Page 8 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

Dean and I exchange a look. This wasn't part of the plan.

"Is there any way we could get separate rooms?" I ask quietly.

The receptionist's smile falters. "I'm sorry, but we're fully booked for the wedding. And the reservation specifically requested the suite for both of you."

"My mother," I mutter, closing my eyes briefly.

"It's fine," Dean says suddenly, taking the key cards from the receptionist. "We'll manage."

As we walk toward the elevators, I hiss, "What are you doing? We agreed on separate rooms."

"And now we've got one room." He punches the elevator button. "Unless you want to explain to your mother why we suddenly need to sleep apart."

He's right, damn him. The elevator arrives, mercifully empty, and we step inside.

"I'll take the couch," I say as the doors close.

"Like hell you will." Dean leans against the wall, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes. "I'll take the couch. I'm used to roughing it."

"This isn't your ranch, Dean. You're doing me a favor. I'll take the couch."

The elevator stops on our floor, and we step out into a hallway lined with tropical artwork. Dean leads the way to our suite, unlocking the door and holding it open for me.

The room is stunning—all cream and pale green with natural wood accents, massive windows opening onto a private balcony with an unobstructed view of the ocean. A king-sized bed dominates one wall, adorned with flower petals arranged in a heart shape.

"Jesus," Dean mutters, setting down our bags.

I move to the balcony, needing air. The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in impossible shades of pink and gold. Below, wedding guests lounge by the infinity pool or stroll along the pristine beach.

Dean follows me out, keeping his distance but close enough that I can smell his cologne—the same one he's always worn, woody and subtle. We stand in silence for a moment, watching the waves crash against the shore.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," I finally admit, not looking at him.

"Which part? Lying to your family or pretending to still be in love with me?"

I turn to face him then, and find him watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"Both," I whisper honestly.

Something flickers in his eyes—a vulnerability quickly masked. Then his lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I guess we better start practicing being in love again," he says, his voice low and rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. All I can see is Dean, backlit by the Hawaiian sunset, looking at me like he used to—like I'm everything he's ever wanted.

Then he turns away, heading back into the room, leaving me alone on the balcony with shaking knees and the lingering sensation that I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Or maybe the second biggest. The first was leaving him in the first place.

FOUR

Dean

I've faced downangry bulls and winter blizzards without flinching, but watching Brooke get dressed for dinner has me gripping the balcony railing like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to earth. She moves around the suite in a cloud of perfume and barely-there silk, all long legs and bare shoulders, pretending I'm not even here. Two can play at that game. I keep my eyes on the ocean and my back to the room, but every rustle of fabric, every click of her heels on the tile floor, might as well be a hammer striking anvil somewhere in my chest.

"We should probably head down soon," she says behind me, her voice carefully neutral. "My family will be waiting."

I turn, and the sight of her knocks the air from my lungs. She's wearing a blue dress that floats around her like water, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant curve of her neck. The dress has thin straps that make me think how easy it would be to slide them off her shoulders, and?—

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