Page 29 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Blondie sputters, choking on either air or saliva—I honestly couldn’t say which—then tumbles into the car, her body a tangle of long, slender limbs, the motion knocking her large glasses lopsided.

Chuckling to myself, I make my way around to the driver’s side, ignoring the death glare she throws at me as I buckle my seat belt and press the button to start the ignition.

“The fact that you aren’t even sure says it all.” She crosses her arms, giving a delicate sniff. “Nice car, by the way. How many suckers like me did you have to fuck to win it?”

I falter for just a second, then shift the car into drive and push my foot down on the accelerator.

I didn’t even think about how it might look to her if I turned up at her house driving this car, but there’s no undoing my thoughtlessness now.

“I think, for the sake of keeping my balls attached to my body, I won’t answer that. ”

Silence swells between us as I continue to the end of her road and turn right, then take the next street over, coming back on myself and heading northbound.

I can feel Blondie shooting me a questioning look as I loop onto the 138 and continue onto Newport Bridge, but it’s only when we’ve passed through Jamestown and crossed the last stretch of the bridge, carrying on into North Kingstown, that she finally asks, “So, where are we going?”

“Like I said. Out,” I reply without meeting her gaze.

“As in…out to the countryside where you plan on hiding my body?”

I snort. “I was thinking something a little more public.”

“Public,” she echoes, blanching at the word.

I chuckle. “That’s usually how this dating thing works.”

Although I try my best to keep my eyes on the road, I can’t stop myself from glancing at her. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and she must see the question in mine because she says, “I…didn’t realize we were starting already.”

A thoughtful hum passes my lips. She seems nervous.

And of course—because why would I have had the foresight to consider this sooner—I only now wonder if she suffers from performance anxiety or if, maybe, she is physically incapable of public displays of affection.

Her icy personality certainly supports that theory.

I shift my gaze ahead again, set on saying whatever it takes to persuade her that she can do this. That we can both do this.

My future literally depends on it.

“Relax, Dornan,” I croon, my tone easy and—to my satisfaction—convincingly reassuring. “Today, we’re just going to lay down those ground rules you’re so fond of.”

She huffs, and I turn my head toward her again just in time to catch her rolling those lovely green eyes.

It seems the small trace of humor I felt between us earlier has evaporated, like a drop of water on scorching hot pavement. I can practically hear the sizzle as it dries up.

“Out of curiosity,” I begin with a casual wave of my hand, “are you always a ragey ball of sunshine, or did you just wake up today wearing your cranky pants?”

“Well, I’ve woken up in a nightmare,” Blondie states matter-of-factly. “You can’t blame me for not being happy about it.”

I take a moment to mull over her words, but though I try to see this from her perspective, it doesn’t change what needs to happen.

While I can’t begrudge her the hard feelings she’s holding on to when it comes to me, the fact remains that this arrangement will never succeed if she can’t find a way to put our past behind her.

“You know, you’ll have to work on transforming all that disdain you feel for me into affection, otherwise no one will ever believe we’re an item.”

She slaps on a broad smile and bats her eyes, her lashes so long and dark they fan across her cheeks when she blinks. “Better?”

I peek at her for a second, then look back at the road. “Hardly. Also, I should warn you, my parents are not fans of sarcasm. They have zero sense of humor whatsoever—trust me, I would know. They’ll see through…whatever that is.”

“My…face?” she asks, confused.

I shake my head. “Your smile. It’s fake as shit, and they’ll know it.”

Sinking low in her seat, she taps her thumbnail to her bottom lip in contemplation. “Okay, so then how am I supposed to convince a couple of human lie detectors we’re dating?”

“Well, like all boring old people, they’ll see what they want to see, and what they want is to see me settled and serious about my future,” I explain.

“ You just need to relax and not think too much about it. Act natural, you know? Think of how you acted with the last boyfriend you had.” A beat passes as something occurs to me.

“You have had a boyfriend before, right?”

I can feel her stony glare on the side of my face. “Yes, I’ve had a boyfriend. Have you?”

“You know, that is the second time someone has asked me that this week,” I muse, recalling my conversation with my abuela on Sunday.

“Anyway”—better move on before Blondie gets the wrong idea about why I don’t want a girlfriend—“just think of the money, Dornan, and I’m sure you’ll be channeling Meryl Streep in no time. ”

Blondie pushes out a strained breath, then taps the button on her door, rolling the window down a few inches.

The air outside funnels through the car, whipping her curls into a violent frenzy.

“Well, if I’m going to sell it, don’t you think I need to know where we’re going?

” she presses, her voice raised over the wind.

She lifts her chin, and that movement, though slight, distracts my attention from the road.

I only glance at her for a moment, but it’s long enough for me to realize that, as smokin’ hot as she looked when I woke up to find her in my bed last week, I think I prefer her like this: with her natural curls on display, no makeup, those obnoxiously large glasses sliding down her nose, and not a single fuck to give.

I gotta admit, it’s kind of working for me. If anything, she’s even sexier now.

That thought settles in my stomach like curdled milk, and I grimace, yanking my eyes away.

I don’t know where that came from (or the sudden boner I’m really hoping she won’t notice), but I blame the perfume, or the female pheromones, or whatever that smell is the wind is blasting in my face.

It’s subtle, so much so I didn’t detect it before, but now that I do, I can’t ignore that Blondie smells great, like citrus and vanilla.

I’m finding it hard to think clearly with that dizzying scent suddenly wafting around me.

Or at least, Damian Jr. is. And we both need clear heads for this.

Shifting a little to ease the pinch of my jeans against my straining cock, I jam my finger down on the master control on my door until her window is all the way up.

Then, for good measure, I crank the air conditioning to flood the car with the faintly metallic—and far less sexy—aroma of the cooling coils.

Blondie’s blistering gaze finds my face yet again.

“Fine,” I say quickly to distract her from the bulge in my pants, locking the window so she can’t roll it down again. Or fling herself out of it. “But just know, you’re in a moving vehicle, so there’s no backing out now.”

“Oh, god,” she mutters, apprehensive.

“We’re going shopping!” I exclaim, like a show host who just told the contestant they’ve won a washing machine or a lifetime supply of socks.

“Shopping,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard the word. I’m starting to think Blondie might actually be a robot.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but shopping for what?” she asks, then holds up a hand. “On second thought, don’t tell me. Just let me out at the next intersection.”

“A new wardrobe,” I answer before cautiously adding, “For you, obviously. I dress impeccably.”

The atmosphere instantly darkens, and I pray that Blondie cares about her own life too much to strangle me and risk me crashing the car with us in it. When I will myself to cast another glance in her direction, I’m unsurprised to find that her expression is mutinous.

“And what, exactly, is wrong with my clothes?” she demands through clenched teeth.

“Nothing!” I assure her, and I mean it when I say, “You rock those Old Navy jeans. Like, really rock them.” When her face doesn’t soften, I add, “I’m trying to say you have a nice as?—”

“Moving on!” Blondie interrupts.

Huh. Who would’ve thought complimenting her posterior could somehow make her hate me even more than she already does. You really do learn something new every day.

I clear my throat. “I’m not trying to give you a makeover or anything. You can still wear your normal clothes. This would just be for when we might be seen and photographed together…so, you know, the days you’re at Conwick, and when we go out on fake dates.”

“I’m still failing to see the necessity of that,” she retorts, her tone haughty.

I suppress a groan, hoping the truth won’t get me killed. “It’s just…your current wardrobe doesn’t really fit the image I need to convey.”

Blondie repositions herself in her seat, turning her upper body to face me. “Which is…?”

I shoot her an incredulous look. “Come on, Dornan. I’m the heir to a billion-dollar fortune. I can’t be seen with some chick who looks like she shops in the bargain basement. I want my parents to take me seriously, not think I’m going through a phase.”

“And what kind of phase would that be?” she snaps. “God, could you be any more offensive?”

A droll sigh parts my lips. “This isn’t a personal attack on you , feisty.

If anything, it’s a commentary on them.” I flap a hand at some invisible presence in the distance.

“The tabloids, my parents, the anonymous Karen hiding behind her computer screen, who spends her time complaining about everything to give herself a sense of entitlement and importance. They’re all judgy assholes, and believe it or not, I’m trying to spare you from the toxic bullshit I’ve been dealing with my entire life. ”