Page 24 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"It happens," I repeat flatly. "That's what you're going with?"

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" She finally meets my gaze, her expression a complicated mix of defiance and uncertainty. "It was a mistake. We both know that."

"Do we?" I release her wrist, watching as she takes a step back. "Because from where I'm sitting, it felt pretty damn right."

A flash of something—longing, maybe—crosses her face before she shutters it away. "We got carried away. The wedding, the pretending, the alcohol…it was inevitable, maybe, but that doesn't make it a good idea."

"And now you want to pretend it didn't happen."

"I want to focus on getting through this week without making things more complicated than they already are." She tugs the sheet tighter around herself. "We have a job to do, remember? Convince my family we're still together. That's it."

I lean back against the headboard, deliberately casual, watching her discomfort grow. "And the fact that I can still make you come apart with just my tongue? That your body remembers mine like it was yesterday, not two years ago? We just ignore that?"

Her cheeks flame red, and she turns away. "I'm taking a shower."

"Running away again," I call after her. "Some things never change, do they, Brooke?"

The bathroom door closes with more force than necessary, and I hear the lock click into place. I drop back onto the pillows with a frustrated sigh. I shouldn't have pushed. Shouldn't have called her out so bluntly. But damn it, I'm tired of the dance we've been doing since I agreed to this charade.

The shower runs for a long time. When she finally emerges, hair wet and slicked back, she's wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, her expression carefully neutral.

"All yours," she says, gesturing to the bathroom.

I stand, stretching deliberately, still completely naked. Brooke's eyes widen slightly before she busies herself with her suitcase, rifling through clothes with unusual intensity.

"Thanks," I say, padding past her. "By the way, the thing you did with your hips last night? Still my favorite."

I close the bathroom door on her scandalized expression, smiling to myself despite the frustration building in my chest. If she wants to play it cool, fine. But I'm done pretending this doesn't affect me. Done pretending she doesn't still own pieces of me I never got back when she left.

By the time I finish my shower, Brooke is fully dressed in a summery skirt and blouse, her hair dried and styled, makeup perfect. The composed New York professional, all evidence of last night's passion erased.

"We should head down," she says, checking her watch. "Mom texted. They're waiting."

I take my time getting dressed, deliberately choosing a t-shirt that I know shows off my shoulders, leaving it untucked above my jeans. Brooke watches from the corner of her eye, pretending not to notice but failing miserably.

"Ready?" she asks, a bit too brightly when I finally slip on my shoes.

"As I'll ever be." I hold the door for her, my hand finding the small of her back as we step into the hallway—a gesture that could be read as simply boyfriendly for any watching eyes, but that I know sends electricity up her spine.

The resort's breakfast restaurant is on an open-air terrace overlooking the beach. Most of the wedding party is already seated at a long table, plates loaded with tropical fruits and breakfast pastries. Brooke's mother spots us first, waving enthusiastically.

"There they are! We were just talking about you two."

Brooke tenses beside me. "Nothing bad, I hope?"

"Only how handsome you looked dancing together last night," her mother says, patting the empty chairs beside her. "Come, sit. The buffet is wonderful."

I pull out Brooke's chair for her, bending to murmur in her ear, "Play nice, sweetheart."

She shoots me a warning look but smiles for the benefit of her watching family. "Always."

I load my plate with enough food for a ranch hand working from dawn to dusk—eggs, bacon, fresh pineapple, pastries that look like they were made by angels. Brooke takes considerably less, picking at a fruit salad with the enthusiasm of someone facing a tax audit.

"Did you sleep well?" Linda asks innocently. "I heard the air conditioning was fixed in most rooms."

"Like a baby," I say, my knee brushing Brooke's under the table. "Your daughter is very cuddly."

Brooke chokes slightly on her coffee. I pat her back solicitously.

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