Page 53 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

No hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver - There is no worse blind person than the one who doesn’t want to see

Translation: People ignore the truth when they don’t want to accept it. Which seems legit since I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and what might possibly be the biggest hard-on of my life.

The fading images in my head tell me I must have been dreaming about Blondie—about our kiss in the library yesterday evening.

A kiss I haven’t been able to stop thinking about despite her warnings to forget the whole thing.

I still don’t really know how last night escalated the way it did.

One minute, I was pleading with Blondie to forgive me.

The next, I was goading her just like I’ve made a habit of these past eight weeks, doing my best to get a rise out of her because I can’t resist how damn cute she is when she’s mad.

I don’t know if it was our proximity in the library stacks, or some weird sort of mutual unrealized need to relive our previous quickie there, but something about the banter yesterday went beyond our usual teasing.

There was a charge in the air between us—something magnetic, insistent, like the tension had been purposely pulling us closer for months, just waiting for the right moment to snap.

My cock aches at the memory of Blondie’s tongue tangling eagerly with mine, of those perfect breasts pressed against my chest, of the desperate moans I seemed to so easily pull from her lips, like I was a puppeteer and I knew exactly which strings to tug.

I reach down and wrap my fingers around my aching length, rock hard beneath my touch, giving it a few slow strokes. Jesus Christ, just the thought of her mouth already has me on the verge of coming?—

I jolt at the sudden, near deafening buzz of my phone vibrating across my bedside table. Snapping my eyes open, I stare up at the ceiling as I reluctantly release my cock.

What the fuck am I doing? Celibacy clearly does not agree with me if I’m this worked up over a kiss. A fucking amazing kiss, yeah, but still…it was only a kiss. I should not be this close to blowing my load like I’m some fifteen-year-old virgin getting his first handy.

My phone vibrates again, more insistent this time, and with a snarl of annoyance, I roll over and grab the device off the table. My erection instantly deflates when I see the name on the screen.

Swallowing, I swipe to answer.

“Greetings, Father,” I say, my voice husky.

He scoffs. “About time. Do you always sleep in this late, hijo?”

I pull the phone away from my ear and glance at the screen again.

What the fuck? It’s not even eight o’clock.

I don’t know what kind of stimulants he puts in his morning horchata, but I’d hardly consider this sleeping in.

Besides, my first class isn’t until ten, which I quickly open my mouth to point out, except…

that isn’t what I end up saying. “Sorry, I was in the shower,” I lie because, honestly, it’s easier than enduring another second of his judgment.

He grunts (as much of an acknowledgment as I’m likely to get), then finally reveals why he bothered to call. “You do remember what this weekend is, don’t you?”

It isn’t a question. It’s a test. And if my distant father calling me before I’m even out of bed hadn’t already killed my erection, that comment and the doubt in his tone would certainly have done the trick.

An uncomfortable tightness grips my throat, and my voice goes hoarse for an entirely different reason when I rasp, “Of course, I do.”

“Good.” He sounds insultingly surprised. As if I’d ever forget. “I’ll expect to see you tomorrow, then. As for Saturday, we fly out first thing, so don’t be late. I’ll text you the details.”

“Okay.” That’s all I can find the strength to say.

In our culture, this is supposed to be a time of celebration—of joy —but the truth is, I dread this holiday every year.

And every year, I consider asking to skip it.

I never do. Not because I don’t have the balls to say it, but because I hate myself for even thinking of asking in the first place.

You’re a coward, my conscience spits. I don’t disagree.

“One last thing,” my father adds.

I’m acutely aware of the silence on the other end of the line. It hums in my ears, stretching between us like static, prickling under my skin, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing?—

“Your mother and I want you to bring that girl you’re seeing with us to Guadalajara.”

I go very still, convinced I didn’t hear him correctly.

Surely, I couldn’t have. He and my mother haven’t spoken a word to me in nearly two months, and haven’t deigned themselves to even acknowledge my relationship with Blondie.

And now…they want me to bring her with us to Mexico for Día de los Muertos? Excuse the fuck out of me?

“W-what?” I stammer, trying to wrap my head around what he’s asking of me.

“Is there a problem?” he seems to growl, and I hear it again—the doubt in his tone. The disappointment.

He’s onto you. Fucking say something.

“No,” I answer quickly, squeezing my free hand into a fist to keep from slapping myself silly.

What are you going to do now, genius?

I scramble for words, for a suitable lie…and pray my dickhead father doesn’t notice it in my voice. “I just…need to check with her to make sure her passport is up to date.”

And try to convince her that this is a totally normal, sane request.

“Good,” is all my father says in response. “Your abuela will want to meet her. As do I.”

Without another word, the line goes dead.

Grimacing, I pull the phone from my ear.

Welp, this is it. This is the day I die. Because the second I tell Blondie about this, I have zero doubt that she’s going to kill me.

The late October air is biting as I exit my building and cross the quad at a brisk pace, my phone call with my dad this morning still playing through my head like a bad song stuck on repeat.

If today wasn’t Halloween, I might be tempted to skip my planned outing with Blondie, not only to escape her wrath once I actually figure out how to ask her about Guadalajara, but also because—aside from a brief text exchange confirming we’re still on for tonight—I haven’t seen or talked to her since yesterday, and I don’t want things to be awkward between us.

It’ll only be awkward if you make it awkward, my conscience unhelpfully reminds me.

I roll my eyes. Please, like I don’t know how to make out with a girl and pretend it never happened.

But then…kissing Blondie was different. I can’t stop thinking about her plush lips on mine, about the feel of her slender curves under my hands, and I’m not sure if I can blame that on the simple fact that I keep allowing these physical things to happen between us despite my No Repeats rule.

Shit, that rule is exactly why I should cancel right now and walk away—give us both some much-needed breathing space until our hormones, or whatever it is that’s making us crazy horny for each other, have settled and we’re thinking clearly again.

But canceling on her would mean missing out on Phi Sigma’s legendary annual Boos and Booze party—the first shindig of the partying variation I’ve allowed myself to attend since our fauxmance began—and I refuse to let my costume, which I’ve been planning in meticulous detail for the past several weeks, go to waste.

Sure, I could go on my own, but what kind of message would that send?

It certainly wouldn’t help to make it look any less like we’ve broken up.

And regardless of what happened last night, I’m not ready to walk away from this agreement.

Not when we’ve come this far already, and there’s still a chance it can work.

No, what we need right now is a united front.

And if there’s one occasion when my parents can forgive me for attending a party, it’s Halloween.

So long as I behave myself, and don’t get drunk or make a scene, it’ll all be fine.

And hopefully, in the meantime, Blondie and I can put these pesky break-up rumors to rest.

I tug my phone from my pocket and tap the screen, pulling up my chat thread with Blondie as I skip up the steps to Garfield Hall.

Our last two messages glare at me, and though they’re no tonally different from our other texts, I can’t help second-guessing if that kiss yesterday ruined the dynamic between us.

Me

Are we still on for tonight? Where should I meet you? I can swing by at 9

Blondie

Garfield Hall. Room 237

Blondie has always been rather direct with me, but there was something so…blunt about her answer. Well, more blunt than usual. I’m probably imagining it. And if I’m not—if she is pissed at me for…I don’t know, kissing her back?—well, then things are about to get a whole lot more awkward.

I yank open the door to the building and make my way up the necessary two flights of stairs to reach Room 237, as instructed.

Returning my phone to my pocket, I straighten my back and, bracing myself, rap my knuckles sharply on the door.

Beyond it, I hear the muffled cadence of voices, followed by a chorus of laughter, which bodes well for whatever mood I’m likely to find Blondie in.

My heart thumps hard against my rib cage when the door opens a moment later, but it isn’t my fake girlfriend who answers.

“Damian,” Ronnie says, scowling at me from the other side of the threshold.

Right. I forgot. Blondie doesn’t live on campus, so that must mean this is Ronnie’s room.

“Well, hi there, Red.” I grip the rim of my oversized hat and tip it forward in greeting.

As I push it back into place, my eyes dip, noting the shiny fire-engine red platform boots and the minuscule Union Jack mini-dress that’s barely long enough to protect her from an indecent exposure charge.

“Nice costume. What are you supposed to be, some kind of British wet dream?”