Page 2 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

Dean doesn't say anything about me anymore. He hasn't in two years. But she doesn't know that.

"Right, well, I should get back to this presentation." I need to end this call before I hyperventilate. "Tell Dad I said hi."

"Don't forget to email me your flight details, and Dean's if he's coming separately. Oh, and remember it's Hawaii, so pack light dresses. Though I'm sure Dean loves you in anything."

"Bye, Mom." I hang up before she can say anything else about the man who no longer loves me in anything.

The office is quiet around me, most of my coworkers long gone. The weight of what I've just done—the lie I've just doubled down on—presses against my chest. For two years, I've managed to dodge family gatherings, making excuses about work and Dean's ranch obligations. I've vaguely mentioned Dean in conversations, letting my family assume we're still together. It was easier than explaining why I really left Colorado, easier than admitting I ran from the one relationship that ever meant something.

And now I've trapped myself. In eighteen days, I'm supposed to show up in Hawaii with the ex-boyfriend I haven't spoken to since I walked out of his life.

My hands aren't actually shaking, but they should be. I minimize my presentation and open my personal email, typing "Dean McAllister" into the search bar. Our last exchanges appear—logistical details about the stuff I left behind, terse and formal. Nothing for almost two years now.

I pull up Instagram instead and type his name. His profile hasn't been updated in months. The last photo shows him on his ranch, a golden retriever at his side, mountains in the background. His face is partially shadowed by his cowboy hat, but I can still see the strong line of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips that never quite becomes a full smile for photos.

He looks good. He looks like he's moved on.

I close the app and drop my head into my hands. How am I supposed to convince this man—this proud, stubborn rancher who I left behind—to pretend we're still together for my sister's week-long destination wedding?

My stomach churns with an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. Guilt for lying to my family. Guilt for running from Dean. Guilt for the mess I've created that's finally caught up to me.

I need to call him. Right now, before I lose my nerve.

I pick up my phone again, my thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. I never deleted it. I told myself it was practical—in case I needed to reach him about mail or forgotten belongings—but the truth is, I couldn't make myself erase that final connection.

Before I can overthink it further, I press call. Each ring feels like an eternity, each second stretching my nerves tighter.

What will I say?Hey, Dean, I know I broke your heart and we haven't spoken in two years, but want to pretend we're still madly in love so I don't have to admit to my family that I've been lying this whole time?

The ringing stops.

"Brooke?"

His voice. Deep and slightly rough, with that hint of surprise that tells me he never expected to hear from me again. Just one word—my name—and I'm back in Colorado, back in his arms, back in the life I ran from.

My throat closes. The words don't come.

"Brooke? You there?"

I need to speak. I need to ask the impossible.

"Dean," I finally manage, my voice barely a whisper in the empty office. "I need your help.”

TWO

Dean

I'mknuckle-deep in the engine of my old Ford when my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket. Sweat drips off my brow despite the cool Colorado mountain air, and I curse under my breath as I knock my head against the hood trying to back out too fast. Two years of peace and quiet on this ranch, and I still jump like I'm expecting something—or someone—to come crashing back into my life.

I wipe my greasy hands on a rag tucked into my belt loop and pull out my phone, squinting at the screen against the afternoon sun. The name flashing there stops me cold.

Brooke Callahan.

For a second, I think I'm hallucinating. Maybe that knock to the head was harder than I thought. But the phone keeps buzzing, insistent, her name bold as day on my screen.

Two years of silence, and suddenly she's calling like we talked yesterday.

My thumb hovers over the screen. Part of me—the smarter part—is screaming to let it go to voicemail. But my heart's already racing, and before I can think better of it, I swipe to answer.

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