Page 25 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Careful, babe. Don't want you choking."

She recovers, shooting me a death glare thinly veiled as a smile. "Dean's such a caring partner."

"Always have been," her father agrees, nodding approvingly from across the table. "Remember when Brooke had that terrible flu three years ago? Dean drove through a snowstorm to bring her medication."

I did. It was one of those moments when I realized how deeply I loved her—standing in a 24-hour pharmacy at 2 AM, desperate to find anything that would ease her suffering. The memory lands like a weight in my chest.

"He's always taking care of me," Brooke says, and there's something genuine in her voice now, a softening that wasn't there before.

Our eyes meet briefly, and I see the acknowledgment there—that not everything between us was bad. That there were moments of real tenderness, real connection, that neither of us has forgotten.

"So," Linda says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air, "I was talking to Mrs. Henderson yesterday—you remember, Taylor's future mother-in-law—and she mentioned the most beautiful ring shop in the resort's shopping area."

Brooke freezes, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Ring shop?"

"For engagement rings, dear." Her mother's smile is wide and hopeful. "I thought perhaps you and Dean might want to take a look. No pressure, of course, but after four years..."

"Mom!" Brooke's voice rises an octave. "We're here for Taylor's wedding. This isn't about us."

"Of course, of course." Linda waves her hand dismissively. "But you're not getting any younger, Brooke. And Dean's such a catch."

Brooke's face floods with color. "We're not—I mean, we haven't really discussed?—"

"We're taking our time," I interrupt smoothly, placing my hand over hers on the table. "Brooke's career is important to her, and I respect that."

"But surely you've thought about marriage?" Linda presses, undeterred. "You two should get married already!"

Brooke chokes on the bite of pineapple she's just taken, coughing violently. I pat her back again, fighting a smile at her obvious distress.

"You okay there, sweetheart?" I ask innocently.

She glares at me through watering eyes. "Fine," she gasps. "Just went down the wrong way."

"Marriage is a big step," I say, turning back to Linda. "But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it."

Brooke's head whips toward me, her eyes wide with surprise—and something else I can't quite read. Fear? Hope? Whatever it is, it's real, not part of our act.

"You have?" she asks, her voice smaller than I've heard it since arriving in Hawaii.

I hold her gaze steadily, letting her see the truth behind my words. "Of course I have. Haven't you?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than anyone at the table could possibly understand. For a moment, the charade falls away, and we're just Dean and Brooke again, facing the question that loomed over us two years ago when she chose New York over a future with me.

Brooke looks away first, tucking hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture I remember well. "We should probably focus on Taylor's wedding before planning our own."

"Wise words," her father agrees, coming to her rescue. "One wedding at a time in this family, Linda."

The conversation moves on to the day's events—a catamaran tour for the wedding party, last-minute errands for the mothers—but something has shifted again between Brooke and me. My non-denial about marriage has rattled her, forced her to confront the reality that this isn't just a performance for me.

Under the table, her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining briefly before retreating. It's a small gesture, could mean nothing. But I choose to see it as an acknowledgment—that last night wasn't just a drunk mistake. That there's something still alive between us, something neither of us quite knows what to do with.

As breakfast winds down and people begin to disperse to prepare for the day's activities, Brooke leans close under the pretense of fixing my collar.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs. "Let my mother think marriage is on the table."

I catch her hand before she can pull away, bringing it to my lips in a gesture that looks romantic to observers but allows me to whisper, "Who says it isn't?"

Her eyes widen, and for once, she has no quick comeback. I stand, offering my hand to help her up, the perfect image of a devoted boyfriend. But the question still hangs between us, unanswered and unavoidable.

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