Page 30 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

She barks out a scornful laugh. “Right. Just like you spared me public humiliation last spring.”

Her words are a slap in the face. A well-deserved slap.

And if we weren’t attempting to trick the whole world into thinking we’re dating, I would take the verbal beatdown she’s so obviously desperate to unleash on me like a man.

But we don’t have time for this, and if she can’t find her inner Elsa and let it go—or at least push her feelings aside for the time being—then this will only end in disaster, and we’re just fooling ourselves even trying.

“Don’t you get it?” My voice comes out harsher than I intend, but I don’t backtrack or apologize for it.

Blondie needs a reality check about what she’s in for.

“If I go out with you as you are…” I trail off, gesturing to her T-shirt, which has the word “I” followed by a heart, and then a picture of a pie with the symbol for the mathematical pi (which I know now; I Googled it after Blondie gave me grief for misconstruing her email address) forming the top of the crust. “Well, let’s just say, social media will have a field day.

Best case scenario, everyone will think you’re a gold digger.

Worst case, they’ll tear you down in ways you have never experienced simply based on your looks, and trust me, that shit is hard to ignore.

Don’t get me wrong, Dornan, you’re attractive.

I’d even say you’re a ten out of ten—and cute as a button in your nerdy shirt, I might add—but my parents will think this is some kind of joke and that I’m not taking their threats seriously.

But if we dress you up, give you a nice little backstory… ”

Silence throbs between us like a heartbeat, pulsating and loud.

I bite back the temptation to fill it, from digging an even deeper hole for myself, if her lack of response is any indication of how she’s perceived my words.

I turn my full attention to the road to stop my gaze from shifting to Blondie again—from trying to read her mind on her face.

“So, you not only want me to lie about us dating, you want me to lie about who I am.” It isn’t a question. Just a simple statement of fact. A confirmation.

I let out a bitter laugh. “It’s not as hard as you think. I do it all the time.”

She snorts. “Oh, yeah? Like when?”

I shoot her a caustic look. “How about when we met? You believed me when I said I was struggling in class and really needed a tutor.”

“That’s hardly the same as lying about your entire identity.”

“Is it?” I challenge. “A lie is a lie. The only difference between any of it is how well you sell it. And you believed me, didn’t you? So, I obviously sold it well.”

She instantly bristles. “Yeah, and the joke was on me because I was the one who got hurt, not you. So, forgive me for not jumping at the chance to lie like that to somebody else.”

Ouch. That’s her second zinger today. Point two for Blondie. Damian: zero.

“Listen, the whole bucket list thing…it was a dick move,” I admit. “And I get why you’re mad, I do. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Really.”

“You’re only saying that so I won’t quit,” she grumbles, and I can practically hear the pout in her voice.

I heave an exasperated breath. “Can’t it be a little of both?

” Turning on my right indicator, I switch lanes and steer onto the hard shoulder, then cut the engine when the car rolls to a stop.

Blondie begins to ask why we’ve pulled over, but I cut in.

“Come on, Blondie. Let bygones be bygones.” I shift in my seat to face her and give her my best puppy dog eyes.

“Besides,” I continue, hoping a little boost to the ol’ self-esteem will go a long way, “you got me back pretty good.”

A subtle grin tugs at her cheeks, forming tiny dimples I didn’t notice before. “That’s true,” she concedes, looking pleased with herself. She arches a brow at me. “How’s your dick by the way?”

She peers down, and I’m beyond grateful my semi has had a chance to deflate, and even more relieved that it doesn’t immediately spring back to life when she curiously examines my crotch.

“His ego is bruised, but he’ll survive,” I say with a withering sigh.

“Though, he might cheer up if you give him a little kis—” Blondie punches me in the arm. “Joking! Joking!”

I cower away from her, feigning terror, and hold my hands up in surrender. To my immense relief, she laughs.

Grinning, I lower my hands to the wheel again. “In all seriousness, I really am trying to do right by you with this.” I gesture vaguely between us. “I don’t want either of us to come out of this arrangement worse off than we were going into it…financially or otherwise.”

Blondie looks…decided, but on what, I don’t know. On new clothes? On our agreement? On telling me to go fuck myself?

I’m about to ask when she says, “Just so we’re clear, I’ll wear your fancy clothes, but I won’t lie about who I am.

” A strange look crosses her face, and it occurs to me that I recognize it from somewhere.

It takes me a moment to recall where from, and my stomach sours all over again as I remember when she confronted me about the list back in March.

Yeah. She had a similar look on her face then—the same anger wrapped in a shroud of hurt.

“If you’re…embarrassed to be seen with a ‘Poor Girl’…

” She trails off, rolling her teeth over her bottom lip.

Then that look of determination returns, and she jerks her chin up, as defiant as always.

“Well, then that sounds like a you problem, and you’re more than welcome to go find someone else to play this little fucked-up game of pretend with. I’m perfectly content with who I am.”

There it is. Another verbal slap. Blondie: three. Damian: nil.

I balk, ready to protest, but the words get jumbled in my mouth. “What? I’m not—” Trying to change you, I almost say, but my tongue seems to tie itself into knots, preventing me from finishing that sentence. Frustrated, I grind out, “I was only thinking?—”

That I don’t want to know you.

And if she pretends to be someone else, I won’t have to.

But I can’t exactly tell her that, and when I glimpse the hurt in her expression again, all the air rushes out of my lungs, like I’ve just taken a punch to the diaphragm.

“You know what?” I say once I’ve caught my breath. “Never mind. It’s fine. No lying necessary. You just be your charming self, Dornan. Should be easy for you.”

Whether it will be easy for me, though, remains to be seen.

“So, we’re good?” she hedges.

I force a smile and make the Scouts honor three-fingered salute, then press the button to turn the ignition back on. “More than good. Now, let’s go! We don’t have all day!”

I flick on my indicator to merge back into traffic, and as I drive onto the freeway, I hear her mutter under her breath, “This is going to be a long nine months.”

For once, we’re in total agreement.

A short journey later, I pull into the small, mostly empty parking lot of The Couture Room, a luxury fashion boutique located on the outskirts of Warwick.

It’s what my mother would call a hidden gem because it’s just outside Providence instead of inside the city (meaning no crowds), and shopping here is by appointment only, so customers can browse and try on all the high-end brands in peace…

and without the hassle of uptight divas like my mother having to integrate with the common rabble.

There are also personal shoppers on hand to help, making it the perfect place for this particular outing since I have a feeling Blondie’s going to hate playing dress up and the last thing we need is for our first public appearance together to devolve into an argument.

Plus, the staff here have strict conduct rules regarding discussing their clientele, so I feel safe in the knowledge that whatever happens at The Couture Room will stay at The Couture Room, and not get blasted on social media, meaning we have some control over how—and when—our relationship is introduced to the world.

Parking, I turn off the ignition and climb out of the car, and Blondie follows suit, though I note only one set of footsteps on the sun-soaked pavement as I amble toward the door.

Looking over my shoulder, I notice Blondie lingering beside the car, the passenger-side door still open, staring up at the boutique shop sign like we’ve just entered her own personal hell.

“You’re not trying to…Richard Gere me, are you?” Her tone is accusatory as she pins the full force of those lovely eyes on my face. “Like, you do know we aren’t re-enacting Pretty Woman , right?” She then mutters something I can’t quite make out, but sounds a lot like, “Fucking Andie.”

I release a long breath. “Nothing in there will kill you, I promise. And if it makes you feel better, you can veto anything you try on today. I want you to be comfortable in what you’re wearing.”

Blondie hesitates. “I don’t care about any of that. It’s just…before we go in there, about the rules?—”

“Rules again?” I groan. “Wow, you’re just heaps of fun, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.” She throws another uneasy glance at the boutique, this time at the mannequins donning designer labels and handbags displayed in the window.

“Wearing nice clothes and plastering on a fake smile is one thing, but…is that”—pulling a face, she brandishes a hand in the direction of the shop—“really all you’re expecting of me? ”

I stiffen. “What do you mean?”

She sucks in her cheeks and gives me a skeptical look. “I mean ,” she begins after a discomforting pause, “you’re paying me fifteen grand a month. There has to be more you want.”