Page 1 of The Bad Girl

Chapter 1

Nadine

Five o’clock can’t come quickly enough.

It’s not that I have a strenuous job. Just the opposite. I work for Maxwell Stryder, heir to InStryde, an Italian brand boasting fashion and leather goods. I keep his schedule on track, his wardrobe pressed, and his Little Black Book cataloged so he can do an easy filtered search on his phone if he’s in the mood for a sassy blonde or someone near the Upper East Side. You know, the important things men with money worry about.

I guess I shouldn’t imply that the job is easy because it’s not. But it’s a perfect match for my personality type, which is: analytical, logical, and safe. I’m instrumental in keeping Mr. Stryder’s life orderly and on track, a job not everyone is cut out for. You have to have a specific personality type—anal-retentive.

And it’s this very specific personality type that has me on edge right now because it comes with a lot of anticipation and a healthy dose of time anxiety.

Yep, that’s me, Nadine Winters, obsessor extraordinary, and the reason I’m doing a double-take on the clock every thirty seconds is that tonight I have a date—but not just any date.

Grady Teller is a six-foot-two tower of muscle whose Tinder profile checks all the right boxes. He’s a mechanic, takes his coffee black, rides around on a motorcycle, has a beard I dream about grazing the nape of my neck, and if I’m being crass, my inner thighs. Oh, and he owns two rescue dogs.

Seriously—what’s not to love?

I guess most people would think Grady and I would be greatly mismatched, me with my highly-structured lifestyle and Grady with his‘I couldn’t give two fucks’personality, but opposites attract, just ask my parents who have been happily married for over twenty-five years.

Come on, clock. Tick tock a little harder, will ya?

Right now, I’m basically being tortured by the clock, its cruel hands seemingly moving at half-speed. It’s been months since I’ve had any form of sexual release. Even my vibrator peaced out, leaving me high and dry in a time of desperate need. It’s about time I climb out of this funk.

I bring out my sketch pad, which I employ during desperate times like these, and continue with a sketch of Higglesworth, the hot pink hippo I’ve been drawing into existence since middle school. She and Sir Fookshit, the giraffe, a latecomer to my artistic endeavors, are squaring off against: Ernesto, the alligator; Anali, the blob; and Embertooth, the dragon who hoards soaps and blows bubbles instead of fire.

The door leading to Maxwell’s penthouse opens, and I do a quick survey of my desk to make sure there’s nothing that requires his immediate attention.

“Nadine.” My name rolls of Maxwell’s tongue as though he were calling to his pet—which, let’s face it—that’s exactly what I am to him.

I rise from my chair, adjust my skirt, and meet his gaze. “Yes, Mr. Stryder?”

“Crimson on charcoal or blue on blue?” he asks, pulling two smartly pressed suits from their dry cleaning bags.

He would look magnificent in either one with his brand of tall, dark, and handsome.

Some guys have all the luck. A plus-sized bank account and pristine family legacy aren’t Maxwell’s only gifts. Standing six-foot-four with a strong jaw and flawless physique keeps his Little Black Book brimming with eager options and me rather busy cataloging them all.

Oh, and about that physique—it is immaculate. I should know because I’ve had to pull him out of his home gym more times than I can count for business-related issues. He’s trim, with long, well-defined muscles, and stamina that can outlast the Energizer Bunny.

Being my boss, he’s also completely off-limits—not that he’s my type with how clean-cut he is.

“The crimson on charcoal is dramatic, whereas the blue on blue is playful and matches your personality better.”

“Are you saying I’m more an Adam Sandler than an Ian Somerhalder?”

“I’d say you’re more Steve Carell.”

His mouth gapes in feign offense as he throws the two suits over the back of a chair and proceeds to one of the many mirrors lining the wall to satiate his vanity.

As with everything in Maxwell’s life, the office is immaculate in shades of white, black, and grey, with even the appliances in the attached kitchenette on theme.

A reminder popped up meant for Maxwell.

“Ummm…it says here Sayo enjoys sashimi and erotic performance art—”

“Yeah, yeah, she took the initiative and made the arrangement, so I don’t have to worry about that.”

“Sounds like an exciting gal.”