Page 79 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

I wonder if I should be alarmed that Blondie thinks I’m just a figment of her imagination, or if I should correct her by making it clear that I’m actually here.

Maybe it’s fucked up that I don’t. But I can count on one hand how many times she’s been candid about her feelings toward me (including those early days when her emotions were fairly singular and isolated to rage and loathing), and I don’t want to miss out on this chance to understand what she’s thinking.

To see behind the mask she keeps insisting on wearing around me, even though I’ve stripped back mine.

So, I step into a new role: the one she needs me to play. A role that will let me be there for her, to listen to whatever she’s willing to tell me, even if the only way she’ll open up is if she believes this is all in her head.

“He said that, huh?” I ask, committing to the part. “What a bastard.”

And it’s the truth. I am a bastard, so I suppose it’s only fitting that my proclamation from what feels like a lifetime ago should come back to haunt me.

“Yup,” she mumbles, heaving yet another dispirited sigh, and it takes everything in me not to reach across the table and touch her hand.

“What if he did?” The words are out before they’ve even fully formed in my head. At the question in her gaze, I clarify, “What if Real Damian wanted a girlfriend?”

What if I want you to be my girlfriend? Not a fake one but a real one.

I don’t know what I expect her to say, but it isn’t the “I don’t know” she whispers.

I bristle at the uncertainty in her voice. “Is it the bet? I wouldn’t blame you if you still haven’t forgiven him.”

She surprises me again by fervently shaking her head. “It’s not that. And I do forgive him,” she adds with a vehemence that squeezes my chest.

She hasn’t said it before—not outright—and I was starting to doubt she ever would. Not just say it, but truly forgive me. But now, actually hearing it…

It’s like music to my fucking ears.

“I just haven’t been honest with him.” When I don’t press her on the matter, she arches a brow and says, “Aren’t you going to ask me about what?”

I nearly tell her, “I don’t have to. I know.” But I stop myself before the words can slip free.

This is it. I’ve been waiting for her to talk to me about this. To open up. But now that we’re here, I don’t know what to think. On one level, this seems wrong, like I’m tricking her into it, while on another, I can’t help thinking this might be the only way she’ll ever feel safe enough to say it.

I don’t know how to answer her, what the correct option is, so I settle somewhere in the middle, leaving the decision up to her.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

She considers that for a moment before sitting up straight, her eyes slightly clearer than they were when I first walked into the bar.

“My mom has cancer. Chronic lymphocytic leukemia. They caught it early, so if we’re lucky, she’ll go into remission and we’ll have more time.”

My chest aches when she says the word “time.” The one thing I wish I could have had more of with Jamie.

“But…?” I prompt, sensing there’s more she wishes to say.

She lifts her shoulders in a weak imitation of a shrug. “But I can’t bring myself to tell Damian about it.”

“Why? Do you think I— he ,” I quickly correct, “wouldn’t understand?”

A melancholy smile tugs at her rosy cheeks.

“No, he would. Probably more than anyone else I know.” Her lips part on a shaky breath, and my own hitches as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

“It kills me that he told me about his brother and I can’t find the courage to tell him about my mom, but I’m just so afraid that…

if I do, it will be too much, and he’ll… ” She trails off again.

“He’ll what?” I press, my pulse throbbing under my skin.

“Leave,” she gasps, choking on a quiet sob. “He’ll leave.”

The dim lighting overhead catches on the sheen in her eyes, and it’s like a gut punch seeing those tears and knowing they’re because of me. Because my shitty past behavior made her think the worst and only compounded what she already believed.

That she isn’t worth sticking around for.

But these feelings inside her aren’t just down to me; my actions only contributed to a much deeper issue.

“I’m not your dad, Lexi,” I say because I need her to hear it. I need her to know there are men who won’t flake like her father and ex-boyfriend did—like I did. Men who won’t abandon her. I need her to know that she is worth all the love in the world and more.

She lets out a husky, bitter laugh. “And that’s how I know you’re not real. I never told Damian about my dad, and he never calls me Lexi unless he has to.” She grins, but the expression lacks humor. “You’re so busted, Hallucination Damian.”

I smile back at her, even though my heart is breaking. “You got me.”

Looking down at the table, she leans forward again until her chin is once more propped on her folded arms, and for a horrible moment that seems to stretch on for hours, neither one of us says a word.

“Hey, it’s getting late,” I murmur when her lids start to droop. “You must be really tired.”

“A bit,” she concedes. “Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes.”

“Not here, Blondie,” I warn with a glance over my shoulder at the bartender. Luckily, he’s too busy talking to busty Barbie to notice that Blondie’s barely clinging to consciousness because he didn’t have the fucking sense to cut her off.

If Blondie hears me, she doesn’t acknowledge my words, and within seconds, those beautiful eyes slide shut.

Running a hand through my hair, I dig my phone out of my pocket and pull up the one number I never thought I’d use. The one Blondie put in my contacts just before we left for Guadalajara.

Me

Hey it’s Damian. I’m at Grape Expectations with Lexi and I don’t think she’s in any shape to go home

Can you come get her and have her stay with you tonight? Might look kinda sus if I try to leave with her and I don’t feel like getting arrested

That, and it’s better for her to wake up tomorrow somewhere familiar and safe.

I’m not sure how many minutes pass between Ronnie’s response and the cousins storming into the bar, but their appearance seems almost instantaneous.

As soon as they walk in, I wave to them from that back corner booth, where I now sit next to Blondie to shield her from the bartender’s line of sight.

When we lock eyes, Ronnie nearly bursts into flames, revealing her true Satanic form.

“What the hell did you do to her?” she hisses once they reach the table, her eyes practically glowing red.

I hold up my hands in a placating gesture to plead my innocence. “She was already like this when I got here, I swear.”

Ronnie glances at her cousin, who shrugs. “I mean, that kinda tracks,” Andie says, and though I wonder what she means, I don’t press her for details. I can only assume this isn’t the first time Blondie has tried to drown her woes with gin.

Crossing her arms, Ronnie glowers at me. “Did she at least say why she’s drinking alone on a Friday night like the protagonist in a sad indie movie?”

I peer over at Blondie, whose head is still down on her arms, her face partially obscured by her hair. “Her mom and aunt found out about our agreement. I don’t think she’s taking them knowing too well.”

“Shit,” Ronnie mutters. Then, coming to some internal decision, she sighs. “Okay. We’ll take it from here.”

I slide out of the booth so the girls can reach Blondie, and as Ronnie takes my vacated seat, I lean in, speaking just loud enough for her to make me out over the surrounding music and chatter.

“She doesn’t think I was actually here. She convinced herself I’m a hallucination, and I just…

” I give a helpless shrug. “I don’t want her to feel embarrassed about anything she said, so maybe… stick with that.”

Understanding lights up Ronnie’s face, and she gasps. “Oh, my god, she finally told you about her mom?”

I cast a wary glance at Blondie, but she hasn’t budged an inch or responded at all to Ronnie’s words, so I give an affirmative nod. “Among other things,” I admit. “And I’m not sure how she’d react if she knew this is how she told me.”

Ronnie’s eyes follow my outstretched hand to her intoxicated best friend, who is quite literally drooling into her hair.

She frowns, then peers over at her cousin, who is sitting on the opposite side of the circular booth. “Hey, And?” When the other girl meets her gaze, Ronnie jerks her chin toward Blondie. “Would you take care of that, please?”

Her cousin doesn’t miss a beat. “On it.” Reaching across the table, Andie plucks Blondie’s cell phone from her relaxed grip while Ronnie gently maneuvers my fake girlfriend’s finger onto the button at the bottom of the screen to unlock the device.

I’m about to ask what the hell they’re doing when Andie turns the phone to face me. “Was Lexi here already when you made this call?” she asks, pointing to the latest entry in Blondie’s recent calls list.

I narrow my eyes and peer hard at the time stamp. “Yeah,” I confirm. “I called to see if she was okay and came here as soon as I realized she was drinking alone.”

Ronnie’s brow dips into a worried vee as she glances down at Blondie. “All right, delete that.”

Andie gives her a thumbs up. “You got it. And for extra measure…”

She taps Blondie’s phone screen, and a second later, Ronnie’s purse—which the redhead had tossed onto the table upon their arrival—starts screeching and shaking.

Reaching inside the bag, Ronnie pulls out her phone and hits the green answer button, letting the call continue for about thirty seconds before finally hanging up.

“Alibi secured,” she informs us, and I blink between the two of them, confused.

Andie gestures to the phone held aloft in her hand. “Lexi isn’t stupid. She’ll check her call log as soon as she’s sober. This way, she’ll think she called us , and that’s why we came to get her.”

“And with the evidence of your call to her deleted, she’ll never even know you were here,” Ronnie adds.

My startled gaze swings between the cousins. They look nothing alike, and I remember Blondie telling me they aren’t even biologically related, and yet…

“That was some really creepy twin-level shit,” I breathe, my voice awed, as Andie slides around the bench seat to the other side of the booth, and loops one of Blondie’s arms over her shoulders while Ronnie takes hold of the other, hoisting her upright.

As they shimmy out of the narrow space between the table and seat, the cousins exchange a smug smile. “We get that a lot,” Andie says.

They’re about to walk past me with Blondie in tow—her eyes are still heavy-lidded, but she’s conscious enough to at least shuffle along at their urging—when I choke out, “Hey, could you, um…keep me posted? Just the odd text to let me know she’s okay.”

Ronnie’s responding stare is assessing, as if she’s trying to make up her mind about something. Finally, she inclines her head. “Sure.”

I exhale a strained breath, my chest and shoulders visibly deflating with relief. “Thanks.”

“Let’s go,” Andie urges. “I love this bitch, but damn, she’s heavy.”

I expect them to leave then, but Ronnie stands statue-still, ignoring her cousin’s goading, her brown eyes locked intently on my face.

I don’t think she blinks once in the seconds that pass, and I’m about to ask what she’s looking at when she says, “It pains me to admit this, but…you’re maybe not as much of an asshole as I thought. ”

My lips curl into a smile, and I snort out a laugh. “That is the second best compliment I’ve received today.”

Andie pokes her head around Blondie’s wild mane of curls. “What’s the first?”

My smile deepens as I remember the sultry way Blondie called me Mr. Big Dick. But I don’t tell them about that. Instead, I tap the side of my nose and wink. “That one’s between me and my girlfriend.”

“I think you mean fake girlfriend,” Ronnie corrects me in a hushed breath before leading Blondie toward the door.

Maybe, I muse as I watch them walk off. But now that I know what’s actually going in Blondie’s head, it hopefully won’t stay that way for long.

After weeks of wrangling with my feelings and the kind of person I want to be moving forward, I’m ready for the real thing, and I want it with her.

I just need to find a way to prove that I’m not going anywhere if she’ll have me. That nothing could ever scare me away.

First, though, I remind myself with a heated glare over my shoulder, locking eyes on the laughing man behind the counter.

I’ve got a bartender to deal with.