Page 4 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Ano nuevo, vida nueva - New year, new life

Translation: New year, new me…or maybe not.

My eyes blink open, my vision bleary as I try to pull the room around me into focus. The ceiling spins in protest, the whirling movement churning my stomach, threatening to bring up whatever concoction of spirits that Yesterday Damian thought wise to drink last night.

Christ, I really hate hangovers.

For a long moment, I don’t move—partially because I’m hoping I’ll fall back asleep, but mostly out of fear I might end up vomiting all over the 1020 thread count.

Not that I particularly give a damn about bed sheets.

I can always buy more. But buying more means getting up, and right now, all I want is to stay horizontal.

“Fuck my life,” a voice whispers beside me.

Oh. I’m not alone. Interesting. I guess I’m experiencing a bit of sex amnesia this morning.

Curious about the identity of my guest, I turn my head, taking in the half-naked blonde lying on the other side of my mattress, unable to keep my gaze from straying down to her exposed chest. Goosebumps pimple her bare breasts, and her nipples are erect, not unlike my cock, which immediately tents the blanket.

She clutches an older model iPhone to her ear and is staring at me like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and I’ve just told her Tiny Tim is dead.

Mascara is smeared under her eyes, and a slightly frizzy golden lock sticks to her cheek, her hair bedraggled—but by no means unattractive—from a night of heavy drinking…

or fucking. Based on my own state of undress and the headache currently splitting my skull in half, I’m guessing we partook of both.

“Not quite the reaction I’m used to,” I murmur, propping myself up on one elbow to get a better look at her, my queasiness and desire to sleep for the next several hours quelled by the rush of horniness sweeping through me.

She’s hot. Nice hair, long legs, stunning eyes.

Basically everything I look for in a woman.

Not that I’m exactly picky. Anything with female anatomy is my type.

“I need to call you back,” she grumbles into her phone before sliding off the mattress and jumping to her feet like she would rather be anywhere else on the planet than here in bed with me.

I can’t help the frown that takes shape on my lips. “Leaving so soon?”

Ignoring me, she scoops a skimpy black top and bra off the floor near the foot of the bed, hastily putting on both and straightening her sexy pleated red skirt, the hem of which barely brushes the middle of her thighs.

I don’t tell her that her shirt is on backward; something tells me she wouldn’t take too kindly to me pointing it out.

Once she’s dressed, she glances around for a moment, panic streaking her face, and I follow her wandering gaze, curious what has her so riled up.

As the seconds tick by, she looks more and more flustered, and it’s only when I spot the panties dangling off the edge of the bed that I realize what she’s searching for.

Sitting up, I reach over and gently pinch the lacy fabric between two of my fingers.

“Looking for these?” I ask, flashing her a coquettish grin.

A crimson blush stains her cheeks that would be positively adorable if she didn’t look like she was going to kill me.

Rushing forward, she snatches the underwear from my grasp, clumsily stepping into them and then adjusting them under that sexy short skirt.

Although it’s brief, I’m awarded an enticing glimpse at what’s underneath, and I berate my brain for not remembering the events of last night in detail.

Avoiding my gaze, my taciturn guest steps into a pair of red heels, then flings her hair up into a messy bun before finally deigning to look at me. Her expression is sullen. Unimpressed, almost, which can’t be right. I am nothing if not impressive.

“ Yeah …this was a mistake,” she says.

Ouch. I’ve never heard that one before. Maybe she really is unimpressed. Then again, even wasted, I’d bet I’m still more skilled in bed than at least half the other guys at this school. This can’t be about the sex.

Which means it can only be about me.

Surely, she isn’t a Repeat, although that would certainly explain the hostility radiating off her like heat, the visible tension in her shoulders, and the hatred burning in her stunning green eyes.

I hope I’m wrong. Drunk Me knows better than to make the amateur mistake of fucking the same woman twice.

Repeat sex leads to feelings (on their part), and feelings always lead to someone getting hurt (again, on their part), and I don’t have the time or patience for that bullshit drama in my life.

I have zero interest in being tied down by a girlfriend, and just want to enjoy my senior year at Conwick before I swap campus life for a corporate one.

Can’t a guy just want some meaningless sex without the expectation of commitment?

Besides, why would I want a girlfriend when there are so many tempting fish in the sea?

Tempting fish like Blondie, who blows out a loud breath through her nose and plants her hands on her hips, giving me a sour look that one could easily mistake for disgust. Maybe she’s nauseated? She does look a little pale.

Yeah, I’ve definitely never gotten that look before.

“I think it would be best if we just pretend this never happened, and go our separate ways,” she states in a matter-of-fact tone, then adds with an almost impressive malevolence, “That shouldn’t be too hard for you.

” She glares at me, her gaze molten, a scowl on her lips, and it takes all the self-restraint I have not to laugh.

Usually, I’m the one giving this talk to whatever unsuspecting lady Drunk Me brought home so they don’t try to make me breakfast in bed and corner me into becoming their boyfriend—an all-too-frequent occurrence since the day I first set foot on this campus.

It’s tiring fending off such advances at times, but necessary; I’m in no state for commitment at the moment, and if I do ever settle down, it certainly won’t be with some money-hungry college chick looking for a rich future husband.

But this? This is a first. No one has ever tried to blow me off before, and I’m not sure if I should be relieved or insulted.

I give her a quick once-over with narrowed, roaming eyes.

Blondie, you have piqued my interest.

“Sure thing, random girl I just met. Although”—I tap a finger against my bottom lip—“can you technically forget something you don’t remember?

I had a lot to drink last night. Or maybe…

you just weren’t very memorable?” With a playful grin, I pat the soft mattress beside me, tracing inviting circles on the sheet with my palm.

“Care to come back to bed and help me figure out which it is?”

Hey, it’s not really a repeat hook-up if she hasn’t even left my place yet, right? A second round would just be part two of what we already started.

My cock takes notice of the attractive flush painting her skin and the way she chews her bottom lip, as if to hold back some biting comment. Fuck, she’s incredibly sexy when angry.

She sneers. “Wow, calm down, Rico Suave. Jesus, you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought.”

I snort. “ I’m the asshole? You’re the one lumping all Latinos together. All Spanish-speaking people aren’t the same, you know.”

“I…what?” She blinks, those beautiful eyes growing round with confusion. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t…”

A smirk tugs at the edges of my lips as she fumbles her words.

“Rico Suave? The guy who sang that song is Ecuadorian, whereas I’m Mexican.

Well, half Mexican if we’re being exact, but that’s beside the point.

Anyway, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you were referring to my sexual prowess with that reference and not my ethnicity, in which case”—my mouth curls into a smug Cheshire cat grin—“thanks for the compliment.”

Contempt wipes the shock from her face, and the muscle in her jaw pops when she clenches her teeth.

Chuckling softly, I sink back into my pillow, hiding my disappointment behind an all-too-familiar wall of indifference.

And here I was really hoping for a little morning pick-me-up.

Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? More like Ghost of Christmas Enjoy The Blue Balls.

Oh, well. I’ll just have to jerk off in the shower after she leaves.

“Hey, you’re the one who said this was a mistake.

You can’t fault me for proving you right. ”

Scoffing, Blondie turns on her heel and struts off, stalking toward the apartment door with fury dominating her steps…

though not before bumping into the door frame on her way out of the bedroom, tripping, and nearly falling flat on her face.

A startled expression warps her features as she catches herself, transforming into another glare when she straightens and glowers at the wall as if it somehow jumped in her way.

When I fail to stifle my laugh at her reaction, she turns that glare back on me, huffing like an angry bull, then resumes her forward march.

This time, I can’t hold back my laughter. Is she still drunk, or is she normally this gravitationally impaired?