Page 23 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Hoy por ti, manana por mí - Today for you, tomorrow for me

Translation: Scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours…unless you kill me first.

No one will ever suspect the truth.

I lift the disposable cardboard cup from where I placed it on the seat beside me, and bring it to my lips, taking a sip of the soothing, warm liquid.

With nothing else to do but wait, I pass the time by counting the stones in the round wall of the structure marking our agreed-upon meeting place.

Newport Tower, or the Old Stone Mill as it’s also commonly known, is a well-preserved ruin and focal point of Touro Park, so it’s pretty hard to miss.

According to the accompanying placard (which I was driven to read out of boredom), one rumor is the mill was built by Vikings, though I struggle to see how the tiny construction of rock got its name.

Our garage is taller than this so-called tower.

I check my watch again. 4:21. My mystery lady is late, which doesn’t say a lot for her dependability or punctuality—the latter of which will drive my mother crazy—but I don’t let myself discount her completely just yet.

There could be a perfectly logical explanation for the delay, like traffic. Or spontaneous combustion.

Or maybe she just isn’t coming, remarks a snide voice in my head.

Pushing out a sharp breath through my nose, I rise to my feet and turn in a circle, examining my surroundings to get a proper lay of the land, even though I’ve been here dozens of times.

The temperature has dipped today, but the summer sunshine is determinedly hanging on, so the park is alive with people going for runs or simply taking the time to have a nice walk outside before the season changes and the cold front hits.

Despite the sun and the coffee warming my insides, I shiver, rocked by a chill of apprehension that seeps deep into my bones.

My eyes rake over every nearby female face, then dart away again before anyone notices to avoid me giving off creeper vibes.

The girl who answered my ad said she’d be wearing a butter yellow hoodie, but so far, all the ladies in the park today have blended into a boring beige mold of near identical jackets, jeans, and boots, creating a basic bitch collage the likes of which I’ve only seen on Pinterest. No butter yellow hoodie in sight.

I tug my phone free of my pocket and pull up my email, checking to see if she’s messaged me to tell me why she’s running late, or maybe just to say she’s changed her mind.

Genius plan or not, I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

My own mind is teetering on the see-saw of indecision, and even I’m starting to think this whole idea is absurd.

Upon discovering my inbox is empty, I stow my phone, and move to take another drag of my coffee only to find the damn cup is empty, too. With an annoyed huff, I turn in place, this time on the hunt for a trash can, and that’s when I glimpse it out of the corner of my eye.

A butter yellow hoodie.

I pause and raise my gaze to the face just above it, noting the large green eyes gaping at me from behind larger glasses and the wild blonde curls that serve as the frame to a picture that looks vaguely familiar.

I glance at her hoodie again to be certain of the color, then ask, “Pill lover 2005?”

She winces—at the question or my voice, I’m not sure—then sputters, “You have got to be shitting me.” Her expression instantly darkens as she scowls at me. “Also, it’s not pill lover, it’s pi lover.”

My brow furrows. “Pie? Like the dessert?”

She lets out a disdainful sigh. “ No , like the mathematical constant.”

The furrow deepens. “Well, that’s…needlessly confusing.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she snaps, “It’s not confusing , it’s a play on words, you illiterate jackass.”

I knew she looked familiar—and give or take another moment, I might’ve put two and two together—but it’s the way the word “jackass” falls from that now very recognizable mouth that turns the light bulb on in my head.

The epiphany hits me like a brick wall, and just like that, it’s Friday morning again and she’s storming out of my dorm room, the picture of fury.

The recollection is fleeting, changing into something else, and now, it’s Thursday night after the Phi Sigma party and I’m fucking her into my mattress.

That particular flashback is more of a vague interpretation of what I imagine happened versus an actual memory thanks to the insane amount of alcohol I ingested that evening, but it, too, flicks past quickly, and next, I’m transported to the campus library eight months ago, to the first time we had sex.

Two months before she found out about the list. I remember that moment vividly—the way my hips snapped into hers as I drove her up against the book stacks, and the heat of her breath on the palm of my hand as I covered her mouth to keep her quiet.

Funny, how the only fuzzy part of that memory is her face.

A face, which, yet again, makes me realize just how fucking stupid and inattentive to detail I am.

Only a matter of days ago, I was dwelling on how I didn’t recognize her the last time we fucked, and now, here I am, making the same mistake once more.

I’m starting to think I need to make a murder board of my conquests seeing as I’ve clearly developed face blindness.

I mean, Christ, she’s even wearing her glasses this time, and I still somehow didn’t make the connection.

To say Clark Kent looks less than pleased about it would be an understatement.

“Poor Girl?” I blurt out when nothing else comes to mind since I apparently have a death wish.

She places an indignant hand on her hip, and I swear I see her left eye actually twitch. “I have a name, asshole.”

“Right. Uh…” Shit. And here I thought I couldn’t seem like any more of a twat.

“Lexi. Dornan,” she growls through clenched teeth. “Not that I expect you to remember that since you obviously didn’t the last time.”

“You got me there,” I say with a forced laugh before my brain circles back to why she’s standing in front of me in the first place.

“Are you seriously the chick who answered my ad?” Then another thought occurs to me, and I take a step back.

“You aren’t, like… stalking me, are you?

” Just in case this woman is as deranged as I’m beginning to fear, I cup a hand over my crotch to protect Damian Jr. and his two friends.

“Stalking you!” Her eyes bug out, and she huffs an incredulous breath.

“As if I would waste my time stalking you when I have zero interest in being on the same planet as you!” Her chest heaves, and an outrage that would impress even my father ignites in her gaze, like a wildfire intent on consuming me, flesh and bone.

I take another cautious step back, eager to escape the searing heat of her glare.

I imagine this must be what it’s like to be trapped in a cage with a hungry lion.

Lioness, I correct myself. They’re the real hunters in the animal kingdom, and to Poor Girl, right now, I probably look like a gazelle.

I resist the urge to give her a thumbs up—or my personal favorite, the finger gun—in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.

From the way she’s looking at me, I have a feeling that would only piss her off more than my mere existence is already accomplishing on its own.

Instead, I shove my free hand in my pocket where it can’t antagonize her further, while the other restlessly grips the empty coffee cup.

She glares at it, and I can’t help wondering if she’s imagining her own hand strangling my neck.

“So, if you’re not stalking me, why are you here?” I ask when she doesn’t move closer, and I’m no longer in immediate fear of her kicking the balls off my body.

At my question, her face turns ashen, and she clutches her stomach as if she’s about to throw up.

She swallows loudly. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating and you aren’t really the one who posted the…

” She hesitates, taking a moment to glance around to make sure no one in the general vicinity is listening, then hisses in a whispered rush, “Fake girlfriend job on Craigslist.”

I gape at her, unable to mask my surprise. “Wait, you’re seriously here about the job, and not because…” I trail off.

Because what? Because she’s obsessed with me? Because she wants to cut off my dick and feed it to her eighteen cats? As a dog person, I know an enemy when I see one. And she looks like a cat lover.

I suppress a grimace. As hard as it is to believe, I have to remind myself the world does not, in fact, revolve around me, and this could just be a very weird, very unlikely coincidence.

My concentration drifts as I consider the probability of that.

I mean, really, how could this even happen?

What are the fucking odds? I chose Craigslist of all places to specifically avoid the possibility of anyone from our college stumbling across the listing by accident.

It’s not like Conwick students need jobs when they have trust funds and Daddy’s credit card to burn a hole in their pockets.

Then again…I’m guessing Poor Girl doesn’t have a trust fund.

She’s one of a very small number of students at Conwick on a scholarship, and based on what little I learned about her when we first met—and what I’ve deduced about her since our paths crossed again—I can say with absolute certainty she doesn’t come from the same financial background as most of the other students at our university.

She definitely isn’t due to inherit a billionaire dollar corporation, like me.

Hm. Maybe she’s worse off than I thought.