Page 19 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

La paciencia es la madre de la ciencia - Patience is the mother of science

Translation: Patience leads to success…or maybe I need a new plan.

WANTED: Fake Girlfriend (Newport area)

Employment type: part-time

Job title: Lifesaver

Seeking laid-back female in early to mid-twenties (though will consider older, within reason) to pretend to be my girlfriend for a period of nine months, starting immediately.

Willing to pay $10,000 a month to the right candidate.

Due to privacy concerns, further information is only available upon interview.

Serious inquiries only.

The mattress shifts beneath my weight as I flop backward onto my bed and comb a hand through my water-soaked hair before propping my arm behind my head.

I lift my hips slightly to adjust the towel at my waist, then reach for my phone where it lies on the blanket beside me, holding it up roughly two inches above my face as I open my email.

Again. This must be the thirtieth time I’ve checked it since I woke up an hour ago, and my disappointment weighs just as heavily as it did the first time my mail app declared I have no new unread messages.

Or at least any that aren’t spam or some sus “company” trying to sell me a penis enlarger.

I don’t need any help in that department, thank you very much.

I blow out a loud, exasperated breath through my nose.

After lunch with my parents on Friday, I thought for sure that a girlfriend would be the perfect way to prove to them I can be serious about…

well, life in general, I guess. But seeing as I’m not interested in dating, I figured that, by hiring a stranger to pretend to be said girlfriend, I would have the appearance of commitment without needlessly tying myself down to a relationship I don’t actually want.

And since all I need is to make it to graduation, it would be easy enough to stage an amicable break-up once my dad is appeased and my future at my abuelo’s company is secured.

At the time, it seemed like an ingenious plan with all the reward and none of the risk.

After all, it’s not like I would really have to worry about anyone at Conwick stumbling across the ad by accident—not when the majority of the student body has money to spare and are as likely to look at local job listings as they are to take public transport.

Sure, there might be some exceptions to that, but the odds are mostly in my favor.

And I don’t think my parents even know what Craigslist is, nor would they have cause or reason to check it.

But it’s been nearly two days since I put up the listing, and reality is starting to crush me with doubt.

I don’t get it. I’m offering a small fortune in exchange for what should be a simple job, and I haven’t had a single response.

How can that be? I mean, I know this is a nice area, but there are plenty who don’t come from wealth who live locally—like a server who’s grown tired of living off tips or a bartender who’s fed up with handsy drunks.

Surely, my offer is better than either of those scenarios.

No, it can’t be the money that’s putting people off…

so maybe it’s the wording? I know I was vague on the details, but that’s only because the last thing I need right now is another scandal blowing up in my face.

If word were to get out about this and reach my father, this would definitely be the final straw.

He’d cut me off faster than I can say Hallazgo.

I swipe my finger across the phone screen, pulling up my internet browser and re-reading the listing, which I’ve kept open in one of a small handful of tabs.

The others vary from creative ideas for public dates to the tip-line numbers for different tabloids (I’ll need to be seen with my future fake girlfriend if this is ever going to work).

I even have a template for a non-disclosure agreement ready and waiting.

It’s not like I can use the family lawyer for this, but I also can’t very well have whoever responds to the ad running their mouth as soon as the nine months is over… or the interview, for that matter.

Assuming anyone answers the listing at all.

My phone starts vibrating in my hand, and my abuela’s smiling face pops up in place of the browser as if she can sense my distress all the way from Guadalajara. Pushing myself upright, I tap a finger against the green answer button, then toss the device screen-down onto the bedspread.

“?Hola!” my abuela says as I stand and cross the few feet to my dresser, unhooking my towel and dropping it in a heap to the floor. “Damian? Am I doing the FaceTime correctly? I can’t see you.”

With a snort, I call back, “It’s just FaceTime, abuela.

And you’re doing it right. Just give me a minute to get dressed.

” Quickly drying myself off from my shower, I pull on some briefs and throw on the first T-shirt I grab, then walk back to the bed, pick up my phone, flip it over so the screen is facing me, and wave to my grandmother, who beams back.

“Ah! There you are,” she coos. “Now, I can see you.”

“Hi, abuelita.”

The smile slips from her face, and she lifts a wry, disapproving brow at me. “Why weren’t you dressed? You’re not still in bed, are you?”

“It’s Sunday,” I retort, my tone defensive, as I turn and plop back down on my mattress. “There’s literally nothing else to do in this town.”

That, and I need to be on my best behavior right now if I’m to avoid my dear papi’s wrath, which means no more public displays of drunkenness or weekend hangovers. So much for a fun senior year.

My abuela clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Los jóvenes de hoy en día,” she mutters under her breath, then waves a dismissive hand at me. “Anyway, how are you, mi cielo? I miss you.”

“I’m okay.” Well, that’s not entirely true, but I don’t elaborate any further, instead saying, “I miss you, too,” which is a fact. So, at least I’m being fifty percent honest with her. “How are things?”

She tosses what looks to be a kitchen towel over her shoulder, and I realize she must have taken a break from her daily baking session to call me.

As a Roman Catholic, her Sunday mornings are typically spent at church, but she doesn’t publicly observe the religion as often as she used to since my abuelo passed away, opting instead to pass that time at home, embracing her own quiet form of reflection.

Still, she must’ve missed the memo that Sunday is supposed to be for rest. One of these days, I should really order her Uber Eats.

Despite our family being literal billionaires, my abuela has always refused to hire a cook, insisting the kitchen is her domain and she will not tolerate any strangers there.

And she’s the best there is—her food is second to none.

Her tres leches cake in particular could seriously win awards.

Just thinking about it now has me salivating.

And to top it all off, she’s a freaking saint.

Since my abuelo died and she’s been living on her own, my abuela spends her time cooking for local shelters and food banks to help those less fortunate, as if the millions she already donates to charity every single year isn’t enough.

Truth be told, I idolize her just as much as I idolized my grandfather, and yet…

I know I can never live up to either of them.

They both always had hearts of gold whereas mine is shriveled and dry, like an old prune.

Sometimes, I wonder how my abuela can love me—dumbass, disappointing shit that I am.

“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” she answers.

“But you don’t want to hear about a boring old lady.

Tell me what’s new with you. How’s school?

Have you found yourself a girlfriend? Or”—she pauses, flashing curious eyes at me—“a boyfriend, perhaps? I don’t mind either way, you know.

I’m very—what do the kids call it? Awake? ”

I bark out a laugh. She really is the best. Somehow, I doubt Lenore and Hector would be quite so accepting. “The term you’re looking for is woke. And no, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Yet.

“And school?”

That arching eyebrow that always informs me she can see through my bullshit is back.

Not in the mood for a second lecture in the span of two days, I slap on my most deceptive smile. “School is fine. Honestly, it’s the same old here for me, too.”

No need to go into detail or inform her that her son is an asshole. I’m sure, deep down, she already knows.

“?Ay, dios mío!” she cries dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “I cannot believe you’re in your last year of college. Time goes by so fast.”

Too fast.

The thought springs to the front of my mind unbidden and hits me like a punch to the gut. I deepen my smile to hide my wince.

“Yeah, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” I say to soothe her, even though I don’t mean it.

Such a sentiment might be true for most people, but not me.

I don’t want time to keep ticking forward.

If anything, I want to turn back the clock, to rewind and try to prevent the event that veered my life so far off course.

Or at the very least, just have a few extra days?—

I clench my jaw and shake that silent wish away before it can form. Daydreaming about rewriting the past or even reliving part of it won’t change a damn thing. Besides, I have plenty to worry about in the present.

“And just think,” I continue, easing the pain in my chest with a thought that actually brings me joy, “I can come visit you more often once I graduate.”

The handful of times a year I do manage to get down to Mexico really aren’t enough. Not when I know how finite our lives truly are. And my abuela isn’t exactly getting any younger. I should probably make it a point to go see her more frequently.