my eyes, keeping a wide berth as he walks around me.
“Ummm… no!” I balk because is he serious? How the hell am I just supposed to pretend like last night didn’t happen. Turning, I follow him into the kitchen. “Logan, you had a serious panic attack last night, while driving your car,” I state incredulously.
Expertly, he ignores me, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of egg whites and a few other breakfast ingredients.
“Does it happen often?” I press.
Still ignoring me, he opens one of the cabinet doors and takes out a frying pan, his back to me as he moves effortlessly around the kitchen.
“Did it have anything to do with your father?” The second the question leaves my lips, I regret it.
Logan freezes, placing his hands against the countertop and bowing his head, his broad shoulders tensing on a ragged exhale.
An uncomfortable iciness settles in the air around us, thick and palpable with a dizzying tension.
And I know I’ve hit a nerve. I know what happened last night has something to do with his father because as far as I can tell, his dad being at his game was the only thing that was different.
So, because I can tell he needs someone right now, I take a tentative step closer, and another, until I’m right there behind him, so close I can feel the anxiety as it wreaks havoc inside of him, gently placing my hand on his back.
“Logan?” I say softly.
“No one knows,” is all he says, his voice low and gruff and laced with the sort of sadness that feels bone-deep.
I stare at his back, trying to make sense of whatever it is no one knows. “Logan, turn around,” I whisper. “Look at me. Please.”
With another ragged breath, Logan turns, but still he avoids my eyes, staring down at the dish towel in his hands.
I take the towel from him, placing it onto the island counter, and tucking my finger beneath his stubbled chin, I force his eyes to me.
But when I’m met with nothing but a stormy anguish etched deep in his gaze, my heart breaks for this man standing right here.
“No one knows what , Logan?” I press, cupping his jaw and stroking my thumb across his cheek, just like I had last night while we’d lain next to one another until he’d fallen asleep.
“Six years ago,” he begins, clearing the emotion from his throat, his eyes flitting between mine as he continues, “my brother killed himself.”