Page 117 of The Bad Girl
Chapter 40
Nadine
After twenty-eight minutes of trying to calm Allison while her makeup is being reapplied, I come to the realization that this may not be Maxwell’s fault. With only two minutes left until we are supposed to take our places, Allison’s makeup has barely come together through all the emotional outbursts.
Tom comes into the room, his brow skewed. “What’s going on?”
Allison’s eyes dart to her brother, her lip quivers.
“We’re almost done!” I say with fake exuberance. “Look how gorgeous she is!”
My eyes bulge at Tom, a silent warning of what will happen if he misspeaks.
“Wow—just wow!” he enthuses. “Magazine perfect.”
Harry barges into the room. “Where’s the pregosaurus at?”
Oh God no!
Allison breaks into a fresh round of wails, and I cut Harry a gaze that tells him to get the fuck out lest he wants me to stab him with a hairpin.
“I’m sorry, was I supposed to ignore the pregnancy situation like we did fifty years ago?” Harry sneers.
It never ceases to amaze me how insensitive Harry can be, but even though I’m livid, Tom is barely able to contain a smile.
“Leave!” I snap.
“Well, you’re needed on set.”
Fuck!
“There isn’t much more I can do,” the disenchanted makeup artist says.
“I think you’d better go,” Tom says to Harry, though in a tone not half as harsh as he had taken with Maxwell.
“Allison, come on, baby. We just need to get through the next fifteen minutes. Dry those eyes, we’ll quickly reapply your makeup, and photoshop will have to do the rest.”
“O-O-O-kay…” she says, then takes a giant sniffle.
And then, it occurs to me.
“The veil! We need to get her in the veil. We’ll just hide her face!”
Tom retrieves the veil, which an attendant quickly pins on, and we go out to a staged area with sculptures that act as chairs.
Seeing Maxwell again is like a punch in the gut. He’s so handsome and so…different?
He’s sporting a substantial amount of scruff, which isn’t his style, and it looks like Harry may have forgotten to schedule his haircut as well, which makes no sense since it’s at the same standard time every two weeks, but I guess Harry could fuck up anything.
And oh my God, he’s dapper as fuck in his blazer that he’s paired with blue jeans, an interesting combination I’ve never seen him in and a far cry from the suits he usually wears.
Holy Jesus, come take me now.
I hate the way I feel when I look at him, vulnerable and full of want. I wonder if he can sense it, though how could he not.
He smirks when he sees me, waggling his brow. I should be happy with him, thankful for the generous payout and assistance from his company, but I’m bitter. How could he send his ‘people’ to negotiate terms with me? Why couldn’t he have come to say goodbye? How could our time aboard the boat mean nothing to him, when it meant everything to me?
I smile back, then turn my head so he can’t glimpse my inner conflict.
