Page 34 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Nothing to be sorry about." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Just keeping things in perspective."

He holds the door open for me, every inch the perfect gentleman, and I walk past him with a heavy heart. In the elevator, we stand side by side, not touching, the silence between us thick and uncomfortable.

Just before the doors open to the lobby, Dean speaks, his voice so low I almost miss it. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. Every word."

Then the doors slide open, and he's offering his arm with a practiced smile, stepping back into the role of devoted boyfriend as we join my waiting family. I take it automatically, pasting on my own smile while inside I'm screaming.

I never stopped loving you, Brooke.

The words echo in my head throughout the rehearsal, through the dinner that follows, through the toasts and laughter and preparations for tomorrow's ceremony. Dean plays his part flawlessly—attentive, charming, the perfect partner. No one would guess that just an hour ago, he laid his heart bare and I stomped on it out of fear.

No one except me, acutely aware of the subtle changes in his behavior. The way his hand no longer lingers at my waist. The way his smile doesn't reach his eyes when he looks at me. The careful distance he maintains even when we're side by side.

I did this. I pushed away the one person who knows me better than anyone, who loves me despite all my flaws and fears, who offered compromise when I couldn't see past my own insecurities.

As the evening winds down and we make our way back to our room, I wonder if I've finally broken something that can't be fixed. If my instinct to run from anything that threatens my carefully constructed independence has cost me the one man who might be worth the risk.

Dean goes through the motions—holding doors, making small talk about the dinner, behaving exactly as a boyfriend should. But there's a distance in his eyes that wasn't there before, a guardedness that tells me he won't be making himself vulnerable again.

And the worst part is, I don't blame him. I'd protect myself too, if I were him. I'd build walls a mile high to keep out the woman who rejected me not once, but twice.

The question is, now that I'm starting to realize what I've done—what I might be losing—is it too late to tear those walls down?

TWELVE

Dean

The morningof Taylor's wedding dawns bright and clear, the perfect Hawaiian day for a perfect Hawaiian wedding. I've been awake for hours, watching pink light seep across the ceiling as Brooke sleeps on the far edge of the bed, as distant in sleep as she was after I bared my soul to her last night. I said the words I've kept locked inside for two years—I never stopped loving you—and she responded by reminding me this is all pretend. I should have known better. Should have remembered that Brooke Callahan runs from anything that threatens the neat, controlled life she's built for herself. Including me. Especially me.

The worst part isn't the rejection—I've survived that before. It's the knowledge that for a moment, I actually believed things could be different this time. That the passion we've rediscovered this week might have opened her eyes to what she left behind. More fool me.

I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. Not ready for the polite mask she'll put on, the careful distance she'll maintain while we continue this charade for her family. Yesterday hurt enough; I need time to shore up my defenses before facing her again.

The shower helps clear my head, the routine of shaving and dressing giving me purpose. By the time Brooke stirs, I'm fully armored in khakis and a button-down, ready for the day's pre-wedding activities.

"Morning," she says, her voice still husky with sleep, her eyes cautious as they find mine. "You're up early."

"Big day." I keep my tone neutral, giving her nothing. "Your dad texted. The groomsmen are meeting at eight for breakfast before getting dressed."

She sits up, drawing the sheet with her even though she's wearing pajamas. "Oh. Right."

"I'll head down, give you some space to get ready." I check my watch, a deliberate gesture to avoid meeting her eyes. "Taylor needs you in the bridal suite at nine, right?"

"Yes." She pushes hair from her face, looking smaller than usual against the big white pillows. "Dean, about last night?—"

"Nothing to talk about." I cut her off, not ready for whatever explanation or apology she's about to offer. "We're good."

Her expression says we're anything but good, but she doesn't push. "Will I see you before the ceremony?"

"Probably not. I'll be with the guys until then." I grab my wallet and phone from the nightstand. "I'll save you a seat at the reception."

I'm nearly to the door when her voice stops me, soft and tentative. "Dean?"

I turn, one hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Be careful with my dad today. He takes his scotch a little too seriously at these things."

It's so unexpected—this small, normal concern—that I feel my armor crack slightly. "I'll keep an eye on him," I promise, our gazes holding for a moment before I turn and leave.

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