Page 33 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Today’s lesson: add an unpredictable fuckboy to the equation, and the result will likely be chaos.

“It was good.”

Pushing up my glasses, I rub my eyes, and flip my pencil between my fingers, straining my ears to make out Professor Bensen’s masculine baritone past the unwanted memory of Damian’s.

“—by finding the shortest path from your starting source to all other vertices in a graph with non-negative edge weights. Of course, it works for both directed and undirected graphs, but only if the weights are non-negative…”

His words quiet to a hum in the back of my head as my attention threatens to once again drift. Except, this time, it isn’t just Damian’s voice rising from my hippocampus like a tidal wave to drown me, but the recollection of the kiss itself.

Seriously, what the actual fuck was I thinking? While I could see the logic of where he was coming from with the whole touching thing, I did not need to let what was meant to be a simple peck on the lips escalate the way it did.

But god, if it wasn’t nice. No…nice isn’t even a strong enough word. It was freaking transcendent, like Damian’s mouth was pure magic. Or the last slice of homemade triple chocolate cake.

Or crack.

It’s not like I’ve never kissed a guy before, though my experience is mostly limited to my ex-boyfriend, Parker.

But even then, kissing him was nothing like kissing Damian.

Kissing Parker was fine, if not a bit boring and perfunctory, whereas kissing Damian…

well…it’s addictive. The instant his lips brush mine, I am consumed and lose all sense of self, his every touch the fuel that turns the quiet embers burning inside me into a raging inferno.

Before meeting him, I never felt that kind of intense passion, that lust , and annoyingly, it’s set such a high bar that I have my doubts about finding it with anyone else.

Which, of course, only makes me despise him more because of the simple fact that it is utterly wasted.

Why can’t I feel those kinds of feelings for someone who doesn’t majorly suck?

Jesus, I’m starting to think Ronnie was right. Maybe Damian does make me chemically imbalanced. That’s the only explanation for why I keep making decisions with my vagina instead of my head, like I’m a teenage boy in the throes of puberty and all I can think about are boobs.

Focus, Lexi, I scold myself. That fuckboy Damian is not worth the brain cells you are wasting on him.

Dropping my pencil on top of my notebook, I lean my elbows on my desk and dig my fingertips into my temples, rubbing vigorously, as if doing so will somehow make me concentrate, like a self-inflicted Vulcan mind meld.

Not that I’ve ever watched Star Trek to even know what that is, which makes me think that I lend far too much of my cognitive resources listening to the wonder twins talk about their interests and hobbies, and enduring their personalities in general.

That certainly seems to be the case given how I unwittingly channeled them when Damian and I went out on Friday.

First, with the Pretty Woman comment, and then when I lost my mind and called Damian “lover” in front of that mortified retail assistant.

I didn’t know who Richard Gere is until last week when I Googled the movie after Andie made the comparison between me and Julia Roberts, so I could actually understand what she was talking about.

As for the whole “lover” thing…I have no defense other than it was the first word that popped into my head when I saw Damian being Damian with that attractive sales girl, who was definitely into the “let’s fuck” vibes he was giving off like an animal in heat.

And I couldn’t have that—not because I was jealous (gross), but because he was so flippantly ready to risk blowing up what I was sacrificing literally all of my dignity for at the first sign of a willing vagina. And well…I just couldn’t let that fly.

Someone coughs, the sound jolting me out of my thoughts, and I glance reflexively at the front of the room where Professor Bensen is pointing at something on the board. Crap, what is he talking about again? We’re learning Graph Theory, and he was explaining algorithms before, so…

Dijkstra’s Algorithm! The answer hits me like a lightning bolt to my prefrontal cortex, and I snap my fingers in victory, attracting some bewildered glances from my classmates.

Heat warms my cheeks as I sink down in my seat. I really have to get a grip on myself. All this just because Damian said I’m decent at kissing? It’s official. I have gone off the deep end.

As if I even care what that asshat thinks.

“Get your shit together, Lexi,” I mutter.

“Can anyone tell me what the time complexity of Dijkstra’s Algorithm is?” Professor Bensen asks, and I instantly perk up, straightening in my chair.

Perfect. Just the distraction I need.

I thrust my hand in the air, like an overeager kindergartner on her first day of school.

Professor Bensen points to me as he returns to the lectern. “Yes, Lexi.”

I clear my throat. “Well, it depends on the data structure used to implement the priority queue, but using a binary heap, the time complexity is Big O of V plus E, times the logarithm of V. If you’re using a Fibonacci heap, you can reduce the complexity to Big O of E plus V times the logarithm of V, with the logarithm applying only to the V.

” The numbers and connections dance before me as the words leave my lips, the colored shapes only I can see locking into place, the edges of each one sharp and precise, like Tetris blocks falling into their intended positions.

Professor Bensen gives me an approving nod. “Excellent answer. Now, some real world applications would be…”

“A Fibo-what now?” a voice says right next to my ear, and I practically jump out of my seat. I careen forward, my fight or flight instinct kicking in, then whip around when I’ve regained my senses only to find the very source of my distraction and unending annoyance sitting directly behind me.

“Damian?” I gasp stupidly, then blink several times to ensure I’m not hallucinating.

Did I somehow materialize him in the middle of Professor Bensen’s lecture because I can’t stop obsessing over what he said? Because I can’t stop agonizing over our kiss on Friday?

No, don’t be stupid, I tell myself. He’s here because…

well, not because he takes this class, that’s for sure.

I’m not even certain he knows how to do math.

We certainly didn’t do any during our tutoring sessions last school year.

Those were composed solely of verbal foreplay prior to our big finale in the mathematics section.

I think humping each other against those textbooks was the closest we ever got to math.

“What are you doing—” I start to ask at the same time he says, “What the hell are you learning?” It’s only now that I notice his dark gaze is fixed over my shoulder on my open notebook instead of on my face, his brow creased in confusion.

“Graph Theory,” I answer, my tone neutral.

Reaching past me, he flips the pages of my notebook, his expression growing increasingly perplexed. “What is this, some kind of ninja math?”

I sigh, shoving Damian’s hand away from my desk, then turn my back to him to at least give the appearance that I’m paying attention, even if all hope of that has been decimated for good with the fuckboy’s unwanted presence.

Professor Bensen doesn’t seem to have noticed the interruption, but the other students around me certainly have.

“What do you want?” I hiss as a few of my nearby classmates watch us intently.

Damian leans forward, resting his elbows on the back of my chair. “You’ve been dodging my texts. I wanted to make sure we’re still on for our date today.”

I shiver at the touch of his breath on my neck, and tilt my head just enough to glare back at him over my shoulder. “I’m not dodging your texts. My phone is off because I’m in class. Learning . Like you should probably be doing now, too.”

His nose wrinkles. “You turn your phone off for class? How…studious of you.”

I scoff. “Yes, well, some of us had to earn our spot here, and I would very much like to keep mine. So, if you’ll just?—”

“All right, all right, I’m going,” he says defensively, scooting back on his seat, his hands held up in surrender. “But we are still on for Izzy’s after this, yeah?”

He stares at me, waiting for my reply, as my own gaze drifts to the students around us, taking silent count of how many are watching our whispered exchange.

A few mutter to each other, the rumor mill already fast at work.

They don’t even try to hide their obvious gossiping or the skepticism slapped across their faces like overdone foundation.

No doubt they’re wondering what Damian Navarro is doing talking to someone like me: a poor little nobody scholarship student with nothing to offer except her big brain.

So much for all those new clothes making me look the part.

But then, that’s assuming the other students in this lecture even know who I am…

which I’m almost positive they don’t considering that, unlike me—who is here because of my academic prowess and lack of financial means—they’re all future investment bankers or aspiring company owners planning to use the Bank of Mom and Dad to fund their eventual tech start-up.

Or in the case of the rare few like Damian, heirs to major corporations, and taking this Applied Discrete Mathematics class is just one step on their path to a degree that will show they are remotely qualified to inherit Daddy’s billions.