Page 45 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

“Was I supposed to?” he asks. He cocks his head to study my face, like he’s a golden retriever and I’m a doberman, and he’s not sure if I’m friendly or not.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I just mean…what about your friends?”

“Ah. Right. I understand the confusion now.” He nods vigorously for a moment as if in silent contemplation, then shrugs. “The truth is, I don’t really do friends.”

“Like you don’t do girlfriends,” I retort, hooking my fingers into mocking air quotes.

Damian gives me a surprisingly withering look. “Pretty much.”

I consider this information, trying to make it fit into the puzzle that is Damian.

Before we started this whole fake-dating agreement, I thought he was fairly predictable and easy to figure out.

After all, he only seemed to care about two things: status and sex.

But the more time we spend together, the more I’m beginning to realize that might not be entirely true, and the overall picture isn’t as apparent as I once thought it would be.

Trouble is, I’m missing too many of the pieces to work out what I’m meant to be seeing.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I mutter, speaking more to myself than to him.

I glance around the deck again, taking in all the empty space, before swiveling my head to look up at his still perplexed face.

He reels back slightly at the accusation in my gaze.

“Aren’t you, like, in a frat or something? ”

Damian barks out a mortified laugh. “What? No. What made you think that?”

“Well, you’re always partying with them,” I point out, my tone biting. I don’t bother adding that we hooked up last month because we literally bumped into each other at a frat party.

“I’ve also partied with the Kardashians,” he counters. “Doesn’t mean I’m looking to become one.”

“I—” My skin flushes as I try and fail to think of a comeback. “I’m not following.”

Damian averts his eyes, running a hand through his thick hair, and it takes all my inner strength to stop myself from reaching my own hand out and doing the same.

Brief flashes of the two times we had sex fill my mind, my fingers twitching with the flesh memory of what his hair feels like and how good I know in my gut it must have felt to touch it. To grip it. To clench it in my fists.

Jesus, my vagina really does have way too strong of a hold over me if I’m getting this worked up over hair .

“There’s not much to follow,” he finally says, an edge to his voice that snaps me out of my horny reverie.

“It’s quite simple, actually. The reality is, when you come from a rich family like mine, you never know who’s genuine and who’s just trying to get close to you because of your money.

” He scoffs, waving a hand toward the jacuzzi where Andie and Eli look one heated glance away from fucking right there in the water.

“I’m sure your friend’s boyfriend gets that. ”

“Are you implying that Andie is with Eli for his money?” The hair on the back of my neck rises like the hackles on a hissing cat. “Because she is not like that?—”

Damian’s eyes blow wide at the ferocity in my voice. “I’m not,” he insists, holding up his hands to placate me. “I…didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that I find it difficult to make friends because of my family and who we are. That’s all.”

I scoff, unconvinced. “How do you know you aren’t the problem? You say you struggle to make friends, but the common denominator in that equation is you.”

His apologetic expression hardens into something that feels all too close to the anger gripping me.

“You know what else is the common denominator?” he seethes, then flings his arms out to the side, gesturing all around us.

“My family’s wealth. And every single time without fail, my ‘friends’ would take advantage of me for it.

‘Oh, Damian can get us into this nightclub because he’s on the VIP list,’” he says in a crude imitation of one of these so-called friend’s voices.

“‘Damian, take us on your private jet.’” He snorts maliciously.

“People are superficial and phony, and that is why I don’t have friends. ”

“What about Mason Harris?” The question comes out more like an accusation. But then, I suppose it is.

Damian bristles. “What about him?”

I hold his unwavering gaze. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

An excruciating lull passes before he answers, as if he’s searching for the right words to excuse any acquaintance between them…

or to try to justify it. “I’ve had the displeasure of going to the same high school and now college as Mason,” he explains.

“A coincidence of proximity does not make us friends.”

“Then why did you make the bet?”

His responding laugh is strangled. “Because I was bored, and I like a good challenge.” And yet, there’s something behind his expression that seems to refute that claim. Something that almost looks like pain. Or sadness.

“Is that really why?” I press, because I need to know there’s more to it than that—that the chaos that decision caused didn’t come down to something as fickle as boredom. When he doesn’t say anything more, when he doesn’t contradict himself, I sneer. “Wow. Well, that’s a shitty answer.”

“Welp.” He flings his arms out again, but this time, he lets them fall dramatically to his sides, his palms slapping against his thighs. “I’m sorry to disappoint you?—”

“What are you guys talking about?” a voice interrupts, and my heart jumps into my throat when I wheel around to find Ronnie double-fisting a glass of champagne and a very fancy-looking shrimp cocktail.

“Jesus, Ronnie, you startled me,” I wheeze, pressing a hand to my chest.

How much of our conversation did she hear? I wonder.

Hopefully, none of it, my conscience answers, and I internally nod in agreement. As if Ronnie needs another reason to disapprove of this arrangement.

Her dark eyes swing between my face and Damian’s as she takes a careful sip of her drink. Under the watchful reproach of her gaze, it occurs to me that she asked us a question.

What were we talking about? Nothing I can tell her about, that’s for sure.

“Uh…” I huff out an awkward laugh. “Damian was just telling me why his favorite movie is Twilight ,” I say, partly because Bella’s vampire baby is the first thing that pops into my head (for reasons I can’t possibly fathom) and because I feel like getting back at Damian for being such an insufferable chode.

“Wait, seriously?” Ronnie gasps, glancing between us. “No way! I love those movies. What team are you?”

“Yeah, Damian, what team are you?” I ask, smirking.

He makes it a point to ignore me, looking only at Ronnie when he says, “Team Jacob, obviously.”

Her eyes narrow, and her lips push out in an exaggerated pout, like she’s not quite sure she believes him. Crossing her arms, she gives him a dubious look. “Favorite film in the series?”

“ New Moon ,” he answers without hesitation.

Her eyes glint with determination. “Favorite scene,” she demands.

Damian laughs as if the answer is obvious. “Any time Taylor Lautner takes off his shirt. Oh, and that whole montage of Bella trippin’ adrenaline-fueled balls and seeing those weird hallucinations of Eddie. That was wild.”

Ronnie blinks up at him, her face a mask of surprise and amazement that I’m certain must mirror my own.

At first, I genuinely thought he was joking when he said his favorite movie was Twilight , but his answers to Ronnie’s questions have me second-guessing myself.

I remember what part he’s referring to from the time Gina made me binge-watch all five movies with her, and I’m not convinced that answer is something he could’ve magically pulled out of his ass unless he had, in fact, seen them.

Ronnie opens her mouth to speak—either to gush that there’s something she and Damian have in common or to grill him with more Twilight trivia—but before she can get a word out, I say, “You were serious? Twilight is actually your favorite movie?”

Damian meets my gaze, his expression grave. “I am as serious as a one-hundred-year-old virgin vampire, Dornan. I don’t joke about Twilight .”

“So, you enjoy those movies, like…unironically?” Ronnie asks, quickly tossing out, “No shame if you do. I obviously love them. It’s just kinda rare that a straight dude would, too.

And before you come at me, just know that I say this from a place of experience.

My gay dads are the ones who got me into Twilight because of their mutual crush on Peter Facinelli.

Not like I can blame them. Carlisle is totally bae. ”

“They’re cringe, don’t get me wrong,” Damian quips, “but that’s what makes them fun, isn’t it? And besides”—he slings his arm around my shoulders again—“who doesn’t like a good love story?”

Says the guy with an aversion to real relationships, I think to myself.

We spend most of the day out on the water, sprawled across sun loungers on the upper deck, soaking in the unseasonably warm autumn rays, and gorging on expensive canapés, champagne, and cocktails, like we’re at some fancy charity event or an awards show after-party.

We don’t go out to sea, staying close to the harbor to “make it easier to moor again,” Damian explains.

Though I try not to think about it, the question of how much this day out has cost the Navarros is never far from my mind.

How many monthly supplies of my mom’s chemo meds could I buy with the amount Damian spent today hiring the waitstaff alone?

Anger seizes me at the thought, and I have to force myself to focus on something else before I lose my shit at the injustice of the medical system and the ever-increasing divide between the majority and the one percent.

I’m not one to begrudge anyone the fruits of their hard work, but when those fruits are staring at you while you struggle for scraps, it’s a tough pill to swallow.