Page 29 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

I push the thought away as quickly as it forms. This is exactly the kind of magical thinking that happens in places like Hawaii, surrounded by romance and family pressure. Once we're back in the real world, the dream will fade, and we'll remember all the reasons we couldn't make it work the first time.

But for now, my lips still tingle from his kiss, and the memory of his hands on my body makes it hard to focus on anything else. One thing's for certain—Chase is no longer on my mind. Instead, it's filled entirely with Dean, and the growing realization that this "fake" relationship might be the most real thing in my life right now.

TEN

Dean

The elevator rideto our room feels like descending into the seventh circle of hell, not because of the heat—though the resort's air conditioning is once again struggling against the Hawaiian humidity—but because of the woman standing an arm's length away, pretending she didn't just kiss me senseless on the deck of a catamaran. Brooke's shoulders are pink from the sun despite her ridiculous hat, her hair curling wildly from the salt water, her lips still slightly swollen from our "performance." She hasn't made eye contact since we left the boat, maintaining a careful bubble of space between us even as we stand in this metal box alone together.

"You're sunburned," I finally say, breaking the silence as the elevator crawls upward.

Brooke's hand goes to her shoulder, wincing slightly at the contact. "Missed a spot with the sunscreen, I guess."

"I have aloe in my bag." The words come automatically—taking care of her is a reflex I never quite unlearned. "It'll help."

"Thanks," she says quietly, still not looking at me.

The elevator finally reaches our floor, the doors sliding open with a soft chime. We walk down the hallway in continued silence, the weight of unspoken words growing heavier with each step. When Brooke swipes the key card and pushes open our door, we're hit with a wall of stagnant, hot air.

"You've got to be kidding me," she groans, stepping inside. "The AC's out again?"

I follow her in, flipping the light switch. Nothing happens. "Looks like power's out in the room."

Brooke moves to the phone, lifting the receiver to her ear. "Dead," she reports, slamming it back down. "This is just perfect."

"Probably a blown fuse or something." I pull out my cell phone, checking for a signal. "I'll call the front desk."

While I navigate the automated system, Brooke throws open the balcony doors, seeking any hint of a breeze. The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, rendering her efforts useless. By the time I reach a human at the front desk, she's pulled her hair up into a messy bun, fanning herself with a resort magazine.

"They're aware of the issue," I report after hanging up. "Power outage in our wing of the resort. They're working on it, but it could be a couple of hours."

"Hours?" Brooke looks at me in dismay, sweat already beading on her forehead. "It must be ninety degrees in here!"

"At least," I agree, peeling off my still-damp t-shirt and draping it over a chair. "And the humidity isn't helping."

Her eyes flicker briefly to my bare chest before darting away. "What are we supposed to do? Sit here and melt?"

"We could go down to the lobby. Or the pool."

She shakes her head. "I can't face more socializing right now. Not after..." She trails off, but we both know she's referring to the kiss, to Chase, to the complicated web we're weaving.

"Suit yourself." I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch, trying to look more comfortable than I feel in the oppressive heat.

For a few minutes, we exist in awkward silence, both trying to pretend we're not acutely aware of each other's presence. Brooke paces the length of the room, periodically checking her phone as if expecting a message announcing the triumphant return of air conditioning. I watch her from under half-closed lids, appreciating the way her sundress clings to her in the heat, the flush spreading across her chest.

"This is ridiculous," she finally declares, her patience visibly snapping. "I'm going to die of heatstroke in this dress."

Before I can respond, she reaches behind her back, unzipping her dress in one fluid motion. It falls forward, revealing a matching set of pale blue underwear and the smooth expanse of her back. My mouth goes dry.

"What?" she challenges, stepping out of the puddle of fabric and kicking it aside. "It's not like you haven't seen it all before."

Last night. This morning. Years ago. I've mapped every inch of her body with my hands and mouth, know the constellations of freckles across her shoulders, the small birthmark on her left hip. But seeing her like this—half-naked and defiant, sweat glistening on her skin in the golden afternoon light—hits me like a physical blow.

"No objections here," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.

She rolls her eyes but I don't miss the way her gaze lingers on my chest, my arms, my face. "Don't get any ideas. This is purely practical."

"Purely," I agree, not believing it for a second.

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