Page 6 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Your flight okay?" I ask, desperate for mundane conversation to anchor me.

"Fine." He reaches past me for my suitcase, his arm brushing mine. The contact, brief as it is, sends a shock through my system. Our fingers brush as he takes the handle, and I feel a spark—static from the dry airplane air, but it jolts me nonetheless.

"I can get that," I protest weakly.

"I'm sure you can." His eyes meet mine again, and there's something challenging in them now. "But we're supposed to be in love, remember? Let me play the part."

The walk to the taxi line is excruciating. We move side by side, not touching, while I scramble for something to say that isn't loaded with everything we're not talking about.

"The resort looks beautiful in the pictures," I finally offer. "Taylor says the beach is incredible."

"Mmm." Dean doesn't look at me. "How is your sister?"

"Good. Nervous about the wedding, but excited. She's marrying a great guy."

"Glad to hear it."

The stilted conversation dies as we reach the taxi stand. Dean puts my suitcase in the trunk alongside his duffel bag, and we slide into the backseat together. The driver asks for our destination, and I give him the name of the resort. Then silence falls again, heavier this time in the confined space.

I steal a glance at Dean's profile as he looks out the window. The strong line of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows. His hands rest on his thighs, large and capable, with new calluses I don't recognize.

What would those hands feel like on my skin now?

I jerk my gaze away, heat climbing up my neck. This is exactly what I can't be thinking. Not if I'm going to survive this week.

"So," Dean says suddenly, still looking out the window, "what's our story?"

"Our story?"

He turns to face me now, his expression unreadable. "For the last two years. If your family thinks we're still together, they're going to ask questions. How often I visit you in New York. Why I haven't proposed yet. Whether we're planning to move in together."

My stomach drops. I hadn't thought that far ahead. "I've been vague. Told them you're busy with the ranch, that we see each other when we can."

"And they bought that? For two years?" His skepticism is clear.

"They know I'm focused on my career." I look down at my hands. "And that you're…independent."

Dean makes a sound that might be a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's one way to put it."

The taxi winds along the coastal road, spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean appearing between the palms. Under different circumstances, this would be breathtaking.

"We need to get our stories straight," Dean continues, all business. "Last time we spoke. Last time we saw each other. What we know about each other's lives now."

"Right." I nod, trying to match his detached tone. "Well, we video chat regularly. You've visited New York a few times, but not as often as we'd like because of the ranch. I've told them you've expanded your property."

"I have," he says, surprise flickering across his face. "How did you know?"

I feel my cheeks warm. "I…might have checked your Instagram a few times."

His eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn't comment. "What else have you told them?"

"Not much." I twist my fingers together in my lap. "Just enough to keep them from asking too many questions. That we're taking things slow. That we're happy."

Dean looks away again, his jaw tight. "And are you? Happy, I mean. In New York."

The question catches me off guard. This isn't about our cover story—this is real. Personal.

"I..." I hesitate, unsure how honest to be. "I'm successful. My career is everything I hoped for."

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