Page 37 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

Linda's words from this morning echo in my mind: *Fight for her. Not with grand gestures or ultimatums. Fight by showing her there's a path where she doesn't have to choose.*

But how do you fight for someone who keeps running away? Who responds to "I never stopped loving you" with "This is fake, remember"?

The answer, according to Robert Callahan—who cornered me with some excellent scotch before the ceremony—is patience. "My daughter's stubborn," he told me, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. "Gets it from her mother. But she's also smart. Give her time to realize what she really wants."

So that's my strategy now. Give her space. Let her come to me when she's ready. If she's ready.

Across the reception hall, Brooke finishes her conversation and moves toward Taylor, helping adjust something on her sister's dress with the careful attention she brings to everything she cares about. When she smiles at something Taylor says, genuine and unguarded, I feel it like a physical ache in my chest. That smile used to be for me.

Throughout the evening, we orbit each other carefully, fulfilling our roles as members of the wedding party but never quite connecting. During the formal dances, I spin Robert's sister around the floor while Brooke partners with James's brother. For photos, we stand side by side, my hand at the small of her back—a touch that once would have been intimate but now feels performative.

The worst part is, I can tell she's trying. She keeps glancing my way, keeps finding excuses to be near me, keeps touching my arm or shoulder when she speaks to me. Small gestures that might indicate she's reconsidering her stance on us.

But I've been burned twice now—once when she left Colorado, and again last night when she reduced what we have to pretend. My heart can't take a third rejection, so I maintain the careful distance I've established, responding to her overtures with polite smiles and brief answers before moving away.

It's cruel, perhaps. But it's also self-preservation.

"You look like you're planning someone's murder," Chase comments, appearing beside me at the bar where I've gone for a refill. "Let me guess—mine?"

I glance at him, surprised by his direct approach. "Nothing that dramatic."

"Good to hear." He signals the bartender for two drinks. "Though I wouldn't blame you. I came on pretty strong with Brooke the other day."

This is unexpected—an olive branch from the man I've spent the week irrationally disliking. I study him, looking for the catch, but his expression seems genuine enough.

"Water under the bridge," I say finally, accepting the fresh whiskey he offers.

"Appreciate that." Chase takes a sip of his own drink. "For what it's worth, I backed off the minute I realized how serious you two are."

I almost laugh at the irony—he thinks we're serious, while Brooke insists we're just pretending. Instead, I nod noncommittally. "Thanks."

"She looks at you the way my parents look at each other," he continues, his gaze finding Brooke across the room. "Like you're the answer to a question she's been asking her whole life."

The poetic observation surprises me, coming from the man I'd written off as a shallow flirt. "You don't strike me as a romantic, Chase."

He grins, unexpectedly self-deprecating. "I hide it well. Pediatrician, remember? Gotta maintain my tough guy image when I'm putting Hello Kitty bandages on scraped knees."

Against my better judgment, I find myself warming to him. "How'd you end up in pediatrics?"

"Always loved kids. Plus, they're the only patients who appreciate my dinosaur jokes." He shrugs. "What about you? How does a guy like you end up running a ranch in Colorado?"

"Grew up on one. Smaller scale, though. My dad had about twenty acres, mostly horses." I take another sip of whiskey, memories surfacing. "When he passed, I used the insurance money for a down payment on my own place. Started with fifty acres, expanded from there."

"Sorry about your dad," Chase says, genuine sympathy in his voice. "Must have been tough."

"It was." I don't elaborate—don't mention how Brooke was my rock during that time, how she helped me navigate the grief and paperwork and decisions that followed. How she was the one who encouraged me to follow my dream of a larger operation rather than selling my father's land and moving on.

"Well, for what it's worth, you seem to have built something good." Chase raises his glass slightly. "To knowing what you want and going after it."

I clink my glass against his, an unexpected moment of camaraderie with the man I'd considered a rival. "I'll drink to that."

As we continue talking—about our respective careers, about Taylor and James, about the merits of Hawaii versus other vacation destinations—I become aware of Brooke watching us from across the room. There's a strange expression on her face—confusion mixed with something that looks almost like possessiveness.

Interesting.

Chase notices too, a small smile playing at his lips. "I think your girlfriend is wondering what we're plotting."

"Let her wonder," I reply, surprising myself with the edge in my voice.

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