Page 39 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

By the time the newlyweds depart in a shower of flower petals and well-wishes, anticipation has built to a low hum beneath my skin. Whatever Brooke wants to say, whatever happens next, at least we'll finally be honest with each other.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the first step toward finding our way back to what we lost.

FOURTEEN

Brooke

The walkback to our suite feels longer tonight, each step weighted with the unspoken words between us. Dean moves ahead of me, his shoulders a rigid line under his suit jacket, hands shoved in his pockets like he's afraid of what they might do if left free. The wedding reception was a blur of champagne and forced smiles, of watching Dean talk with Chase like they were old friends, of the strange possessive heat that bloomed in my chest at the sight. I've spent two years convincing myself I was better off without Dean McAllister. Two years building a life that doesn't include him. And now, after less than a week in Hawaii, that carefully constructed fiction is crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide.

I fumble with the key card at our door, hyper-aware of Dean's presence behind me, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the saltwater breeze drifting through the hallway. When the door finally opens, I step inside, immediately kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. Dean follows, loosening his tie as he closes the door with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

"You wanted to talk," he says, not a question but a statement as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over a chair.

I turn to face him, suddenly unsure where to begin despite rehearsing this conversation in my head throughout the reception. "Yes," I manage, then stop, distracted by the way he's rolling up his sleeves, exposing tanned forearms marked with the faint scars of ranch work.

"I'm listening." He leans against the dresser, arms crossed, expression guarded.

I take a deep breath, searching for the right words. "I saw you with Chase tonight."

Dean's eyebrows rise slightly. "And? I thought we covered this earlier, Brooke.”

"You looked…friendly."

"We were being civil. Is that a problem?"

There's a challenge in his tone that sparks something defiant in me. "No, of course not. It was just surprising, given how you felt about him earlier this week." I don’t know why I’m pushing this thing with Chase, and it’s clear Dean doesn’t either. I think I’m just stalling for time.

"People change," he says with a casual shrug that feels anything but casual. "Perspectives shift."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I realized he's not the one I should be worried about."

The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure I want to explore. "I wasn't aware you were worried about anyone."

Dean's laugh is short and bitter. "Right. Because this is all just pretend for you, isn't it? Just playing a part."

"That's not fair," I protest, heat rising in my cheeks. "You know it's more complicated than that."

"Is it?" He pushes off from the dresser, taking a step toward me. "Because from where I stand, it's pretty simple. I told you I never stopped loving you, and you reminded me this is all fake."

The hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache, guilt and confusion warring inside me. "I was scared," I admit quietly. "I still am."

"Of what, Brooke? Of me? Of us?"

"Of falling back into something we can't sustain!" The words burst out of me, louder than intended. "Of having to choose between my career and you all over again."

"So instead you're what—moving on? Finding someone who fits better into your New York life?" There's an edge to his voice now, something raw and wounded. "Someone like Chase, maybe?"

The suggestion is so absurd I actually laugh. "Chase? You think I'm interested in Chase?"

"I think you're looking for reasons to push me away." Dean runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Looking for an escape route before things get too real."

"That's not—" I start, then stop, uncertain if I can honestly deny it. "I saw you talking to him, looking so comfortable, and I thought maybe you were..."

"I was what?"

"Moving on," I finish, the words small and vulnerable in the space between us.

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