Page 52 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Is this—" she swallows visibly, "—are you giving me the ring to hold for someday? Or are you..."

She trails off, leaving the question unfinished but clear nonetheless. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize what she's asking—not if I'm proposing, but if I'm not.

"What do you want it to be?" I ask, giving her the space to define this moment herself.

Brooke looks up from the box, her eyes meeting mine with a directness that takes my breath away. "I want it to be a beginning," she says. "Not just of our relationship, but of our life together. I want it to be a promise that we'll figure out the hard parts together, that we won't run from the challenges."

She takes a deep breath, then asks the question I never expected to hear today: "Dean McAllister, are you asking me to marry you?"

The world seems to still around us, the moment crystallizing into perfect clarity. This isn't how I planned it—not two years ago, and certainly not this morning when I was preparing to leave Hawaii with a broken heart. But maybe that's fitting. Our path has never been the neat, straight line Brooke prefers in her carefully ordered life. It's been messy and complicated and real.

"Yes," I say, the word emerging with absolute certainty. "I am asking you to marry me, Brooke. Not because it's the logical next step or because it's what's expected, but because I love you. Because I want to build a life with you, wherever and however that takes shape."

My hands are numb with anticipation, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an overwhelming heat that I recognize as love in its purest form—the kind that endures separation, that forgives mistakes, that believes in second chances.

"I was gonna propose two years ago," I continue, my voice rough with emotion. "I still want to. I still see you as my future, my family, my home."

Tears spill down her cheeks now, but her smile is radiant through them. "Then ask me properly," she says, holding out the still-closed box. "Ask me, and I'll answer."

I take the box from her hand, dropping to one knee on the hotel room floor. It's not the romantic setting I once envisioned—no sunset view, no carefully prepared speech. Just us, raw and honest and certain in a way we never were before.

"Brooke Callahan," I say, opening the box to reveal the ring I chose for her two years ago—a simple solitaire diamond set in platinum, elegant and timeless like the woman herself. "Will you marry me? Will you take this risk with me, build a life with me, love me through all the complications and challenges ahead?"

Her hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. "Yes," she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. "Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to all of it."

I slide the ring onto her finger with hands that aren't quite steady, marveling at how perfectly it fits—as if it was always meant to be there, waiting for the moment when we were both ready to embrace our future together.

When I stand, pulling her into my arms, Brooke clings to me as if afraid I might disappear. "We're really doing this," she murmurs against my chest, wonder in her voice.

"We really are," I confirm, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Scared?"

She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, her eyes clear and certain despite the tears still clinging to her lashes. "Terrified," she admits with a small laugh. "But in the best possible way."

I capture her lips in a kiss that contains all the promises we've just made—tender at first, then deepening as she melts against me, her fingers tangling in my hair. When we finally break apart, both breathless, I rest my forehead against hers.

"I love you," I tell her, the words simple but carrying the weight of everything we've been through to reach this point.

"I love you too," she replies, no hesitation, no qualifiers, just the pure, unvarnished truth. "Always have. Always will."

Outside our window, the Hawaiian sun begins its descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. It's not the ending I expected when I woke this morning, but as Brooke's arms tighten around me, her ring catching the dying light, I realize it's the beginning I've been waiting for all along.

NINETEEN

Brooke

The weightof Dean's ring on my finger feels both strange and inevitable, like a key sliding into a lock I didn't know needed opening. We stand in the center of our hotel suite, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air in the quiet aftermath of a moment that has irrevocably changed everything. Engaged. To Dean McAllister. The thought sends a tremor through me—not fear this time, but a wild, exhilarating joy I've never permitted myself to feel fully until now. His hands cradle my face as though I'm something precious, something that might disappear if he loosens his grip. But I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. Not ever again.

"You okay?" he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from my cheek I hadn't realized I'd shed.

"Better than okay," I whisper back, pressing closer to him, needing to feel the solid warmth of his body against mine. "I'm just…happy. Really happy."

His smile in response is like sunrise breaking over the mountains he loves so much—gradual at first, then blindingly bright. "Me too," he says, the simple words carrying the weight of everything we've overcome to reach this moment.

I lift my hand between us, watching how the diamond catches the late afternoon light streaming through our balcony doors. The ring is perfect—not flashy or ostentatious, but elegant and timeless. That he chose it two years ago, that he's carried it all this time despite my rejection, despite the pain I caused him…the knowledge makes my heart ache with love and regret in equal measure.

"It's beautiful," I tell him, meaning more than just the ring.

"It reminded me of you," Dean says, his voice roughened with emotion. "Strong, brilliant, enduring."

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