Page 35 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

My brow twitches as I peer down at myself.

I don’t hate what he got me, which is surprising seeing as my wardrobe typically consists of pun-related graphic tees, hoodies, and the odd knitted sweater.

The few skirts, revealing tanks, and high heels I own, I reserve for the rare occasion I attend a party or function that requires upselling myself on an aesthetic level to the opposite sex, which isn’t often considering I find most social situations exhausting.

The party where I encountered Damian at the start of the semester was an anomaly—a deviation from my quiet hermit life where my idea of a good time is drinking at home in my pajamas while watching Netflix, or the odd night out at Grape Expectations in whatever I wore to class that day.

I am the definition of casual when it comes to my wardrobe, which typically means sneakers and jeans.

Today, however, I’m wearing an incredibly soft beige fitted turtleneck, with flattering high-waisted tailored shorts and matching over-the-knee black suede boots, which, ironically, do resemble something Julia Roberts would wear in Pretty Woman , based on the stills I saw on Google Images.

All three items are from a luxury designer I’ve never heard of before (though that says very little), and while it’s not something I would’ve picked out for myself, I find I like how I look in it, even if I am terrified of food or drink coming within a ten-foot radius, given how much it all cost. It’s not that I’m self-conscious when it comes to my looks—even next to Ronnie and Andie, who are both genetically blessed, I know I’m considered conventionally attractive—I just…

don’t care. I have way more important things to worry about, like Mom, and my scholarship, and ensuring my life in general doesn’t implode.

But today…dressed like this…well, for the first time, I can kind of understand why Ronnie always makes such a fuss about fashion.

There’s a certain power in feeling good in what you’re wearing.

If you feel good in the clothes, you’ll feel good in your skin, and I suppose that’s worth more than any amount of money.

Not that I’d ever tell Damian that, or give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m happy about this. As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell for treating me like his own personal Barbie.

“Uhh…wasn’t that the whole point of buying this stuff?” I remind him. “So I would look acceptable when we’re together?” I don’t bother masking the disdain in my voice. I don’t think I could have even if I’d tried. “If I recall correctly, you even called it my uniform.”

Damian gives me an incredulous look. “Man, you really can’t take a compliment, can you?”

“Was there a compliment somewhere in there that I missed?” I ask dryly.

He rolls his eyes. “You look fit, as the Brits would say. Take the compliment, Dornan.”

A deep heat blossoms in the bottom of my abdomen, then spreads until my entire body is lit up like a match. Oh no. If I can feel the flush on my cheeks then there’s no doubt he can see it.

No. Nope . I refuse to accept that Damian Navarro of all people is making me blush. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction? Yeah, that must be it. An allergic reaction to bullshit.

“Let’s just…go to Izzy’s,” I grumble, dipping my head as I brush past him so he won’t see my face. “But please refrain from referring to yourself in the third person moving forward.”

I glimpse Damian’s tall form out of the corner of my eye as he falls into step beside me. “Okay, but only if you promise to smile at least once during our date. A real one this time. I can’t have this looking like a hostage situation.”

I consider telling him to take that smile and shove it up his billion-dollar ass, but ultimately decide this whole thing will be far less painful (and way less tragic) if I just swallow my pride and agree.

But because I’m me, and Damian is the human embodiment of a bag of shit, I, of course, can’t do that without first making my displeasure known.

So, I huff out a disgruntled breath, and only then do I begrudgingly say, “Deal.”

It’s another beautiful, warm sunny day, so we sit outside at Izzy’s. The fact that doing so means we’re out in the open and more visible for the masses to see is just a bonus.

We settle at a table as far from listening ears as possible, though stay in sight of prying eyes—this will work best if we’re seen and not heard, at least until we get our story straight.

Or a bit straighter than the crooked mess it is at the moment.

Damian, for all his fuckboy ways, plays the part of a gentleman well.

He pulls out my seat, pays for my coffee, gives me his coat when a breeze blows through and I shiver.

He even buys me a slice of lemon cake completely unprompted, which is absolutely to die for.

We only have an hour until my next class and Damian’s first lecture of the day (so he says, though I have a sneaking suspicion that’s not entirely true, and he skipped his morning seminar just so he could come harass me), so we decide to spend that time pretending to get to know one another…

by actually getting to know one another, but only a little and only on the surface.

We agreed as soon as we sat down: nothing personal.

Nothing too deep. Only the superficial shit that people should probably know about their significant others.

Like blood type. And where one stands on the topic of pineapple on pizza.

We discuss favorite colors (green for me, dark blue for the fuckboy) and favorite foods (mine are tacos, without a doubt, and Damian’s is his abuela’s “it should really be famous” tres leches cake) before moving on to favorite movies.

Mine will forever be Good Will Hunting —what can I say, I relate to the whole awkward math genius thing—and, questionably, Damian’s is apparently Twilight , though I sincerely hope he was joking.

I’ve only seen the Twilight movies once—Gina, who is a self-proclaimed Twihard, made me watch them with her when I was in high school—and let’s just say, the character I related to the most was Charlie. I wanted to see him use that shotgun.

Now, we’ve shifted to the topic of friends, and I really wish we were talking about Bella and Edward’s vampire baby instead.

“Ronnie Hayes…” Damian takes a sip of his coffee, his face a mask of contemplation. “The name rings a bell, though I can’t place her. Have I smashed her before?”

I grimace. “No, you have not ‘smashed’ my best friend.”

Damian’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Statistically, that seems unlikely given how much pussy I get at this school, but I guess it’s not impossible.”

“Charming.” I sneer at his word choice, but he just shrugs as if to say, What? It’s the truth. I shake my head. “Statistical impossibility or not, you haven’t, and you never will,” I assure him.

That piques his curiosity. “What makes you say that? Is she into girls or something?”

I scoff. “Not that her sexuality has anything to do with why she wouldn’t touch you without a hazmat suit…but if you must know, she’s pan. And you are definitely not her type.”

“Devilishly handsome, you mean? Rich? Fantastic in bed? Baby, I’m everyone’s type.”

That smile I promised him almost tugs at my lips.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but damn if the thought of insulting him doesn’t bring me joy.

In the world of Marie Kondo, the opportunity to knock Damian down a peg is one thing I would not dispose of.

At the last second, I manage to keep my expression in check.

“Sorry, she’s not really into fuckboys.”

Rather than take offense to my words, Damian counters, “Well, she’s not had a taste of this particular fuckboy. Maybe I’ll hit her up when this whole fake relationship is behind us.”

A smile once again threatens at the mental image of Damian hitting on Ronnie, and I almost cackle with delight. “You know what? I take it back. I would love to see you shoot your shot with her. She would absolutely destroy you.”

“Is that a promise?” Damian purrs, a sly curve to his lips. “Wait, you do mean sexually, right?”

I shrug. “Emotionally. Mentally. I’ve seen her make a grown man cry?—”

He shudders. “Okay, okay, I get the picture. Do you have any other friends who aren’t psychos, Dornan, or is it just the one?”

I take a sip of my coffee, then set my cup back down on the table.

“Well, there’s Andie. She’s less intense than Ronnie, though they are related, albeit not genetically.

They’re cousins. But she’s taken,” I warn him.

“She has a boyfriend. Not that that’s stopped you before, I’m sure.

” I mutter that last part under my breath.

“He’s in my year, but you might know him.

Eli Winslow? He’s rich like you, but the dickhead gene seems to have skipped over him. ”

“As in the hotel chain Winslows?” Damian asks. “Yeah, I know of them. I’ve stayed at their hotels a few times. Nice places.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I admit, wrapping my hands around the cardboard cup, and relishing the heat seeping into my fingers. “If I could afford thousand-dollar hotel rooms, I wouldn’t have to fake date you, now would I?”

He lets out an amused breath and nods. “That’s true. And then where would I be?”

My lips quirk. “Still waiting for someone to answer your ad, I imagine.”

“And you?” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “In another reality, where we didn’t agree to this arrangement and you weren’t here on this amazing first date, what would you be doing instead?”

“Sleeping in Winslow hotels, obviously,” I deadpan. “In this alternate reality, I’m filthy rich.”