Page 21 of Best Kept Secret
“What areyoudoinghere?” I throw her question back in her face. “In New York?”
She just stares at me.
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“Tell you? Since when did you become the New York City Comptroller?” Millie scoffs then, looking away.
I soften, rolling my eyes at her sassiness, but when I see a wayward lock of her red hair fall from the messy pile on top ofher head, my fingers itch to tuck it behind her ear, maybe trace the gentle curve of her soft neck.
“You got the internship,” I say after a moment, my voice low, almost a whisper. When her eyes flit back to mine, I offer her a small smile. “I’m proud of you.”
And I am proud of her. Because I know how much she wanted to make it out here on her own merit. And she did it. She’s here.
In a flash, I almost see her veil of indifference thaw, but as if she catches herself, she rolls her eyes, shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, whatever...”
I stare at her, my gaze bouncing between hers, trying to see through her wall, because I know she’s there. This isn’t her. Yes, she’s mad at me, but I know that same girl I was falling for is there behind the armor she’s wearing.
“Hannah and I aren’t…” I trail off, shaking my head. “It’s not what you think.”
Millie’s eyes narrow with a sneer. “So, what? She just happened to be at your apartment first thing in the morning with sex hair, wearing nothing but your hockey jersey because—” She shrugs. “What?”
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, my gaze dipping from her pretty eyes to her perfect fucking mouth. Man, I want to kiss her so bad it hurts.
“She stayed the night.”
Millie blinks. “No shit.”
“She—” I snap my mouth shut when I realize I can’t tell her. “Millie, I… I can’t tell you. I promised Hannah, and I keep my promises. And… Ipromiseyou it was nothing. She crashed at my place, in my spare bedroom. She had nothing to wear to bed, so I gave her one of my old jerseys. That’s it. Hannah’s… a friend.Nothingmore.”
She averts her gaze, looking down.
“I know what it looked like. And it looked really fucking bad.But, Millie—” I tug on the back of my neck, considering my words. “Millie, I’m not Parker.”
At that, she snaps her head up, her eyes wide and full of unexpected tears, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve said the wrong fucking thing.
“No, you’re not,” she snaps. “Because at least when I caught Parker red-handed, he didn’tlieto my face.” And, with that, she shoves me in my chest and storms back across the street.
I turn, watching her walk away, my brain screaming at me to go after her, but my feet are rooted to the pavement.
When the heavy metal door slams shut, and it’s just me and my thoughts left in the cold, dark street, I tear my fingers through my hair with a muttered, “Fuck’s sake,” before getting back into my car. The last thing I need right now is for Dallas to pull up and find my sorry ass standing outside his apartment after making his little sister cry.
CHAPTER 10
MILLIE
Idon’t think I’ll ever not be in awe of New York City. If it’s possible to be head over heels in love with a place, that’s what I am: in love with NYC. It’s like nothing else. Millions of people existing in one place. Historic architecture interwoven with contemporary structures that are like works of art soaring high up into the sky. A palpable energy that thrums through the streets, snapping and fizzing in the air twenty-four seven. It’s almost too much, but in the best possible way. So far from Texas, it’s like a whole other world. My love for New York is unmatched, and it has been since I was twelve-years old. When my friends were swooning over Harry Styles and Justin Bieber, sticking posters of them on their bedroom walls, I hung pictures of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. Being here is like a dream come true.
After a morning clothes shopping for my new job, where poor Dallas’s black Amex got quite the workout thanks to Emily and Fran insisting that I needed far more outfits than one person can ever wear, my feet are aching by the time we find refuge in a cute patisserie across the street from Bloomingdale’s.
I sink down into the chaise by the window with a groan,looking at all my bags and shaking my head. “Do I really need two pairs of black high heels?”
Fran blinks at me and, with an exasperated sigh, says, “Millie, we’ve been over this. Pointed toe stilettos, and block heel Mary Janes. They’re twocompletelydifferent kinds of heels.” She scoffs, glancing at Emily like I’m certifiable.
“I don’t evenwearheels,” I guffaw.
Emily smirks.
“This is New York,” Fran says, waving a hand to emphasize the bustling city going about its business outside the big picture window behind me. “Not…Fort Worth,” she says, dubiously eyeing the black cowboy boots I’m currently wearing.
