Page 34 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)
MILLIE
I haven’t seen Logan since the night in my bedroom where I made a complete and utter fool of myself. The night in my bedroom where I practically begged him to fuck me. The night in my bedroom where he unequivocally turned me down. Mortifying.
He tried to talk to me about it the following morning.
Like an adult. But my ego was bruised. And even now, two days later, the wounds of mortification remain unhealed, and the longer I go intentionally avoiding him, the more the wounds fester.
I even went on Zillow today to see if there were any studio apartments I might be able to afford on my pathetic excuse for a salary, but the best I could find was a shoebox studio with some sketchy shared bathroom situation, somewhere in the depths of Queens.
For now, instead of moving out to Queens, I’ve been accepting any and all bullshit work Caroline has been throwing at me.
Even working today, Saturday, all day spent locked in a special safe room in the office, doing a manual reconciliation for a super high-net-worth client.
I even had to sign an NDA, take off my shoes, and empty my pockets before entering the room.
But anything to avoid being at the apartment where I might accidentally run into the one man I can’t bear the thought of seeing right now.
It's dark by the time I leave work. Dark and cold. And as the city comes to life through the night, I would love nothing more than to go home, whip up a batch of spicy margs, and rot on the sofa watching trash TV. But tonight is Hannah’s dad’s surprise birthday thing at some sports bar in the East Village.
And, I mean, I don’t know the man, but Hannah texted me earlier to check I was still coming, and I’d feel bad if I didn’t show. I actually really like her.
I also came to the conclusion today that if I want Logan like I think I want him—and judging by the way my body reacts to him, I really really want him—then I’m going to need to fight.
And by fight, I mean tonight I’m going to wear the sluttiest little dress I own and make it really fucking hard for him to even think of turning to me down again.
I’ve always been a little dirty when it comes to fighting for what I want.
I stop outside the address Hannah sent me, looking up at the sign that reads in big neon letters Standing Room Only . With a cautious smile, I approach the man outside wearing a jacket that says security .
“It’s a private function tonight,” he explains. “Guest list only.”
“Yeah, I should be on there,” I say. “Millie Shaw.”
He scans the list on his tablet, looking at me with a smile before opening the door, and I thank him, stepping inside.
Inside, the place is, as assumed, a generic sports bar. Low lit with high top tables dotted about, framed sporting memorabilia lining the walls, and televisions everywhere playing all types of different sports: baseball, basketball, football, soccer, hockey, boxing.
“Mils!”
I turn, searching the crowded space full of mostly unfamiliar faces, finding Fran and Emily waving at me from a table toward the back.
With a relieved smile, I wave at them, my eyes instinctively clocking Logan standing by the bar next to none other than my brother, his gaze on me in that way that feels like it sears my skin.
“Can I take your coat, hon?” A beautiful woman wearing a Standing Room Only t-shirt smiles at me from the attendant stand.
“Yeah, thanks. It’s warm in here.” I smile at the woman, removing my coat and handing it to her in exchange for a ticket stub.
Turning, I tug on the hem of my dress that, in hindsight, feels slightly too short and maybe inappropriate given the current scene.
But judging by the blatant look of what-the-utter-fuck displayed on Logan’s face, this dress does exactly what I’d hoped it would do.
Ignoring his reaction and his eyes that track my every move, I snake my way through the sea of mostly men who, unsurprisingly, look like off-ice hockey players, smiling at those who offer me appraising glances, making my way to Emily and Fran.
“Oh… my God,” Fran shrieks, grabbing my hand and forcing me to do a spin. “Look at you, miss ma’am!”
I feel my cheeks flush but try desperately to keep my chin held high in a show of confidence one should have while wearing a dress like this.
“Millie, you look hot,” Emily shouts over the din of music and too many voices talking at the same time.
And I do look hot. I made damn sure of it before I left the apartment. My trusty white cowboy boots, a pale pink dress that’s basically a second skin, my hair left out and wavy, flowing over my shoulders .
“I was worried I missed the surprise,” I say, looking around, feeling Logan’s eyes still fixed firmly on me from the bar.
“Hannah just texted and said they’re about ten minutes away,” Fran explains, sipping her wine.
“Hey, Sis.” Dallas appears, placing a tray of drinks onto the table.
“Hey.” I smile up at him, fully aware of his eyes scanning my outfit.
He leans in close enough so that only I can hear him. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“A dress,” I answer simply. “Just like Fran and Emily are both wearing dresses.”
He quirks a brow, and I know what he’s not saying.
He’s not saying that my dress is nothing like Fran’s or Emily’s, and he’d be right, but fuck him.
No one died and made him the fashion police.
Before he can say anything, Emily slaps him in his chest, flashing him a warning look, and he adjusts his Stetson, pressing his lips together, his jaw ticking as he looks away.
And I can tell he has so much more to say, so thank God for Emily Cole and her ability to gag his big fat mouth.
“Ignore him,” Emily says, wrapping her arm around me. “He’s just being a big brother. You look amazing.”
I should let it go, but Logan’s right; I’m a brat.
I always have been. I think it’s a youngest child thing.
So, instead, I adjust my dress, tugging the neckline down a little, fully aware as Dallas goes out of his way not to look at me.
And, with a wink at Emily, I say, “Well, I’m going to see what sexy hockey boy might wanna buy a gal a drink. ”
Dallas bristles, turning back to me. “Over my dead?—”
Emily slaps a hand over his mouth, smiling tightly at me as she tries to rein in her fiancé, and I smirk the whole way to the bar, my sights set on only one sexy hockey boy.
Sidling in next to Logan, intentionally brushing up against him, I notice he remains focused straight ahead despite his gaze watching me covertly from the corner of his eyes .
“Is that dress supposed to be a fucking joke?” he seethes, still not looking at me.
With an innocent smile, I, too, avoid his direction, staring at the shelves of glittering liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. “You sound like my brother.”
“Your ass is barely covered, Red,” he grits. “One wrong move and the whole fucking team’s gonna know what color panties you’re wearing.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I continue smiling and say, “Well, jokes on them because I’m not wearing any.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he hisses.
I shrug a nonchalant shoulder. “This dress isn’t very underwear-friendly.”
Next to me, Logan drags a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath.
The bartender reappears, placing two beers and a glass of Jack and Coke on the counter before turning to me, his smile morphing from casual to cocky as his gaze drifts downwards, lingering on my breasts a moment too long, before meeting my eyes again with a tip of his chin. “What can I get you, cutie?”
Inwardly, I cringe because, ew. But outwardly, I swoon like a moron, biting on my pink painted nail. “Bartender’s choice,” I say with a flirty smile.
As the bartender turns away to begin making me something that will undoubtedly include a cute little cocktail umbrella and way too much prosecco to be drinkable, Logan grabs his drinks and turns, this time intentionally brushing up against me.
I peer up at him through my lashes, seeing just how fiery his eyes are, and I refrain from shivering, but my God, the things this man is capable of doing to me without even touching me should be studied in a lab.
“Keep it up, Red,” he mutters, his voice low and gruff, breath hot against my skin. Quirking a brow, his grin is almost taunting as he adds, “I fuckin’ dare you.”
My mouth hangs open as I watch his retreating shoulders disappear into the crowd, my cheeks flaming like they’re on fire.
God, I can barely even breathe. I cross my legs at the ankles in an attempt to press my thighs together to quell the sudden ache in my pussy, but it’s useless.
He’s rendered me needy and desperate, a dangerous combination.
Logan is good. He’s really, really good. But I’m better. And if he wants to play, then as far as I’m concerned, game on.