Page 13 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Donde hay confianza, da asco - Where there is trust, there is disgust

Translation: Familiarity breeds contempt. Yeah, you can say that again.

Fernando’s is a high-end, award-winning Mexican restaurant about a ten-minute drive from campus.

Another twenty minutes beyond that and I’d be back at home, which I’ve made it a point to return to as little as possible since I enrolled at Conwick.

I had hoped to study abroad for college, desperate for some space between me and my parents, but they refused to fund my “international shenanigans” as my father so lovingly put it.

The bastard wouldn’t even let me go farther afield within the borders of the U.S.

, claiming he needed me close by for the sake of the family company.

He might have been telling the truth, but it’s equally likely he just wanted to punish me for not being a perfect, obedient son.

“Why can’t you take advantage of the opportunities here?

Don’t you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes?

” he once asked me during our umpteenth argument on the matter, his mouth pulled down into his signature grimace that always makes it clear what a disappointment I am to him.

I frown, tossing my car keys to the valet, then strut through the doors into the air-conditioned restaurant, trying my best to ignore the anxiety gripping my chest, and failing miserably.

I make it a point to avoid Fernando’s even more than I avoid going home.

Call me superstitious, but my parents have tarnished every dining experience I’ve ever had here, and I can’t help feeling like the place is cursed.

The last time I stepped foot in Fernando’s was when they gave me the worst news of my life.

I can only imagine what shit they’re about to drop on me now.

A pretty hostess welcomes me, and while her tone is professional, her wandering gaze betrays her attempt at formality.

I flash her a flirty grin, and inform her I’m meeting someone, not clarifying who to gauge her interest. Her disappointment is instantly clear on her face, though she tries to hide it behind a veneer of politeness.

My smile deepens. Depending on what mood I’m in when this is over, I might ask for her number.

With a quick goodbye, I proceed into the dining area, where a familiar melody stops me dead in my tracks.

My chest tightens at the sight of the balding man playing an arpa jarocha on the small wooden stage to my right, and I watch his fingers pluck the strings of the harp as if lost in a trance.

The song he’s playing—“Besame Mucho” by Consuelo Velázquez—is one I often hear whenever I visit my abuela.

It was her and my abuelo’s favorite song, and every time I catch her humming or singing it, I know she’s thinking of the great love they shared and missing him just as much as I do.

Hearing it now makes me want to flee to her home in Mexico, even though I know there’s no escaping the impending confrontation with my parents. What I wouldn’t give to have my abuela with me now or to at least possess a fraction of her fearlessness. She never tolerated my dad’s bullshit.

Swallowing, I tear my gaze from the musician, and turn my focus to my parents, who are sitting exactly where I expected to find them: on the left side of the room at their favorite table by the large windows overlooking the marina next door.

My Connecticut-bred mother—looking gloriously dewy this morning like she just came from a facial—sips out of a small china tea cup as my Mexican father scowls beside her over his daily horchata.

He looks almost as amused as I feel about being here.

With a heavy sigh, I straighten my back and begin my approach. My mother notices me first. She places her dainty cup down on its saucer and rises when I reach their table, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. My father acknowledges me with a sidelong glance and a grunt.

“Lenore, Hector,” I say with mock tenderness, as if I’m genuinely happy to see them. Spoiler alert: I’m not and they know it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon?”

Tsking, my mother holds me back at arm’s length. “Must you do this every time, Damian? You know I hate it when you call me by my name.”

I offer her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Mother. You look lovely. How are you?”

“Enough of the pleasantries,” my father barks. “Take a seat, hijo.”

My blood runs cold at his icy tone. He’s in a chipper mood today. Not.

Tensing, I sink into one of the two available chairs at the round table (opting for the one beside my mother, leaving an empty seat between me and my dad) as my mom returns to her own chair, perching on the edge like a bird on a tree branch.

I expect my dad to begin berating me as soon as I sit down, but instead, a disquieting silence stretches in the space where I expect his reprimand, with only the backdrop of hushed chatter, soothing music, and the clatter of utensils to break it.

Every unspoken moment is more unnerving than the last. I can’t take it. We’ve been together for barely two minutes and my nerves are already completely fried.

“Excuse me.” I signal to a passing server, who pauses beside our table, her face taut with a very obvious disdain as she regards me.

I don’t think we’ve met before, so she can’t be a past hook-up—though my certainty about that wavers when I think of Blondie and our run-in this morning.

That whole situation is making me paranoid.

Waving that thought away, I assure myself that this lady probably just loathes rich snobs like my parents. And by extension, me. Can’t say I blame her—as someone who has spent my entire life around extreme wealth, I know from experience that most people with money are assholes.

“Can I get a glass of the Balché Cero?” I ask.

“It’s a bit early to be drinking, darling,” Mom murmurs, touching a hand to my forearm.

I shrug. “Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

“He’ll have water,” Dad interjects, his authoritative voice just loud enough to make everyone present go silent.

When the server’s gaze dances between us, her expression no longer antagonistic but uncertain, he curtly adds a dismissive, “Thank you.” She immediately scurries away like a cat that’s been shooed.

Crossing my arms, I slump in my seat. Sure, it’s childish to sulk, but if my father doesn’t want me to act like a child then maybe he shouldn’t treat me like one. “Buzz kill,” I grumble under my breath, throwing a dirty look in his direction.

With a deflated sigh, he shakes his head. Ah, there’s that disappointment I’m so used to seeing. “From the looks of it, you don’t need any more alcohol, hijo. Are you still drunk from last night, or are you merely hungover this time?”

I scoff. “Shit, I wish I was still drunk for this. Why do you think I ordered the wine?”

“Enough,” he chides. He doesn’t raise his voice; we are in public, after all, and god forbid we make a scene.

“It’s all about public perception, Damian.

” That’s the excuse my parents have always used whenever I react with “too much” emotion.

That’s why they always bring me here when it’s time to kick my ass with their latest dose of bad news.

If other people are watching, I won’t have a meltdown, and they won’t have to deal with the fallout.

Do they even care that this smokescreen we hide behind is only pushing me away?

“I think you know why we called you here.”

I meet my father’s stern gaze across the table, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” I admit. It’s the truth.

I don’t know why they wanted to see me, though that’s only because the list of what I could have done to offend them is nearly endless.

Without details, how am I supposed to narrow it down?

He cocks a wiry eyebrow. “No? Lenore, would you care to enlighten him?”

Dread pools in my stomach when I look at my mother, who hesitates a moment before reaching into her purse, retrieving a folded-up piece of paper, which she gingerly hands to me.

Taking it from her, I smooth it out on the table to find it’s the cover to a trashy magazine… and not one of the good ones.

My smiling face stares back at me right under the headline:

Prescription for Scandal!

Pharma Heir’s Sex Bet Sends Shock Waves Through Elite Circles

“Seriously?” I push the paper away. “Why are you rehashing this? It happened months ago. It’s old news! And I already made a public apology about it. What more do you want?”

Not that the bet should have warranted an apology since I hadn’t planned on it becoming common knowledge.

Stupid Mason and his stupid livestream, though the video itself wasn’t even the worst part.

Don’t get me wrong, it was bad —there’s really no way to make a sex bet look good—but it was what he posted in the comments after that blew everything up.

It was a scandal of epic proportions, and to say my parents ripped me a new asshole would be putting it lightly. The story graced the pages of tabloids and was a prominent talking point on social media for weeks, but that was ages ago. The world has long since moved on.