Page 59 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

One family divided by an unspoken secret + a tension so thick I can practically taste it = an unexpected empathy I never expected to feel.

November

When Damian picks me up Saturday morning, I’m forced to acknowledge that the past thirty-one hours were not some lucid fever dream.

Nope, that was really me getting drunk in a monkey costume and riding on Damian’s back through the streets of Newport.

That was really me digging out my passport (which—for someone who has never left the U.S.

—I only have as a second form of identification and because my mom said I should have one “just in case”) and packing my bags for this insane trip to Guadalajara.

A trip I had to lie through my teeth about to explain why I won’t be home again until tomorrow evening.

Luckily, Ronnie—albeit reluctantly—agreed to help cover my lie.

As far as Mom and Gina are concerned, Ronnie, Andie, and I will be spending the night in Providence to celebrate the end of midterms. And to avoid my mother or aunt finding out that I’m actually out of the country, I will conveniently forget my phone on my desk, half obscured by a few shirts that I “decided against bringing with me and had haphazardly tossed to the side when packing.” You know, should either of them ask.

It’s definitely not the smartest move I’ve ever made, but in terms of deniability, it was safer to leave it behind, what with modern technology and its ability to track people.

My mom might trust me, but she does have a habit of checking the tracking app at random to make sure I’m alive (and where I said I would be), and her noticing I’m not in Providence but in freaking Mexico is a risk I’m not willing to take.

Ronnie’s only demands in exchange for her complicity were that I put her number in Damian’s phone (so that, if something does happen, one of us can get in touch with her and let her know what’s going on) and that I check in with her via said phone once every six hours with the exception of the time I spend sleeping.

I had tried to tell her that I’ll be out of the country for less than a full day—not even one complete rotation of the Earth—and the odds of anything bad happening were practically zero, but she insisted, and I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

I had asked Damian to wait down the road so Mom and Gina wouldn’t see him parked outside the house, but I still glance over my shoulder as I speed-walk toward his car to make sure they aren’t watching me through the windows, either to wave goodbye or just to make sure I get there safely.

Although it’s fairly early, and the coast seems to be clear, I don’t dawdle; I quickly throw my bag in his trunk and then hurry over to the passenger door.

“Dornan,” he says by way of greeting when I climb into the seat beside him. I avoid his gaze, but to my unending annoyance, I can see the smug grin tugging at his lips out of the corner of my eye.

Keeping my own expression drawn, I respond with a curt, “Fuckboy.”

He barks out a laugh. “Well, that answers that question. You aren’t a morning person.”

I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, and the silence between us swells with a tense sort of anticipation as if he’s waiting for me to speak…

or just to look at him. I can’t bring myself to do either.

Partly because I have no idea what to say, but mostly because I don’t want to see it—the memory of how I acted the other night reflected in the depths of his eyes.

While certain parts of that night are spotty at best, I unfortunately wasn’t quite drunk enough to wipe the full recollection from my brain. And even more unfortunately, the segments I remember the clearest are the most mortifying.

Me, propositioning Damian since my raging libido apparently knows no bounds, and it seems I am incapable of going nine months without getting dicked down.

Me, stripping to my underwear when he refused in the hope that seeing me (almost) naked would overwhelm him with such insatiable lust he’d change his mind.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t. And now, I just feel like an idiot. Again.

Damian pulls away from the curb, and we drive in silence for a few minutes, the quiet stretching until it’s like an overinflated balloon about to pop.

“You know, you’re going to have to look at me sometime this weekend,” he says. “And exchange more than one word with me. Ideally.” When I don’t respond, he adds in a soft voice I barely recognize, “It’s not too late to back out. If you want me to take you home, I will.”

I have to resist the temptation to look at him—to gauge if he’s actually being honest with me or if he’s only saying that to get me to crack. It would be so easy to brush off the sentiment, to assume it’s just another lie, but…the sincerity in his tone tells me it’s not.

A flush creeps up my neck, and I can see my cheeks burning scarlet in the side-view mirror. “It’s not that.” The words tumble out in a rush.

“Then what is it?” Damian asks.

I slump in my seat, lifting my shoulders and tucking my chin into my chest, like I’m a turtle trying to escape into my shell. “I’m embarrassed.”

Damian considers that, and I wonder if he’s going to press the matter—if he’s going to make me spell out what I’m embarrassed about (despite knowing damn well what I’m referring to) just to torment me for his own entertainment.

I wait for it. For the teasing. For the playful, sarcastic remarks. But they never come.

Instead, I sense his eyes on my face again as he says in that same surprisingly gentle voice, “You don’t have to be. It’s forgotten.”

We’re both quiet for the remainder of the brief drive to the airport, and I know from the second we arrive that this is going to be unlike any other flight I’ve ever been on.

Not that I’ve been on many—just the flight to Santa Cruz and the flight back, but still.

The fact that Damian drives right up to the freaking plane is indication enough.

Airport staff are waiting for us outside the car, even going so far as to open our doors and retrieve our bags from the trunk as soon as we’re parked.

I glance at Damian, but he doesn’t notice my questioning gaze as he climbs out and tosses his keys to a young man standing nearby, who now slides into the vacated driver’s seat.

Once we’re clear of the car, the valet speeds off to park the assholemobile somewhere secure until we’re back tomorrow.

My jaw drops as my focus drifts from the two staff members escorting our bags to Damian, who strolls toward the lowered stairs leading up into the jet as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

I suppose, to someone accustomed to his family’s caliber of wealth, it is.

I stumble after him, climbing the steps with wobbly legs, my hands fidgeting with my glasses.

I wonder if I should ask about security and whether we need boarding passes (though, I suspect the rules are different for rich folks with private jets), but all attempts to organize my thoughts are forgotten the moment we step inside the plane.

If I looked surprised before, I must be the spitting image of a cartoon character now, mouth hanging comically wide, eyes bugging out of my skull.

The jet itself is, obviously, much smaller than a commercial airliner, but the interior is a thousand times more luxurious.

Shining wooden panels accent the white walls and ceiling, and five pairs of cream-colored seats that resemble recliners await us on the beige carpet—four positioned toward the front of the plane and one at the back opposite a long sofa, complete with cup holders, throw pillows, and blankets.

It’s from one of these seats that a woman exuding the elegance of old Hollywood jumps up to greet us.

“Ah, there he is,” she says, reaching over a small wooden table to the man sitting across from her, gently patting his arm to get his attention. His back is to us, but he turns at her words as he folds and places down the newspaper he was reading.

Damian grabs my hand, tugging me forward from where we entered at the rear of the plane, and I promptly snap my mouth shut when the woman’s eyes flit to mine, taking me in, her smile kind enough but reserved.

Behind her, the man looks like he’d rather be just about anywhere else at this specific point in time, a feeling I can relate to.

“Mom. Dad,” Damian says, looking at each of his parents in turn.

I can feel the rigidity of his entire body in the way his hand tightens around mine—can hear the careful distance in his voice when he speaks.

Most of all, I see it in his face when he peers down at me.

“This is Lexi. Lexi, these are my parents, Lenore and Hector.”

My heart races, pounding against the cage of my ribs, and I wonder if his parents can sense the anxiety bubbling under my skin. If they can see the sweat beginning to bead along my hairline.

It was one thing posing for pictures and letting Damian spin the lies about our relationship across his social media—I was never actively participating, but rather…

omitting the truth through a lack of denial.

But now? Now, I’ll have to quite literally put his money where my mouth is and lie my ass off like our lives depend on it.

Like Mom’s life depends on it.

That thought is all the encouragement I need to slide my game face on.

I plaster on a pleasant smile, and curl the fingers of my free hand into a tight ball at my side so I don’t touch my glasses. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

His mother—Lenore—offers me her hand, and I shake it. “Likewise. Though, to be honest, Damian hasn’t actually told us anything about you.”

I let out a quaint, tinkling laugh and shrug. “Well, this is still pretty new, so…” I purposely trail off, leaving his parents to fill in the blanks. Damian doesn’t meet my gaze, but he squeezes my hand, and that’s when I feel it—the ever so slight trembling of his fingers.