Page 42 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

The probability that this boat trip won’t be painfully awkward? Somewhere between zero and I’d rather be anywhere else.

I wake up Monday morning to what seems like eight hundred texts in my group chat with Ronnie and Andie, but I only get through the first few before I decide it might be best to switch off my phone for a while.

It’s not that I’m not ignoring them—I just don’t have the mental energy for anything other than my nine a.m. class at the moment, and I have exactly one hour to prepare myself and get to campus for that.

I meant it when I told Damian I wanted to go out on Saturday because I needed a distraction.

Between Mom’s illness, coming up with excuses to explain my new clothes and where I got the money to pay the deductible and cover her meds, classes, and keeping up this whole act with Damian, my days have been pretty full up the last month.

To be honest, I’m exhausted. And things are only going to get more chaotic moving forward.

Since Damian publicly made our fake relationship official this past weekend (or as official as a heart emoji can be), his Instagram has blown up with comments, and news that the Hallazgo heir is off the market has spread like a venereal disease.

So far, my name has stayed out of the media, which I guess isn’t all that surprising given my self-imposed cave troll status, but I also have enough brain cells to know it’s only a matter of time before it does get out, especially if there are tabloids willing to pay for that information.

Then again, most people at Conwick don’t need the money, and since it wasn’t that long ago that Damian last made headlines, I suppose everyone still remembers his family’s and the school’s threats regarding what would happen to anyone who was found to be contributing to the media circus, and they’re likely hesitant to risk the possible retribution.

The more I think about it, that fear is the only reason I can fathom for why no one at Conwick has tried to out me yet, since there are a few who know me by name, mainly within the scholarship program.

I guess we’re just fortunate that the ones who do know me are the last ones who would risk the school’s wrath.

As for everyone else, they might fear expulsion and potential legal repercussions, but that fear certainly hasn’t stopped them from taking pictures and posting theories about us on Instagram and X; it’s just prevented them from digging deeper. For now.

Although she hasn’t come right out and said it, I know that’s what worries Ronnie the most about my agreement with Damian—that his bet and the bucket list (along with my name) will be unearthed, and the scrutiny I escaped last spring purely by chance will finally bite me in the ass like Death in a Final Destination movie.

I got lucky the first time around; that douche Mason might have name-dropped and shamed every woman on the bucket list, but he used my full name, so nobody thought to look at me since no one at our school—not even the other scholarship kids—knows me as Alexandria.

Plus, there were far juicier names on the list than some Poor Girl who no one even thought to associate with Conwick, let alone with Damian.

For all anyone knew, Alexandria Dornan was just some random schmuck he had sex with on a night out at a club.

No one had any reason to connect her to me, not even when I confronted Damian and gave him a well-deserved piece of my mind.

The only witness to that was Mason, and the shitstorm that was brewing was far bigger than some nobody who was just one in a growing line of furious women with a bone to pick.

Not that any of that makes what he did okay.

It was still humiliating, and for weeks after, I had major anxiety about showing my face in public, certain someone would finally make the connection.

That’s what Ronnie is stressed about now—about the effect that kind of public scrutiny might have on me—and I know she’s right.

Things are different now that everyone thinks I’m with Damian.

People have cause to try to dig up dirt on me.

But the thing is, what I wish Ronnie understood, is that even if they do link me to the list and it gets out again, I honestly don’t give a damn.

While the public humiliation was less than ideal, it wasn’t what hurt so much about what Damian did.

It was the lie—the way he tricked me into thinking he could have actually liked me.

That was the part I resented him for. That I still resent him for.

And not because I can’t handle rejection, but because it came at a time when I was in a vulnerable emotional state and it felt like the entire world was already against me.

Getting ghosted after having what was easily the best sex of my life was one thing.

Getting ghosted and then, two months later, finding out said amazing sex only happened at all so he could win a bet?

Let’s just say it made me feel used in a way I can’t even put into words.

Then again, I’ve always sucked at verbalizing my feelings, which is probably why my reaction to the whole ordeal was just to kick Damian in the dick.

At least then I was getting my point across.

As for public opinion itself, both surrounding the bet and otherwise—well, recent events have put a lot into perspective for me, and since I couldn’t care less what any of these assholes think of me, at Conwick or anywhere else, it really doesn’t matter.

All I care about is obtaining the money I need to help Mom; if my name has to get dragged through the mud to accomplish that, then so be it.

Besides, it’s not like I have to worry about Mom or Gina ever hearing about any of this.

Neither of them are on social media or interested in celebrity gossip, and we don’t have any extended family, or anyone close to us who might reach out about a questionable tabloid headline.

And I know I don’t have to worry about their co-workers.

Gina is constantly on the move at the hospital, and spares zero minutes a day for mindless chit-chat except for passing chatter with patients to put them at ease, and her days off (when she’s not doing favors for people) are always spent with Mom or chilling out at home unless she’s urgently needed elsewhere.

As for Mom, well, she works with a bunch of middle-aged dudes in construction.

I highly doubt any of them are prowling the pages of Us Weekly or spending their evenings checking TMZ.

But no matter how many times I say all this to Ronnie, it’s like she doesn’t believe it—or maybe it’s just hard for her to imagine not caring about public opinion when she comes from a family that has made its fortune being in the Hollywood spotlight.

Regardless, it’s not a conversation I’m prepared to have again at eight a.m. on a Monday, so I text Damian confirmation that I’ll see him after class and then shut off my phone.

And see him after class, I do. By now, my Applied Discrete Mathematics classmates have grown accustomed to seeing him waiting outside the lecture hall to meet me each week (the shock has finally worn off, I guess), and I must have grown used to it, too, because I slide under the warm weight of his arm as if it’s my favorite place in the world, all the while doing my absolute best to convince myself it isn’t, that I hate this, that it’s all for show…

even if I’m finding it far too easy to outwardly pretend otherwise.

We do this every time he meets me after class the few times a week our schedules align, and as has become routine as of late, he gives me a quick tap on my shoulder (our agreed-upon signal that he’ll be coming in for a peck on the cheek) before bending down to kiss me softly, only an inch or so from my mouth.

Sometimes, I imagine turning my head and leaning into that kiss just to feel his lips on mine again, and that urge is stronger than ever since our little display on Saturday.

That kiss was tamer than our “test” one in his car, but there was something new there, an electric current that still tingles across my skin even now, two days later.

I tell myself it’s just attraction and perhaps some pent-up sexual frustration—that Ronnie and Andie don’t have to be worried, and there are absolutely no warm, fuzzy feelings to be had on my part.

Feelings and attraction aren’t mutually exclusive, after all.

I can detest Damian and still really, really want to fuck him.

But then there are moments like this—us walking to Izzy’s, him flashing me a wink as he goes to order us drinks—that feel so real that I begin to wonder if I’m wrong.

And more than that, I contemplate if I would actually be stupid enough to let myself feel something for him—to have another momentary lapse in judgment, as I phrased it to Ronnie and Andie.

Especially now when I know all too well it’s a lie.

“Okay, bitch, what the hell ?” a familiar voice says on my right, and it’s a good thing I don’t have my coffee yet because of how violently I jump in my seat.

My eyes snap away from where Damian stands in line at the outdoor counter of Izzy’s, and shift up to Ronnie, who hovers over me like a disapproving parent scolding their child.

“Ronnie, I didn’t expect to see yo—” I cut off mid-sentence, falling silent at the sight of her scowl as she pulls out the other chair.

As she plops down across from me, she says, “I have been a very gracious friend, Lexi. I forgave you last month when you lied about meeting with your advisor so you could get coffee with Fuckboy over there because I know how you feel about confrontation, and I can admit, I was not being the most supportive bestie at the time. But”—she slams her hands down on the table—“to leave me on read ? How dare you.”