Page 11 of The Bad Girl
But there’s a small voice inside of me growing louder by the minute. A voice that’s telling me all the things I want to hear.
What if he’s tired of the alpha female? What if he thought he wanted that, but once he had a taste, he decided he didn’t like the drama? What if safe and steady sound good to him?
I bring up the photo of a redhead. Sure, she’s hot, wearing a crop top with her long legs extending down to militant boots. She’s the kind of woman you’d find on the cover of a trashy, bad boy romance novel.
And I, well, I belong on the cover of a novel featuring a woman who has never taken a risk in her life, made all the right choices, and landed a killer job before finishing grad school. A job most people dream of.
I look up, and it’s now seven. I’ve officially lost a whole night’s sleep over this ridiculous obsession that started when I was just a teenager.
Teenage fantasies never last.
It’s time I close the door on this go-nowhere fantasy and start living the life I was meant to live. I should find myself a CPA, pocket protector and all. We’ll have a reasonable courtship before he asks my parents for my hand in marriage. We’ll get married, go on a great honeymoon, have two kids—one boy, one girl—retire well, and when we die, we’ll be buried right next to each other. That’s the happily ever after I was meant for.
But right now, I need to wash the stink off me from last night.
I shed my clothes and turn the water to hot so my pores open. It’s time to exfoliate.
I’m not one that takes any chances with my skincare, and I’m not ashamed to admit that a healthy portion of my budget goes towards its management. It’s something I figure will pay off later in life, when I approach my forties.
Yep, I’m definitely not a bad girl.
When I’m done, I dry myself off, applying seven different lotions to various parts of my body, because once again, I take no chances in life.
When I get to my knees, I hear a whistle alerting me to another Facebook message.
I release an annoyed sigh and snatch my phone from the counter, careful not to drip water onto it, and click into my messenger.
Oh-my-GOD!
Staring back at me is another unread message from Tom.
Tom:I’m sorry, I realize that was kind of forward. Would you like to meet for coffee?
