Page 87 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

While I’m thrilled my mom approves of Damian, Gina is another story.

She was already firmly in his corner after what happened at the hospital in November, but now, she’s positively smitten—so much so, I’m starting to worry she might do something truly cringeworthy, like start an online fan club.

To my horror, Damian is just as obsessed with my aunt.

Because of her work schedule, we don’t see her often, but when we do, Damian always cries out, “Where the hell have you been, loca?” and then they immediately begin chattering like two pre-teen girls discussing their latest celebrity crush.

They’re so engrossed in each other during these talks that I’m fairly certain I could burst into flame right next to them and they wouldn’t notice.

But despite my internal grumblings, I secretly love it—love seeing how welcoming my family has been with him.

In fact, Damian grew on my mom and aunt so quickly that he even scored himself an invite to Thanksgiving, which we celebrated a week late to give my mom a chance to recoup after being in hospital.

Ronnie and Andie were there as well, and that evening, surrounded by all the people I care about, my heart felt near to bursting.

I even witnessed something that some would dare to call a miracle: Ronnie and Damian not only speaking civilly to each other but laughing .

About something having to do with Twilight , (Damian’s go-to conversation starter) but still.

I thought I’d sooner see Hell freeze over than witness the two of them getting along, and it made me wonder if there isn’t something to Damian’s vampire obsession after all—if it has some secret magical power that somehow brings people together.

When I said as much to him that night, he barked out a laugh and pulled me into a crushing hug, chuckling into my hair.

“It isn’t Twilight ,” he murmured before kissing the top of my head. “It’s you.”

Those two words have stuck with me since, and I see them echoed in every glance Damian’s thrown my way these last few weeks, in every smile he flashes.

I feel it in the way he holds my hand now as I try not to squirm under the intrigued gazes of the people around us, bedecked in sharp suits and dresses, each of them assessing the unfamiliar blonde on the arm of the Navarro heir.

We don’t go on many public dates anymore—not because we’re hiding, but because we don’t need to.

Now that this thing between us has become something real, there’s nothing to prove.

Still, stepping into his world like this, surrounded by people who recognize him but not me, reminds me of how different our lives really are.

The atrium of the Hallazgo conference building is breathtaking—a towering space of glass and steel, with polished marble floors reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers overhead and the moonlight filtering in through the vaulted skylight.

The gentle notes of a string quartet curl around us and intermingle with the surrounding conversations like smoke, and a massive Christmas tree stands near the entrance, its twinkling lights casting shifting patterns across the floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal the snow-dusted paths and manicured gardens outside.

Even the air smells expensive, tinged with champagne, pine, and whatever cologne the men in their tailored suits are wearing.

I’ve done a lot out of my comfort zone these last few months, but attending the Hallazgo Christmas party might just take the cake.

“You look beautiful,” Damian murmurs, lifting my hand and kissing my knuckles when he notices me fidgeting for the umpteenth time this evening.

I have my contacts in, so I can’t reach for my glasses, and my fingers are restless without something to grab at.

“I’m so glad I picked out that dress. It fits you like a glove. ”

I glance down at the dress in question, the ruched red mini with the long sleeves and high collar—the neck further accentuated by my hair, which is swept into an elegant updo—that Damian bought for me at that designer boutique near Warwick.

That day he took me shopping feels like a lifetime ago, and it’s crazy to look at where we started when this agreement first began and where we’ve ended up.

It’s crazy to look at this gorgeous man beside me and know that he’s mine.

Damian is impeccably dressed himself, his black suit cut to perfection, the dark silk of his red tie catching the dim light overhead.

The overall effect is effortless, polished, and completely unfair, especially with the way his sharp jaw and messy waves make him look both put together and roguishly disheveled at the same time.

He looks me up and down with a feral grin, then leans in close to whisper in my ear, “I can’t wait to peel it off you later.”

I flush at his purred words, which only make me squirm more.

When Damian suggested I wear this dress tonight, I hadn’t been sure about it.

It’s modest at the top, but it shows a lot of leg, and I was worried I would stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of cocktail dresses and chic floor-length evening wear.

But I’ve spotted enough other short dresses this evening to not feel too out of place, and I can’t deny that I like the way Damian looks at me when I’m wearing it.

Honestly, I think I could have worn an old potato sack, and people would still look at me the way they’re staring at me now—with that same sense of curious examination.

And they are curious; they want to know how a girl who came from nothing, armed with only a high IQ, managed to tame the unruly Damian Navarro.

“Damian,” a gruff male voice calls, and our gazes turn in sync to lock onto one of those very people sauntering toward us.

The man who approaches is older—mid to late fifties if I had to hazard a guess—with neatly styled hair and a close-cropped beard that are both more salt than pepper.

When he’s an arm’s length away, he holds out his hand.

“I didn’t think we’d see you this evening, but I’m pleased to find I was wrong. ”

Though Damian offers the older man a polite smile and graciously takes his hand, he stiffens—just a little. Just enough that only I seem to notice. “Mr. Cunningham. Merry Christmas.”

Mr. Cunningham—a Hallazgo board member, I presume—glances between us, his gaze catching on mine. “Merry Christmas to you both. And this is…?”

Damian’s hand loops around me, settling on my hip with a silent possessiveness that’s surprisingly exhilarating and hot .

This man isn’t a threat to me—I can tell as much by his kind hazel eyes—or to the place Damian has in my heart.

And Damian isn’t the kind of guy who gets easily provoked, despite that one instance last month when I suspect he might have punched someone in the face (fingers crossed, it was Mason).

But that isn’t what this is about. His arm around my waist isn’t a show of ownership or jealousy; it’s a quiet reassurance, a reminder that we are solid.

That no one’s scrutiny—not the board’s, not the public’s, not even his parents’—can shake us or what we have.

“Alexandria Dornan,” I say with an easy smile, shaking Mr. Cunningham’s proffered hand.

“Ah. The genius, I presume?” he asks, the fascination clear in his eyes. Someone has been reading the tabloids, it seems.

“That’s the one,” Damian confirms with a grin that’s somehow both cool and detached and yet, full of so much heat it scorches my insides.

Mr. Cunningham nods. “Very good. Well, I’ll let you young folk mingle. It was good seeing you, Damian. I hope our paths cross more frequently in the future.”

The tension in Damian’s shoulders only eases when Mr. Cunningham strolls away.

“Oh, you hated that, didn’t you?” I whisper.

Damian shoots me a sidelong glance. “Oof, I hope it wasn’t that obvious to him.”

I chuckle. “I doubt it. I just know you.” And I could see how his polite veneer was masking an obvious disdain.

“You do,” he agrees with a dopey grin, using the arm around my waist to pull me in so he can press a soft kiss to my lips.

“He seemed happy to see you, though,” I note when we separate a moment later. “That’s a good sign, right?”

A thoughtful crease forms between his brows.

“As far as my dad’s board of directors go, Mr. Cunningham actually isn’t all that bad.

If any of them are going to be forgiving, and more importantly, be onside with our proposal, it would likely be hi—” Damian breaks off mid-sentence, his eyes enlarging. “Shit, incoming,” he mutters.

I follow his distracted gaze to his mother, who now crosses the room toward us, clad in a midnight blue evening gown, a flute glass in one hand.

My stomach twists at the sight of her. I haven’t seen either of Damian’s parents since that trip to Guadalajara, and though Lenore was kind enough to me, I can’t forget the look of concern in her eyes when she questioned me, or the careful hope that had replaced it when we said our goodbyes.

It’s been seven weeks since then—seven weeks in which she could have changed her opinion of me. Will I find that same apprehension in her eyes again? That doubt?

Or will I find something new?

To my relief, a genial grin splits her face as she approaches us. “Damian,” she says, punctuating his name with a kiss on the cheek. Then she turns and takes my hand. “Lexi. It’s wonderful to see you again. You both look lovely.”

I flush at the compliment and pray she doesn’t look too closely at how high my hemline is. “Mrs. Navarro.”

She clicks her tongue. “Lenore, please,” she corrects me, and the warm smile that follows immediately sets me at ease. “I hope you two are enjoying yourselves?”

“Immensely,” Damian deadpans.

I bite my lip as Lenore gives her son an admonishing look, but then an amused smirk creeps across her face, washing the tension away.