Page 5 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

I nod, even though she can't see me. "Email me the flight details. I'll meet you at the airport."

"Thank you, Dean. Really."

"Yeah." I swallow hard. "See you in Hawaii."

I hang up before she can say anything else, before I can change my mind about any of it. My hand is shaking slightly as I lower the phone, and I stare at it for a long moment.

What the hell am I doing? Agreeing to spend a week pretending to be in love with the woman who broke my heart? It's insane. Self-destructive. Possibly the worst idea I've had since thinking she'd choose me over New York in the first place.

But as I walk into my too-quiet house, kicking off my boots at the door, I can't deny the treacherous spark of anticipation burning in my chest. For two years, I've told myself I'm over her. For two years, I've been lying.

Maybe it's fitting that now I'll be lying to everyone else too.

I grab a beer from the fridge and drop heavily onto my couch, looking around the living room I designed with her in mind—the big windows she would have loved, the stone fireplace where I imagined us sitting on winter nights.

Eighteen days. In eighteen days, I'll see Brooke Callahan again. I'll hold her hand and put my arm around her waist and pretend it doesn't kill me to touch her.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get her out of my system for good.

I take a long pull of my beer, but it does nothing to douse the heat spreading through my chest—an uncomfortable warmth that I recognize as hope—the most dangerous feeling of all.

THREE

Brooke

The Hawaiian airhits me like a warm, fragrant blanket the moment I step off the plane. It should be paradise—this island oasis with its swaying palms and azure waters stretching to the horizon. Instead, my stomach twists into origami shapes, folding and refolding with each step toward baggage claim. Somewhere in this airport is Dean McAllister, the man I haven't seen in two years, the man who's agreed to be my fake boyfriend for the next seven days. The man whose heart I broke.

I check my reflection in a bathroom mirror before heading to baggage claim. The ten-hour flight from New York hasn't done me any favors—my hair is a mess despite my attempts to tame it, and there are shadows under my eyes that concealer can't quite hide. I smooth down my wrinkled silk blouse and take a deep breath.

"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. "It's just pretend."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Nothing about Dean has ever been "just" anything.

By the time I make it to baggage claim, my pulse is racing so fast I can feel it in my throat. I scan the crowd, part of me hoping he's late, that I'll have more time to prepare. Another part—the treacherous part I've spent two years trying to silence—hopes he's already here.

I don't see him among the people milling around the carousel, and relief mingles with disappointment as I spot my suitcase. Maybe we'll meet at the hotel instead. Maybe?—

"Need a hand with that?"

The voice behind me sends electricity down my spine. Deep, slightly rough, with that hint of a drawl he never could shake. I know who it is before I turn around, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him.

Dean McAllister stands before me, solid and real and devastatingly handsome in a way that makes my chest ache. His light brown hair is a bit longer than he used to wear it, slightly tousled like he's been running his hands through it. His gray eyes catch mine, and for a moment, the bustle of the airport fades away.

He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and faded jeans with boots—so different from the suits and designer clothes of the men I've dated in New York. So quintessentially Dean.

"Hi," I manage, the word embarrassingly breathless.

Dean's eyes travel over me slowly, taking in every detail, and I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. When he finally speaks, his voice is controlled, giving nothing away.

"You look tired, Brooke."

Not 'you look good' or 'it's nice to see you.' Just an observation, coolly delivered. I shouldn't be disappointed. This isn't real.

"Ten-hour flight," I say with a shrug I hope appears casual. "You look..."Incredible. Better than I remembered. Like everything I've been trying to forget."...well."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Ranch life agrees with me."

It does. He's always been fit, but there's a new kind of strength to him now—earned from hard work under the Colorado sun, not gym sessions between meetings like the men I know in New York.

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