Page 68 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Sometimes, the only way to solve a complex equation is to start over with new variables.

When I wake up the next morning, Damian is already gone; if my panties weren’t strewn on the floor, and I couldn’t smell his expensive sandalwood and cardamom cologne on the sheets, I might think I dreamed the whole thing.

For a moment, I just lie still in shock, my fingers absently gripping the blanket.

Damian and I had sex again. Amazing sex. Mind-blowing sex. After what he said to me on Halloween about keeping things professional and sticking to the rules, I didn’t expect him to actually change his stance. He had seemed so insistent, so set on not crossing that boundary with me, and yet…

The memory of his mouth on me, of everything we did last night, shows a completely different side to his mindset.

As for the thoughts running through my head, at the moment, they’re singular, and my hand inches toward the ache building between my legs that I desperately wish he was still here to take care of.

But he’s not, and something tells me that any orgasm achieved via my own hand won’t be worthwhile. So, with no other option but to get the day started, I jump out of bed and into a cold shower before I combust.

Once I’m dressed, I find Damian—along with his parents and abuela—in the kitchen, all sitting at the table, eating and drinking their coffee in silence, while Xolo paces and sniffs around their feet on the hunt for scraps.

Lucia perks up the instant she sees me, and after ushering me to a free seat, immediately makes it her life mission to fix me a plate.

I can’t bring myself to tell her I’m still full from last night.

Not wanting to be rude, I pick at my food, every bite just as savory and saliva-inducing as the feast I indulged in the previous evening, and proceed to down two cups of what might very well be the world’s best coffee.

My eyes must light up with that first sip because Damian smiles at me from across the table with amusement and…

something else. Something I can’t quite put a name to, but that inexplicably has my cheeks burning and my pulse thundering under my skin.

I glance away before the others can notice.

We set off for the airport after we eat.

Just before we leave, Lucia embraces me tightly, and makes Damian promise he’ll bring me back to visit again—soon, and for longer next time.

Making that promise, committing to the lie that I will come back, physically hurts in a way none of the other lies have.

Maybe because I do want to come back. I do want to see more of this part of Damian’s life, not only because being here is so vibrant and rich, and I want to absorb some of that color into my own existence, which is painted in shades of monochrome lately, but because being here—seeing Damian here—it’s like taking a peek behind the curtain.

But that peek isn’t enough to satisfy me, and I can’t help wanting to see more, especially now that those missing pieces that were keeping me from glimpsing the full picture of him are beginning to slot into place.

Both the drive to the airport and the flight back are just as awkward as they were coming here, however, the judgment I sensed from Damian’s parents has now turned into a quiet contemplation.

Every so often, I feel them watching us.

Watching me . The one time I dare to meet their eyes, Damian’s mother gives me a careful, optimistic smile before glancing away, whereas Damian’s father…

he holds my gaze—not to challenge me, but as if he shares his wife’s tentative hope and is simply more reluctant to show it.

Whatever his parents see on my face must have alleviated their worries, because when we land in Newport, they both express a keen desire to see me again.

Agreeing to their request feels less like a lie and more like an inevitability.

A guarantee, especially since the expiration date for our relationship is still months away.

We part ways at the airport once the valets arrive with our cars, Damian’s parents going one way, and Damian and I driving off in the other, toward the other side of town. To my dismay, Damian is eerily quiet during the drive. Even that warm smile he offered me this morning has vanished.

Damian didn’t talk much at breakfast or throughout the flight, but I had assumed that was due more to the proximity of his parents than anything I might have done. Now, though, as I scan the profile of his face, I can tell something is eating at him. Something he seems wary to voice.

Does he regret what we did last night? Or think I’ve developed feelings for him despite assuring him I wouldn’t? Maybe I shouldn’t have let him stay in my room. Maybe cuddling was a step too far.

But the thing is, I needed that human contact.

After hearing the story about his brother—hearing about the tragedy that could very soon mirror my own—my anxiety was at an all-time high, clawing at the mask I’d slapped on to play the part of the perfect house guest. In reality, I was on the verge of erupting, every moment testing the limits of my mental restraint, and I couldn’t cope with the thought of sleeping in an unfamiliar place by myself.

Of being all on my own with the thoughts and fears hissing and snapping at me like violent snakes inside my head.

The house, while lovely, was too big, too full of ghosts, and without someone there to hold me together, I knew I’d only fall apart once alone.

But…I didn’t. Because Damian was there. Because he stayed .

And for the first time in my life, the anxiety bled away like rainwater down a drain.

The drive back passes quickly, and before I know it, we’re parked outside my house.

It’s not that late, but night has already descended, marking the arrival of November and blanketing the quiet road in a thick, heavy blackness.

My mom and Gina don’t know what time I was due back today since I conveniently “forgot” my phone, but even if they are keeping watch for me, they shouldn’t be able to make out who’s sitting beside me in the car thanks to the shadows. It’s only for that reason I linger.

“Thanks for coming yesterday,” Damian says, cutting the engine. “I think my parents liked you. My abuela definitely did, and that goes a long way in my family.”

“It was…” I almost say fun before having the sense to stop myself.

Damian’s mouth hitches into a smile when I fidget with my glasses, as if he’s surmised what I was going to say. “Fun?” he guesses. “It’s okay, you can say it. Some parts of it were.”

My brows quirk up when he winks at me. “So, you don’t regret it? Last night?”

He slowly bats long lashes at me. “No? What gave you that impression?”

He sounds genuinely confused—hurt, even. Still, I shoot him a skeptical look. “Last time you were this quiet, something was up. I just don’t know what else?—”

I clamp my lips together when the scolding voice of my conscience makes an unwelcome appearance.

Seriously? You don’t know what else could be bothering him? How about the dead brother he told you about just last night?

I resist the urge to slap myself on the forehead.

I’m about to tell him to forget what I said when he suddenly whispers, “You’re right.”

My stomach sinks, though I’m not prepared to analyze why. “But not about what you think,” he adds when he notices the look on my face and my hand lifts to adjust my glasses.

I shift in my seat to face him, trying—and failing—to ignore my now frantic heartbeat.

Damian doesn’t meet my gaze, keeping his focus on the window, staring out into the darkness of night on the other side.

“I meant what I said yesterday. To my parents.” His eyes remain on the glass, but even with his head averted, I can see his reflection…

along with the miserable expression he’s likely keeping his face turned from me to hide.

“I know you said what you had to, and I appreciate that, but what I said? It wasn’t a lie.

And I—” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, trying again.

“I’m so fucking sorry about the bet. About playing you, and making you think… ”

I liked you.

My insides turn slippery and cold at those unspoken words—at the humiliation and anger that are still there, ever present in my memory, but are dulling with time and as I get these tiny, earned glimpses behind his mask, like a knife losing its edge from wear.

“I’m just sorry about all of it,” he breathes. His eyes trail to mine, and the ice in my veins starts to melt at their warm, honeyed touch.

“What you said,” he continues a moment later, “about not regretting what happened last spring… I know it was just some bullshit you spun on a whim to appease my parents, but for me?” He lets out a quiet laugh, as if he can’t quite believe this revelation himself.

“That’s exactly how I feel about you. The part without a conscience, at least. That part of me is selfish, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing that’s happened because, if I had listened to that voice in my head and stayed away, I wouldn’t have gotten this chance to know you. And that would be a real shame.”

A hundred different thoughts whirlwind through my head in response to his confession. But all I can think to ask is, “And the part with a conscience?”

Damian considers my question for the length of a few steady heartbeats, and in those silent seconds, that’s when I see it: the genuine remorse in his eyes.