Page 40 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

We trail a small group in front of us into a large entry foyer that Blondie informs me in a hushed breath is called the Great Hall.

Four massive chandeliers and an ornate gilded ceiling hang overhead with intricate motifs patterning the walls on all sides of us.

It’s beautiful—a work of art, some might say—but to me, the surrounding marble and stone is too cold.

It’s an uncomfortable reminder of my own home.

Or rather, my parents’ home. To me, that house has become little more than a prison, which is why I’ve made it a point to return there as little as possible since I started attending Conwick.

While the aesthetic isn’t remotely similar, it has the same discomforting coldness—the same vast emptiness.

Kind of like a show home, everything in its designated place.

Almost like no one actually lives there.

To be fair, it certainly doesn’t feel like they do anymore.

“Why do you look so constipated right now?” Blondie asks.

I glare at her, defensively crossing my arms. “Of all the things we could’ve done this weekend, you picked this… why ?”

“I mean, it was this or the scenic trolley tour?—”

“Why were those the only two options?” I sputter. “I know Newport caters to an older demographic, but surely, it has something a little more modern to offer.”

Blondie gives me an exasperated look. “So, am I correct in assuming you’ve never come here before, and that this isn’t something you would normally do on, say, a Saturday morning?”

I respond with a delicate sniff. “Yes, and obviously not,” I say, sulking.

“Then would I also be correct when I say that seeing you someplace like this with a girl you are rumored to be dating might possibly be newsworthy?”

I frown at her logic. “I mean, yeah, maybe. But come on, Dornan”—I gesture around us—“this place is hardly hoppin’ with youths. Does anyone here even own a smartphone?”

“You say that, but check this out,” she whispers, her tone conspiratorial.

She tugs on my coat sleeve, and pulls me behind her, leading me across the hall past a large fireplace mantle carved with lions and a horde of what looks like drunk naked babies, only stopping once we reach the doorway to the adjacent room.

The furnishings and decor in this space are not at all to my taste, more chintzy than elegant, the colors clashing. It immediately gives me a headache.

“What are you—” I start to ask, but Blondie presses a cool finger to my lips.

Look, she mouths, and I follow her gaze to two girls, who are on their phones beside a small piano positioned in the round window nook. They look to be no older than us—they might even be younger—and seem to be alternating between making TikToks and taking selfies with the furnishings.

“I saw them go in there just as we came in,” Blondie explains.

“Uhh…okay?” I mutter back, confused.

Blondie puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back out into the Great Hall.

“What I’m trying to say is that, while yes, you’re right that mostly older people come here, so do tourists, which includes romance-loving girls obsessed with Jane Austen, and Downton Abbey , and Bridgerton .

They are dying to live their best regency lives, and for many, these mansions are the closest they’re going to get.

Not that this place is regency era,” she adds as an aside, almost to herself, her eyes wandering in that way I’ve started to notice they do when she’s made an observation that she finds particularly vexing.

Then she shrugs, brushing the thought away, and meets my gaze again.

“Every single time I’ve been here, especially in the last few years, I’ve seen girls just like that in this same exact room and everywhere else on this property taking pictures, and making TikToks, and posting every second of their visit here on social media.

And considering who you are and…what you look like”—she flaps a hand at me, begrudgingly waving it up and down the full length of my body—“these same girls probably spend their nights drooling over thirst traps or whatever it is you post on your Instagram.”

“Thirst traps?” I would honestly laugh if I wasn’t so fucking confused about what she’s talking about.

She brushes me off with another wave of her hand.

“Whatever. My point is, there are definitely people here who own smartphones, and you are famous enough that they will one hundred percent take our picture should they see us because our generation is literally incapable of not posting everything online.”

“People who love Jane Austen?” I clarify, trying to follow.

She nods. “Exactly. And trust me when I tell you that bitches love Jane Austen.”

“Okay. I think I get what you’re saying, but what I’m really wondering is how you know this.”

Blondie sighs. “I’ve been here a lot. You remember my friend Ronnie I told you about?” I nod. “Well, she is one of the aforementioned bitches.”

“Ah.” I nod again, more vigorously this time, her point finally sinking in. “And are you one of these bitches as well?”

Blondie purses her lips. “Serial killers are more my speed, actually.”

I blanch, choking out a strained laugh. “Excuse me?”

She arches a sardonic brow. “Crime documentaries? Psychological thrillers? You asked me earlier what kind of shows I like watching. Well, I like anything with murder.”

Huh. I would say Blondie is full of surprises, but with two murder attempts on Damian Jr. under her belt, that honestly tracks.

“Anyway…” She extends her hand for me to take the same way I’ve offered her mine on all our dates since that first one at Izzy’s—albeit not without a put-upon sigh and an even more put-upon roll of her eyes. “We look a bit shady standing here, so we should probably go walk around or something.”

I hesitate for only a second—just long enough to get over my shock that she’s initiated the physical contact between us for once—then accept her gesture, threading my fingers through hers.

Her hand is cool against mine, her skin still chilled from the fall air outside, and as we amble toward the red-carpeted staircase on the other side of the hall, I’m struck with the bewildering urge to press my lips to the back of her hand and keep them there until she’s warm.

I immediately shoo the compulsion away, blaming my self-enforced celibacy for such uncharacteristic, intimate thoughts. I’m just pent-up, that’s all. No sex for a month will do that. Shit, I could be holding hands with Shrek, and I’m sure I’d be considering giving him a kiss, too.

As Blondie leads me by the metaphorical dick through the house, spouting off random facts I only partially listen to, I find she’s right. There are more young people here—specifically women—than I would’ve anticipated, and just as she predicted, they all zero in on us whenever we enter a room.

We encounter at least half a dozen instances of other tour-goers taking our picture, with many more pointing and whispering as we pass, but we both pretend to be too caught up in each other to notice.

The whole time, Blondie’s hand never once strays from mine, though her fingers occasionally twitch and then tense as if she’s overly aware of my touch.

Not that I can blame her—I’m weirdly aware of it, too.

As I peek down at our intertwined grasp for the fifth time in as many minutes, I wonder why that is.

After an hour spent wandering the house, we stash our headphones and head outside for a change of scenery, and to stroll the sprawling grounds and enjoy the sweeping panoramic of the Atlantic.

“I never get sick of this view,” Blondie says as we cross the manicured lawn, still hand in hand.

I nod. “I have to admit, it’s pretty nice.” I glance back at the northern face of the mansion where it stands in all its dominating glory behind us. “And props where props are due…today didn’t totally suck.”

“Ha!” Blondie releases my hand and steps in front of me, poking a finger gently into my left pectoral. “I knew it. You’re a Jane Austen stan, aren’t you?”

I raise my arms in defeat. “You got me. I, Damian Navarro, am secretly a regency bitch. Though, in truth, I actually prefer Bridgerton over Jane Austen.”

Blondie lets out an honest-to-god giggle, which does something weird to my chest. “Why am I not surprised you watch Bridgerton ?”

I huff out a derisive breath. “Who can blame me? That Duke is a total smokeshow. Being straight doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

She laughs again, those adorable dimples on full display, as we carry on down the lawn toward the sloping crest of the bluff. “There’s a cliff-side walk if you’re up for it,” she suggests, and I shoot her an incredulous look.

“Why, are you hoping to shove me off the edge?”

Her lips twitch at the corners. “Maybe. But if it softens the blow at all, I would pretend to be very sad about it after.”

Her words echo in my head— “if it softens the blow” —and for an unguarded moment, we just look at each other, Blondie awaiting my answer, and me, coming to the most ingenious solution to the maybe-problem she’s not even aware we have. Probably.

“That’s it.” At the silent query in Blondie’s gaze, I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Do you trust me?”

She snorts. “Absolutely not. What kind of question is that?”

I hold up a hand. “Let me rephrase. If I initiate an intimate gesture between us that isn’t holding hands or a quick peck on the cheek, will you shove me off this cliff?”

Blondie considers me for a moment. “No. I’ve decided I’m saving that for month nine after I’ve been paid my due. Besides, my arm strength would have to be phenomenal to yeet you into the Atlantic from here. The edge is still a long way off.”

“Do people still say yeet?” I counter, earning me a light smack on my bicep.