Page 27 of Best Kept Secret
The woman smiles, but the smile doesn’t meet her eyes.
“Take a seat, Millie,” she says, nodding to the long white bench against the far wall. “Caroline will be right out.”
As instructed, I take a seat, placing my purse and my carry-all onto my lap, scanning the space. Unlike the main lobby downstairs, it’s quiet, tranquil, and it smells of lavender and vanilla, soft music filling the void. If it wasn’t for the occasionaltrill of a phone, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were in a waiting room at some high-end spa instead of one of the world’s top hedge funds.
I take my phone from my purse, checking it quickly, unable to conceal my eyeroll when I see the myriad of message notifications on the screen.
Dallas: Good luck, little sis.
Dallas: Eyes up on the train. And don’t turn your back on anyone.
Dallas: Be alert walking through the subway.
Dallas: Did you make it?
Dallas: Are you okay??
My God. Anyone would think I’d gone to war.
Me: Thanks, D. I’m fine. Currently sitting in the lobby waiting. Still in one piece.
Dallas: Make sure you Uber home tonight. I don’t want you riding the subway after dark.
Stifling a groan, I ignore his last message and scroll to the rest of my notifications.
Emily: Good luck today, babe.
Emily: And again… I’m so sorry about last night.
I shudder at the memory of last night. It was late. I’d been in my room, catching up on some last-minute market research, preparing for my first day. I walked out to grab some water from the kitchen, only to stumble across my brother plowing Emilyfrom behind against the damn island where I’d prepared a sandwich not three hours earlier. Apparently, they thought I was asleep. I was very much not asleep, and I didn’t sleep much at all after that.
Me: Thanks.
Me: And please can we never mention last night for as long as I live.
With a grimace, I scroll to the next message in the list.
Momma: Be careful today, baby. And remember, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come home. We love you so much.
As I re-read the message from my mother, anger curls around my chest.
The sentiment is sweet, yes; there’s no denying that. But it’s the undertone of the words that causes a visceral reaction to course through me. There’s nogood luck. There’s noyou’ve got this. There’s nowe’re so proud of you. It’s just reassurance that if—or, more likely,when—it doesn’t work out, I’ll be okay because I can go home, and they will be there to take care of me. This was my goal. New York City was my endgame. Being here right now is what I dreamed of. But it feels like instead of people being proud of me, they’re simply waiting for me to screw it up and run back to Texas with my tail between my legs.
Ignoring Momma for now, I scroll through the rest of the messages to see a few from my college friends, wishing me luck, one from Parker, randomly asking about some t-shirt he’s missing that I quickly delete becausenot today Satan, and then one from Logan that I really,reallywant to ignore but don’t. Because I’m a sucker, that’s why.
L: Knock ’em dead today, Red. I’m proud of you.
Conflicted, my stomach lurches at the same time as my heart skips at least one of its beats. I haven’t spoken to Logan since he dropped me back at Dallas’s on Saturday night. I didn’t say a word to him as I stormed out of the diner after he received a text message from his apparent non-girlfriend, Hannah. When he walked out and found me on Houston Street trying to hail a cab, he quickly intervened and said over his dead body was I getting into a taxi. So, he promised not to talk to me if I agreed to get in the car with him. I did, and he kept his promise on the journey back to Brooklyn. I got out without so much as a word, slammed the car door shut, and walked inside without a second glance back in his direction. I haven’t heard from him since. Until now.
Out of everyone, Logan Cullen is the only person who has told me he’s proud of me.
Why does he have to be so goddamn thoughtful? And sexy.
“Millie?”
Startling, I look up from my phone to see a tall brunette standing in the open doorway, watching me with an arched brow and a smile that feels forced.
I stand, tugging down my skirt with one hand, gripping my bags with the other, hurrying across the lobby.
