Page 15 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

I consider my options: a cramped, hot couch or a spacious bed with Dean beside me. Neither seems ideal, but one is clearly more comfortable than the other.

"Fine," I concede, trying to sound put-upon rather than panicked. "But stay on your side."

"Yes, ma'am." He gives me a mock salute that makes me want to throw something at him.

We turn down the bed together, a strangely domestic act that reminds me of countless nights when we actually were a couple. I take the side nearest the balcony, hoping for any breeze that might come through, while Dean takes the side by the door.

I lie down stiffly, hyperaware of his presence beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. We're not touching—there's at least a foot of space between us—but I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his soap.

"Night, Brooke," he says, his voice low in the darkness.

"Goodnight," I whisper back, staring up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan that's doing absolutely nothing to cool the room.

I close my eyes, trying to ignore his presence, trying not to think about the dream from last night, trying not to remember how it felt when he kissed me at dinner. It's hopeless. Every inch of me is attuned to him, aware of each breath, each small movement.

The minutes stretch into an hour, then two. I can tell from his breathing that Dean is still awake too, neither of us able to find sleep in the oppressive heat and the tension between us.

I roll onto my side, facing away from him, trying to get comfortable. The silk of my tank top sticks to my back, and I shift again, frustrated.

"Can't sleep?" Dean's voice is rough in the darkness.

"Too hot," I mumble, though that's only part of the problem.

"Try to relax," he suggests, and I can hear him shifting too. "Think cool thoughts."

I almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, lying in bed with my ex-boyfriend, both of us pretending this is perfectly normal while neither of us can sleep.

"Right," I say dryly. "Cool thoughts."

I try to picture snow-capped mountains, icy streams, anything but the man lying beside me. It doesn't work. All I can think about is Dean—his presence in the bed we're sharing, the memory of his kiss, the lingering images from my dream.

I spend the whole night thinking about him, drifting in and out of restless sleep, always aware of his body just inches from mine. And the worst part? I'm starting to wonder if coming up with this fake relationship plan was the biggest mistake I've made since leaving him two years ago—or maybe the best thing that's happened to me since.

Either way, I'm in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

SIX

Dean

I waketo a face full of dark hair that smells like coconut and something uniquely Brooke. Sometime during the night, the heat must have driven us both toward the center of the bed seeking the coolest spot, because she's curled against my chest, her back pressed to my front, my arm draped over her waist like it belongs there. It doesn't, not anymore, but my traitorous body doesn't seem to remember that.

For one selfish moment, I don't move. I let myself remember what it was like to wake up with her every morning, to feel her warm and soft against me, to know she was mine. The weight of her head on my bicep, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the slight curve where her waist meets her hip under my palm—it's all achingly familiar.

Then reality crashes in. She's not mine. She hasn't been for two years. And this—this closeness—is nothing but an accident, the result of a broken air conditioner and a restless night.

I extract myself carefully, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly, making a small sound of protest as my warmth disappears, but doesn't open her eyes. I stand beside the bed for a moment, watching her sleep, hating myself for still wanting her after everything.

The bathroom provides temporary sanctuary. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of her body against mine. When I emerge, she's sitting up in bed, looking adorably disoriented, her dark hair a mess of waves around her shoulders.

"Morning," she mumbles, not quite meeting my eyes. "Sorry if I, um…I tend to move around in my sleep."

"No problem." I keep my voice casual, like finding her wrapped around me didn't affect me at all. "The AC's still out."

"Great." She sighs, pushing hair out of her face. "What's on the schedule today?"

"Beach day, I think. Taylor sent a text." I hold up my phone as evidence. "Everyone's meeting downstairs at ten."

Brooke nods, sliding out of bed and gathering her things. "I'll shower first, if that's okay."

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