Page 78 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

I spend the next hour pacing my bedroom, chewing on my thumbnail and casting the occasional glance at my phone where it charges on my bedside table.

Just call her! the voice in my head shouts for the tenth time in as many minutes.

He’s right. I’m right. I should just call Blondie. What’s the worst that can happen?

That thought is immediately followed by every worst case scenario I can imagine. Blondie screaming at me for showing up out of the blue at her house. Blondie telling me I suck in bed. Blondie ending our arrangement.

God, when did I get so pathetic? When did I get so self-conscious?

Where the shit is Confident Damian when I need him?

I slap myself hard on the cheek. “Come on. You can do this.” With an affirmative head nod, I cross the room, grab my phone, swipe open the contacts, tap Blondie’s name, and hit call before pressing the device to my ear.

The ring tone repeats so many times I begin to think she won’t answer. Just as I’m about to hang up, the ringing ends, and I catch a faint, “…‘ello?”

I pull the phone away from my head just enough to glance down at the screen. I definitely called Blondie, but there’s a lot of noise on her end, and I can barely hear her.

“Dornan? Where are you?” I ask, trying to ignore the sudden panic flooding my insides, drowning me from within.

I can just about separate the jumbled sound of laughter and music from her muffled voice when she answers. “Grabe Expep…Expeptasins.”

Little cartoon men wearing firefighter hats race around in my head, on high alert, screaming, “Fire! Fire!” Is she drunk? I mean, it’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s weird that her friends would let her get so wasted she can barely speak comprehensible English.

It takes me a moment longer than I would like to decode her slurred words.

“Grape Expectations?” I ask. “The wine bar?”

Blondie chuckles. “That’s the one.”

“And how much of that wine have you had?” I press, trying and failing to hide the tense edge to my voice.

There’s a rustling noise, like Blondie is shaking her head against the mouthpiece, then a grumbled, “No wine. I’m a big fan of Gin Eyres.”

I hear a male voice then, and Blondie giggles at something he says, which instantly makes my jaw tighten.

“Is someone with you?” The jealousy in my tone is so blatant I cringe.

I know it’s ridiculous to think Blondie might be out drinking with the intention of getting laid, but then I remember the events that led to us hooking up back in September, and the caveman inside me rears his ugly head.

The thought of Blondie with some other guy—with anyone who isn’t me—ignites a possessiveness I didn’t know I was capable of.

She’s mine. She’s been mine since that day we kissed in my car. I only wish she knew it.

She huffs out a soft laugh, like she’s amused by my reaction, but doesn’t have the energy for anything that requires more exertion than that.

“That was just the bartender, silly.” I release the breath I was holding, but my relief is short-lived, replaced once again by worry when she asks, “Where are you, anyway? Why can’t I see you? ”

“Because we’re talking on the phone,” I say carefully, the dread roiling inside me so palpable I can practically taste it.

Then another thought occurs to me, and my whole body goes cold.

“Is Ronnie there with you? Or Andie?” Silence.

No response. “Dornan?” I press. Still, she says nothing.

“ Lexi ?” I almost shout out this time, desperation hitching my voice up an octave.

“Nope,” she finally drawls with a long-suffering sigh. “Just little ol’ me and the weight of my actions.”

Shit. She’s not just drunk and alone, she’s upset . With me? Because I turned up at her house uninvited? Because of what’s happening with her mom? I don’t know the answer, and the not knowing only stokes the flames of my growing trepidation.

There’s a demanding fervor behind my next words. “Stay put. I’m coming to get you.”

I’ve never moved so fast to get anywhere in my life.

The moment I hung up with Blondie, I bolted out of my dorm, and raced to the Renesmobile like Batman answering the Bat-Signal.

While I still abide by the laws of traffic (safety matters and all that), I definitely put my foot down on the pedal a little harder on the quieter roads, determined—no, needing —to get to Blondie as quickly as possible.

Less than ten minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to Grape Expectations, praying that I understood Blondie correctly. The breath that escapes me when I spot her in the back corner booth seems to take my entire body weight with it, leaving me practically floating as I rush over to her table.

Just as she said, she’s alone, surrounded by no fewer than a dozen empty highball glasses, her hair a wild mess and glasses askew on her face.

I throw an angry glare over my shoulder in the direction of the bartender, who should have cut her off probably six or seven drinks ago—or better yet, not served her at all considering she’s not twenty-one yet, though I know from experience he wouldn’t have bothered to check her ID—but he’s too busy flirting with a busty brunette to be paying any attention to Blondie’s blood alcohol level.

I’ll definitely be having words with that asshole before I leave.

Blondie’s eyes are glassy when they catch on mine as I slide into the rounded booth opposite her.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Big Dick,” she drawls.

A smile twitches at the edge of my lips. The size of my manhood was never in doubt, but it’s nice to hear she’s impressed by it.

Her brows knit together, forming the cutest little crinkle between her eyes. “What are you doing here? Or am I imagining you?” Her face pales a little, and she shakes her head, covering her eyes with her hands. “God, I hope I’m imagining you. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?” I ask gently. “I’ve seen you drunk before.”

She peeks at me through the gaps between her fingers. “No, all sad and weird.”

I snort. “I hate to break it to you, Dornan, but you’re always weird.” My smile wavers, and I hesitate a moment before asking, “Why are you sad?”

She lowers her hands with a beleaguered sigh, and her bottom lip wobbles as she stares down at the table. “Because Mom and Aunt G know the truth. They know we’re not really dating…and all the rest.”

My stomach twists. “The rest…like the agreement?”

She nods. “Mmhmm. And the bet.”

Now, my insides are doing gymnastics, and I feel like I might throw up.

Fuck. I suppose it was inevitable her family would find out about the bet sooner or later, especially with me showing up at her house earlier like I did.

One Google search is all it would take to damn me.

But still, I wasn’t prepared for the terror that grips me at the thought of her mom and aunt knowing about all the shit I did.

Or of them disapproving of any relationship I might have with Blondie.

“Oh. Are they, like…demanding you end it?” I force myself to ask.

If they are, then where does that leave us?

Nowhere, that voice in the back of my head taunts.

It’s right. If Blondie’s mom and aunt want her to end things with me, then that will be that. Agreement terminated. And though it would kill me to lose her, I would graciously accept it. I would never make her choose.

I’m steeling myself for that very outcome—for her to end it here and now—when she surprises me by shaking her head again. “Mom thinks it’s a terrible idea, but Gina gets it. We need the money, so…” She trails off, and a shiver travels over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

I hate the self-doubt that infiltrates my thoughts, that makes me wonder if Blondie is only sticking around for the money I’m paying her and not for more. Not for me .

I’m tempted to ask her, but it wouldn’t be right or fair—not with the inebriated state she’s in. So, instead, I ask, “What’s the problem, then?”

Blondie rolls her eyes. “The problem is they think you like me. Like… like like,” she clarifies.

My heart slams into my rib cage as disappointment chafes at every inch of my soul, rubbing me raw. I never knew words could hurt so much, but hearing that me liking her is a problem is a new kind of pain I wasn’t prepared for.

She stares at me, waiting for my response. I swallow down the hard lump in my throat. “That’s a lot of likes,” I deadpan.

She sighs again. “Mmhmm.”

Blondie rests her chin on top of her folded arms, slumping over the table, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so dejected.

Weirdly, it makes me optimistic. It makes me wonder if I’m misreading the situation, and the problem isn’t that I like her, but that she’s convinced herself I don’t.

That she believes her mom and aunt are wrong.

That conviction might be totally off, but it makes me brave. Brave enough to say, “Who says I don’t? Like like you, I mean.”

Blondie blinks those lovely eyes at me behind her glasses, which have slipped a bit farther down her nose, and the hope I find in them has my heart leaping over the damn moon.

The disappointment that filled me before evaporates as quickly as the dew coating morning grass on a hot day until I’m brimming instead with an elation that has me near to bursting.

Holy shit, I was right. Blondie likes me. Not just physically—not just for sex—but romantically .

But if that’s true…why does she look so unhappy?

Her bottom lip juts out in a deep pout. “ Because , Hallucination Damian,” she retorts, her tone chiding, “ Real Damian doesn’t do girlfriends.”