Page 6 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

The severity of my hangover combined with the shame of my actions is directly proportional to how much caffeine I’ll need to make it through this conversation.

Rage burns through me hot and fast, like a shot of liquor injected into the vein, as I race through the unfamiliar corridors of Leeland Hall as quickly as my stilettos will carry me.

Despite my current visual impairment, I only trip once on my way through the building, but something in the universe must be looking out for me—though definitely not God or I wouldn’t be in this mess—because I catch myself before I fall and destroy what little shred of dignity I have left.

A comforting warmth caresses my bare arms and legs the moment I step outside.

It’s only early September, so we still have the summer heat, which I’m thankful for given the skimpy outfit Ronnie insisted I wear to the party, but not so thankful for when the sun overhead beams straight into my face, searing my retinas and blinding me even more than I already am.

I wince, sensitive to the light, my skull pounding.

Punishment, probably, for the events of last night.

To my extreme annoyance, the quad beside the building is populated with dozens of fuzzy forms. Students, no doubt, which I should have been prepared for since their presence here is typical for a Friday morning.

Masses of incoherent blobs are situated on the ground, likely studying on blankets, while others amble along in small groups, heading to class or to their respective dorms with their friends.

I keep my gaze fixed ahead as I walk, my pace brisk, but even blind—even trying my best to ignore them—I can feel the way they all shower me with their judgmental gazes, as if they can see the evidence of what I did like a visible brand on my skin.

The anger in my chest swells with each step I take, and my hands curl into fists at my sides as I suppress the banshee-like scream rising up in my throat. The motherfucker didn’t remember me. Why, oh why , am I so surprised?

Of course, he didn’t, Lex! I was nothing to that manwhore freshman year, and I’m nothing to him now except another stupid notch he can add to his overpriced belt.

Another tick on his fucking list. From the day we met—regardless of how hot and intense our hook-up might have been—I was nothing but a mere blip on Damian Navarro’s sex radar.

A rogue lock comes loose from my bun—my hair reverting to its naturally curly state thanks to the humidity in the air—and brushing the sweaty strands away, I tug my phone free of my pocket and scroll through the contacts until I find Ronnie’s name. Her voice blares in my ear after just one ring.

“Okay, bitch. What the hell?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t talk before. Jesus, my head is literally throbbing.”

“Um, yeah.” She huffs, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes at me. “I’m not surprised considering the way you were pounding drinks like a British sailor last night. You ready to tell me where you ran off to?”

An icy shudder rolls over my skin as disjointed memories of the frat party and the mistake that followed pop into my head as if to torment me. Every time I dare to blink, Damian is all I can see, his smug smile haunting my thoughts. A smile I would pay good money to slap right off his face.

“I really don’t think I can have that conversation without caffeine,” I grumble. “Meet me at Izzy’s in ten? Oh, and do me a favor and bring my glasses with you? I left them in your room last night when we were getting ready.”

Ronnie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, but this better be juicy. I’m not facing the assholes on this campus bare-faced for nothing.”

“Don’t worry,” I assure her, groaning internally. “This is so juicy you’ll be able to drink it.”

Izzy’s, Conwick’s own independent coffee shop, is one of those artisanal rustic kiosks, with warm wood walls, chalkboard menus, and amber-tinted vintage filament bulbs hanging along the front edge of the awning.

It’s centrally located, positioned at the northeast side of the main quad right next to the student center as if it’s an extension of the building itself, but it has plenty of outdoor seating so customers can enjoy their drinks outside, come rain or shine—or even snow, for those willing to brave the New England winters, and who are too stubborn to get their order to go when space within the center is limited.

Which is almost always. Izzy’s makes the best coffee around and is popular with not only the students but with faculty, too.

I swear I’ve even seen the odd local sneaking onto campus to partake of its greatness.

Not wanting to contend with the near constant crowds, Ronnie, Andie, and I usually skip Izzy’s when the cold weather hits, and just opt for one of the inferior chains in town so we can sit inside and keep warm while we discuss that week’s latest gossip—or rather, while Ronnie and Andie discuss said gossip and I listen to their prattle intently, pretending to be interested in people I don’t know.

The coffee is never as good as Izzy’s, but nothing on earth is good enough to warrant freezing to death or losing a finger to frostbite.

At this time of year, though, we’re all too happy to soak up the fresh air, which means I get to enjoy Izzy’s caramel macchiato for a while longer before succumbing to the local Newport variation.

Ronnie is already waiting for me at one of the tables when I arrive—even as a blur, I’d recognize her anywhere, her mane of vibrant copper hair like a beacon that guides me to her through the crowd. She bolts up from her chair at my approach and gasps like someone auditioning for a telenovela.

Rushing over to me, she presses my glasses into my hand, and I quickly push them onto my nose, sighing when the world around me slides into sharp focus. I blink a few times, then glance at Ronnie, who gapes at me with shocked doe eyes.

“Did you trip on your skank heels on the way over here? You are a hot mess minus the hot,” she says, her upper lip curling. “Here, take my sunglasses before somebody sees you.”

She pries a pair of designer shades off the top of her head—the tortoiseshell frames are so obnoxiously huge Audrey Hepburn would be impressed by their size—and shoves them onto my face before I can protest, pushing them right in front of my glasses.

I’m sure I look absolutely ridiculous wearing both, but I’m so grateful for the relief from the scorching sunlight that I decide to leave them in place.

“You know,” she says offhandedly, giving my shoulder a light, sympathetic pat, “it’s a good thing we aren’t around any elementary schools. I’d be sincerely worried you might frighten the children.”

I scowl at her, but she just brushes me off with a flick of her hand, gesturing for me to go sit down before prancing over to the counter to order.

My thoughts are a tidal wave of nausea, pain, and regret as I collapse at the first table that crosses my path.

My vision is glassy as I wait, and I stare blankly ahead, seeing but not truly processing my surroundings.

I’m so out of it I could be sleeping with my eyes open.

Either that or fucking Damian Navarro again has shaken me far more than I thought.

The tinkling sound of Ronnie laughing is like a defibrillator to my heart, and I glance at where she stands at the outdoor counter, looking as glamorous as always despite her comment on the phone about being bare-faced in public.

If anything, she looks like she just walked off a movie set for a romcom, confidently donning a flowy knee-length skirt, heeled sandals, and a pink bralette as she talks up the cute barista.

He grins at her over the register, dimples for days in each cheek, and when she giggles at something he says—tossing her perfect curtain of hair over her shoulder—little cartoon hearts seem to explode from his eyeballs.

“I’ll have a vanilla latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon,” I hear her say with a flirty wink at Dimple Boy.

She then glances over at me, a worried frown tugging down the corners of her mouth.

“For that one, a caramel macchiato with several extra shots of espresso. The largest size humanly possible. Do you do buckets? Make it a bucket if you have one.”

Ronnie plops down in the metal chair opposite me a few minutes later, our drinks secured in a recyclable tray in one hand, and the barista’s number scribbled across a brown napkin clutched like a trophy in the other.

“Sorry.” She offers me a gentle smile, slipping my coffee free of the cardboard holder. “They don’t sell it by the bucket. The largest I could get was a venti.”

I make grabby hands at her. “I don’t care. Gimme.”

She slides the cup over with an appraising tilt of her head, and I lift it to my lips, moaning like a porn star faking the world’s biggest orgasm as the warm, soothing liquid coats my tongue. As I swallow, an unsettling thought crosses my mind.

Did I moan like that last night for Damian?

Nope. We’re going to nip that in the bud right now, thank you very much.

Desperate to put off the topic of my terrible life choices for as long as humanly possible—or as long as Ronnie will allow me to—I jerk my chin toward the napkin still clamped in her hand. “I see the barista gave you his number. Does this mean you’re officially over Jay?”

An air of hostility overtakes Ronnie’s serene summer glow, and she shoots daggers out of her eyes at me, their russet depths borderline homicidal.

“I thought we agreed to never speak of that lying sack of shit again.” When I lift a brow, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “As if I would still have feelings for Jay…assuming that’s even his real name.

” She scoffs. “No. Nope. I am setting my sights on greener pastures. More available pastures.”

“Like Dimple Boy over there?” I quip.

Ronnie bobs her head. “Exactly.”