Page 22 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

“So much for that idea.” I sigh, crossing off yet another number on my list. Yup, this is definitely hopeless.

I end my losing streak with two different assistance programs, and those calls turn out exactly as I expect. One of the reps even goes so far as to scoff when I give him my mom’s salary information, as if it was stupid of me to think for just one second that we might be worthy of help.

With the last number crossed off my list, and my patience one fraying thread away from snapping, I rise from the kitchen table and storm over to the sofa, grabbing the first cushion I can get my hands on and pressing it so hard to my face I struggle to breathe.

Then I scream as loudly as I can into the fabric since suffocating myself against the polyester blend seems like a smarter decision than homicide, not that I’ve entirely ruled out the latter.

That last rep in particular better hope he never crosses my path.

I scream until my voice is hoarse and a headache throbs behind my eyes, then drop the pillow, and flop down on the sofa, feeling even more despondent than I did at the end of the previous week when this crapfest began.

Planting my elbows on my knees, I lean forward and smooth my curls away from my face. “What the hell am I going to do?”

I don’t really know who I’m asking. The universe, maybe?

God? Buddha? Satan? Our lord and savior, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who is surely smiling down on all feminists from Heaven?

But if any of them are listening, they don’t respond.

Clearly, my life is a punchline, and I’m the only one not in on the joke.

I glance in the direction of the kitchen table as if I’ll magically find an answer there, and that’s when I spot the wine tumblers from Friday night on the counter where I left them out to dry on the drainboard.

Although they’re upside down, I can easily read the words I make pour choices on the glass in the middle.

The bold magenta letters seem to judge me.

My eyes never leave the glitter-stamped pun as I push to my feet, and walk back to the kitchen as if drawn there like a marionette pulled by its strings, my fingers clumsily retrieving my phone from where it lay on the table.

Ronnie would kill me if she knew I was considering this, but what other option is there?

I have quite literally exhausted every avenue.

Surrendering my dignity is all I have left.

Besides, my recent coitus session with Damian has proven that I am a natural at making terrible, impulsive decisions. What’s the harm in one more?

I don’t even bother to sit as I tap the app icon for my phone’s browser and type in the web address for Craigslist. The page load time is agonizingly slow (I really need to talk to Mom about upgrading our internet sometime this century), and when it finally pops up, I hastily jab at the screen with my fingertip, scrolling the local listings like a woman possessed until I find the one I’m looking for.

It’s still there. The panic in my chest eases a little, though behind it, there’s a nagging apprehension I can’t shake.

I guess part of me was hoping the listing would be gone so I would have a perfectly good excuse not to go through with this.

But now, I don’t have an excuse. And if I don’t go through with this, I would be purposely turning my nose up at the one possible solution I have left to help Mom.

Shoving my reservations aside, I tap out of the browser and pull up iMessage, selecting my existing chat with Ronnie.

Me

I tried but nothing panned out

I know you don’t approve but I’m answering that ad

Her response comes a few moments later.

Ronnie

You better not die on me bitch x

“No promises,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve answered a grand total of zero online ads in my life, so I can’t really say what the typical creep to normal ratio is.

Me

I’ll bring my rape whistle and pepper spray. Promise

Or failing that, I can always just knee my future fake boyfriend in the balls. What works on fuckboy assholes is certainly also likely to work on scumbags.

I’m about to swipe out of our chat when Ronnie texts me again.

Ronnie

If you insist on meeting up with this guy let me know when it’s happening so I can track you

That way I can call Liam Neeson when this weirdo inevitably kidnaps you and tries to sell your ass for cash

I snort. I’m starting to regret sharing my location with Ronnie on my phone’s tracking app.

Me

Your confidence is so reassuring. Btw I’m not a missing iphone, I’m a human

Ronnie

Hey you’ve seen Taken. I’m just looking out for you girl x

Rolling my eyes, I fire back:

Me

I know. And I love you for it

Now cross your fingers that this guy is at least somewhat normal

I don’t wait for her response, swiping out of our chat, and returning to the browser where Craigslist waits, ready and eager, like a horny date.

Biting on the tip of my thumbnail, I read the listing over one final time, and then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit the reply button at the top of the screen.

A link to a random email address pops up, which opens in my mail app as soon as I tap it. I hesitate, unsure what to say, then settle on the straightforward approach. Plain and simple. Though, Ronnie may just call it blunt.

To my surprise, the poster responds almost immediately with a suggested time and place for us to meet tomorrow afternoon, which I double-check against this semester’s class schedule before shooting back an answer, confirming that I’ll be there.

My inbox dings again two minutes later.

Are you comfortable signing an NDA?

I mull this over for a moment. Given the privacy concerns mentioned in the ad, I’m not surprised he’d want a non-disclosure agreement.

Hell, he’d be stupid not to pursue one since this whole fake girlfriend charade won’t mean a damn thing if he goes around revealing his identity to anyone and everyone who responds to the listing.

There’s also the possibility the woman he ends up hiring could write a tell-all book about it at the end of the nine months, or they could blast the details of the arrangement on social media just for the chance to go viral and have their five minutes of fame.

If this guy was smart, he wouldn’t risk either outcome, and the fact that he’s asking at all tells me that he has at least a modicum of sense.

Still, there are the downsides to consider.

If this person, whoever they are, does turn out to be a creep, would that mean I couldn’t report him to the police if he tried anything?

Then again, if something feels off when we meet, or I get bad vibes, I can always just bust out what seems to be my signature move, and deliver a swift, debilitating kick to the dick and run before I sign the NDA in the first place.

My slimeball radar is at least somewhat reliable even if my asshole sensor can’t be trusted.

A sudden worry grips my stomach and twists it at the thought of this guy turning out to be a carbon copy of Damian. Or worse, a douchier version of Damian. A douchier douche…if such an abomination is even possible.

Deciding it’s worth the risk, I message him back, agreeing to the NDA.

“ Ugh , fingers crossed you aren’t anything like that asshole,” I grumble as Damian’s smug face fills my head as if to warn me this is a horrible idea.