Page 61 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

“It’s not.” My tone dances on the knife’s edge between polite and argumentative.

Though it wavers, I make sure to keep it mostly on the side of politeness.

“Damian spent months trying to get in my good graces again,” I say, submitting myself to the outright but necessary lie.

“The only recent part is us dating. Before that, it was more of a…tentative friendship.” When they still don’t seem quite convinced, I add, the words clipped, “Just because it hasn’t been documented doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. ”

That last statement seems to get their attention. Lenore gapes at me, looking utterly stymied, while Hector appraises me, his eyes considering.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but why you ?” he asks after a lengthy pause. “Of all the women he wronged with that immature stunt of his, why only apologize to you? Why apologize at all? What could have possibly triggered this uncharacteristic burst of conscience?”

It’s a good question. One I don’t have an answer to.

In the weeks since we our fake romance began, Damian and I discussed at length what we would say if anyone asked how we got together, and—worst case scenario—what our explanation would be in regard to how I could have forgiven him to the point we ended up dating in the event my connection to his bet ever became public knowledge.

Our agreed-upon response: that we’ve actually been friends for months, and he’s done the work to earn my forgiveness.

Easy. Simple. Vague but believable enough. Kind of.

But the question we never prepared for is that someone might ask us why Damian is with me . Given how I was the wounded party with the bet, and he was the villain, it wasn’t an angle that seemed likely to come up…so it didn’t occur to us to consider it.

A mistake that might very well cost us now.

I part my lips, pleading with my brain to come up with something—to process my scrambled thoughts and turn them into suitable words to get us through this conversation. But Damian speaks before I get the chance.

“Because she was the first one to call me out on my shit, long before either of you,” he snaps. My eyes dart to his face, and I notice that the frightened boy I saw in his gaze is now gone, hidden behind a hard expression I’ve never seen before. He looks…determined. No, not determined…

Defensive . Protective, even.

Of me.

“You might not believe it, but I did feel bad about what happened—maybe not about the bet, not at first, but definitely about the video.” He’s looking at his parents, but part of me can’t help wondering if these words are intended for me.

His eyes slide to mine for a flash of a second, and in those honey-tinged irises, I glimpse the answer to my unspoken question.

They are. “I was just so used to doing whatever I wanted, consequences be damned since there never were any”—he scoffs—“that I didn’t really feel the need to be sorry.

I figured it would all blow over and be forgotten just like everything else, and life would carry on as normal.

Except…Lexi didn’t let me forget it. At every opportunity, she gave me hell. ”

His parents don’t speak, riveted into silence. I don’t dare breathe a single word either, caught in the suspense of what he’ll say next.

Damian blows out a frustrated breath through his nose.

“For a while, I was too proud to apologize, and when I finally did to get her off my back, she didn’t want to hear it.

She just wanted me to own what I’d done—to acknowledge that I’d hurt her, hurt the other people involved, and actually mean it when I say I’m sorry. ”

A half truth of his own. Or is it? He certainly has me pegged correctly.

Damian lets out a bitter laugh. “It bothered me…that I couldn’t just smile and charm my way into her forgiving me.

For a while, I didn’t understand why. Why I cared about her opinion.

Why I cared if she accepted my apology or not.

” He shakes his head, shame creeping across his face, but I can’t tell if it’s just an act, or if I might actually be seeing another small glimpse of the truth.

Of the real him. “It took me realizing that I wouldn’t forgive me either to finally get it.

To realize I didn’t want to be that person.

Just another rich asshole making life miserable for everyone else. ”

His eyes, which had drifted down to the table in front of him, snap up again, locking hard on his father.

“You want to know why Lexi? Why now ? Because after years of having my behavior excused or covered up thanks to our connections and money, she was the only one who didn’t let me hide from it.

She held me accountable. And not just with threats”—his eyes harden at that, and I know he must be referring to his parents’ ultimatum—“but by actively trying to understand why I did it.” He reaches across the small aisle between us, taking my hand, his thumb brushing along the backs of my fingers.

A shiver runs up my spine at his touch, but I’m so transfixed by his words that I’m barely conscious of it.

“Because of that, she made me want to be better. Or good enough to deserve her, at least.”

He doesn’t give his parents a chance to respond, rising from his seat in a righteous fury, and dragging me behind him until we’re at the opposite end of the plane and safely deposited on the sofa, out of earshot if we keep our voices low.

“That was…dramatic,” I whisper, turning my face into his shoulder. I want to ask him about what he just said—demand to know if any of it was true—but I don’t dare risk it out of fear his parents might overhear us.

Damian looks down at me, and when a sly smile curls those luscious lips, the anger fading from his eyes, I grasp that the defensive outburst, the storming off—it was all a calculated move.

Disappointment sours in my gut. Was it all an act, then?

“Yup,” he says. “And now, they can stew on it.”

Though neither of us speak for a long time after that, he doesn’t let go of my hand once the entire flight. His thumb lazily grazes my skin without pause, and that touch, the tenderness in each passing brush…it’s enough to settle my unease.

And it makes me wonder if, maybe, what he said wasn’t at least somewhat true after all.

Our plane lands in Guadalajara five hours later, and after another forty-five minutes in a private car, we arrive at Damian’s abuela’s house, a hacienda-style three-story mansion located in an affluent residential area known as Colinas de San Javier.

The house itself is gorgeous, with red clay roof tiles, dark wood doors and windows, countless archways, ocher walls, and so much greenery the property almost feels alive.

The stairs leading up into the house are decorated with colorful floral tiles, and the warm yellow and wood accents I spotted outside continue in the mansion’s interior as we step through the arched double front doors into an expansive entry hall.

I’ve barely taken two steps inside when I hear a woman’s voice shout from nearby, “?A poco es mi nieto el que oigo?”

“Sí, abuelita,” Damian calls back. “We’re in the foyer.

” When I glance at him, the smile lighting up his face is blinding.

Taking my hand again, he says, “Come on,” and then guides me forward, around the upcoming corner to our left, and down a short corridor into the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.

The ceiling is a masterpiece in wood carving, and the walls—where they aren’t covered in shelves and plants—are decorated with that same yellow paint and exquisite patterned tiles that almost seem to tell a story with the imagery printed upon them.

The cabinets lining the walls and the island in the center of the kitchen are a soft sage green, topped with more of that warm wood used elsewhere in the property, and wrought iron sculpted into elaborate chandeliers hang from the ceiling.

An older woman who looks to be in her early seventies stands hunched over the counter on the opposite side of the island, but she immediately straightens when we enter the room, dusting her floured palms on her apron.

“Damian,” she coos, skirting the island at an impressive speed and crossing the distance between us at a brisk walk.

Damian bends down as she takes his face in her hands and kisses him twice, once on each cheek.

“My beautiful boy. ?Como estas?” she says fondly, pulling back a little to look at him, then startling when she notices me standing beside him.

“And who is this?” She looks me up and down, and then a mischievous smirk I recognize all too well tugs at the corners of her lips.

I realize now where Damian gets it from.

“Ella es muy bonita,” she stage-whispers to him, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

Damian coughs into his fist to cover his laugh. “Abuelita, this is Lexi. Lexi, this is my abuela, Lucia. And yes…she is very pretty.”

My cheeks flush, first at his words, then again when Lucia cocks a brow at him and asks, “Your girlfriend?”

Damian’s grin falters only a little—only just enough that I notice. Forcing it back into place, he nods.

If Damian’s smile in the hallway before was the sun, then his abuela’s smile is the entirety of all the stars combined.

She beams at me, lovingly patting my cheek. “Bienvenida, mi amor.” Her eyes snap back to Damian, narrowing. “Espero que este muchacho te esté tratando bien.”

Beside me, Damian snorts. “Of course, I’m treating her well, abuela. Geez. What do you take me for?”

I glance between them, mirroring their smiles and trying not to feel completely out of my depth. “It’s really nice to meet you,” is all I can think to say before hastily tacking on, “Thank you for having me in your home.”