Page 51 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Your mother's looking pretty pleased with herself," I observe as we walk hand-in-hand toward the entrance.

Brooke follows my gaze and groans softly. "She'll be insufferable now. She loves being right."

"Runs in the family," I tease, earning a light shove in response.

The walk to our suite passes in comfortable silence, both of us aware that we've crossed a threshold but not quite ready to discuss what comes next. When the door closes behind us, shutting out the world and its expectations, Brooke turns to me with a mixture of determination and vulnerability that takes my breath away.

"I meant everything I said at the airport," she says, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "I'm all in, Dean. Whatever it takes."

The words trigger a memory—a decision I made two years ago, a plan derailed by her departure, a hope I never quite abandoned despite my best efforts. Before I can second-guess myself, I move to my suitcase, reaching into the inner pocket where a small velvet box has traveled with me from Colorado to Hawaii, a talisman of what might have been.

"There's something you should know," I say, my back still to her as I retrieve the box. "Something I've never told you."

"What is it?" Her voice holds a note of concern.

I turn, the box hidden in my closed fist. "Two years ago, before you left for New York, I had plans."

"Plans?" she echoes, confusion clear in her expression.

"I was going to ask you to marry me."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with the weight of missed opportunities and paths not taken. Brooke's eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise.

"You—what?"

"I had it all planned out," I continue, moving closer to her. "Dinner at that Italian place you loved in town. Then a drive up to the ridge on my property, where you could see the lights of the valley spread out below. I was going to tell you that I'd bought the adjacent forty acres, that we could build our dream house there, with enough space for your home office and maybe, someday, a nursery."

Emotion flickers across her face—surprise, regret, a dawning realization of what might have been.

"I didn't know," she whispers.

"You couldn't have." I shrug, trying for casualness despite the weight of the moment. "I wanted it to be a surprise. I'd just picked up the ring that morning. Had it in my pocket when you told me about the job offer in New York."

Understanding floods her features. "That's why you were so adamant about me staying. Why you couldn't understand why I'd even consider leaving."

"Partly," I admit. "Though I'd like to think I'd have supported your career either way, if you'd given us the chance to figure it out together."

"Dean, I—" she starts, but I shake my head, stopping her.

"No apologies. Not for the past. We can't change it, and maybe we needed this time apart to grow into people who can make this work now."

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods, accepting the grace I'm offering. "So what happened to the ring?" she asks softly.

I uncurl my fingers, revealing the small black velvet box I've carried for two years—through anger and heartbreak, through attempts to move on, through the gradual acceptance that some loves don't fade, no matter how much time or distance separates them.

"I kept it," I say simply. "I told myself it was because I couldn't bear to return it, to explain to the jeweler that the woman I loved had chosen a different path. But the truth is, I think I always hoped that somehow, someday, I'd have the chance to give it to you."

Brooke's breath catches audibly, her eyes fixed on the box in my palm. "Dean," she whispers, my name a question and plea all at once.

"I'm not rushing you into anything,” I clarify quickly, not wanting to pressure her when we've just found our way back to each other. "Not now. I know we have things to figure out first. But I wanted you to know that this—" I hold up the box, "—has always been part of how I saw our future."

I slide the box into her hand, our fingers brushing in a contact that sends electricity up my arm. "You don't have to open it. You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to have it, to know that when you're ready—if you're ever ready—it's here. I'm here."

Her hands tremble slightly as she holds the box, turning it over in her palm as if memorizing its contours. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for a reaction I can't predict.

"What is this?" she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

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