Page 9 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

I shut that thought down hard. "You look nice," I say, the understatement of the century.

Her eyes flick over my button-down shirt and dark jeans. "So do you. Is that new?"

It is. I bought it yesterday, a panic purchase when I realized everything in my closet screamed 'rancher' and nothing said 'worthy boyfriend of successful New York marketing executive.' Not that I care what her family thinks. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone.

"Just something I had lying around," I lie.

She nods, not believing me, and reaches for her clutch. "Ready for the performance?"

I move to the door, holding it open for her. "Born ready, sweetheart."

The endearment slips out too easily, too naturally, and I see her shoulders tense briefly before she walks past me into the hallway. Her scent—something floral and expensive that isn't the drugstore perfume she used to wear—lingers in the air between us.

We ride the elevator in silence, standing further apart than a couple in love would, but not far enough that I can't feel the heat of her body. This is going to be a very long week.

The beachside pavilion is strung with twinkling lights, open on all sides to catch the evening breeze. Tables draped in white linen dot the wooden deck, and tiki torches cast a golden glow over the gathering. Music plays softly—ukulele and vocals, a Hawaiian love song that makes this whole charade feel even more surreal.

Brooke's hand finds mine as we approach, her fingers cool and slender as they intertwine with mine. It's for show, I remind myself, even as my thumb automatically strokes the back of her hand.

"Brooke! Dean!" Brooke's mother, Linda, spots us instantly, her face lighting up. She's still beautiful, her salt-and-pepper hair styled elegantly, wearing a flowing tropical dress. "Oh, look at you two! Don't they make a handsome couple, Robert?"

Brooke's father turns from his conversation, his smile genuine as he spots us. Robert Callahan has always intimidated the hell out of me—successful corporate attorney, imposing build, protective of his daughters—but he's never been anything but welcoming.

"There they are." He embraces Brooke, then clasps my hand firmly. "Dean. Good to see you, son. How's that ranch of yours coming along?"

"Growing every day, sir." I slip into the role as easily as breathing. "Just added another twenty acres last fall."

"That right?" His eyebrows rise approvingly. "Smart investment. Land always appreciates."

Linda hugs me tightly, smelling of the same perfume she's worn since I met her years ago. "We've missed you at family gatherings, Dean. Brooke says the ranch keeps you so busy."

Guilt twists in my stomach. Not for lying to them—that's on Brooke—but for how genuine their welcome is. They're good people who don't deserve this deception.

"Never too busy for the important things," I say, wrapping my arm around Brooke's waist and pulling her against my side. She stiffens momentarily, then relaxes into me with practiced ease.

"That's what I keep telling her," Linda says conspiratorially. "Work isn't everything."

"Mom," Brooke warns, but her tone is light. Playing the part of the mildly embarrassed girlfriend.

We're guided to a table near the center of the pavilion, already occupied by Taylor, her fiancé James, and several relatives I vaguely remember from Christmases and birthdays past. Brooke's aunt—Marge? Marie?—clasps my face between her hands and declares I'm "even more handsome than before," while her husband slaps my back and asks about cattle prices.

Through it all, I keep Brooke close, my hand at the small of her back or holding hers on the table. We've done this dance before, at dozens of family gatherings when we were actually together. It's disturbing how easily we fall back into the rhythm.

"So when are you two making it official?" Taylor's future mother-in-law asks over appetizers, waving her wine glass between Brooke and me. "Four years is a long time to date."

Brooke chokes slightly on her champagne. I pat her back gently, using the moment to formulate an answer.

"We're taking our time," I say smoothly. "With Brooke's career in New York and the ranch in Colorado, we're figuring out the logistics."

"Long distance must be hard," James comments sympathetically.

"The hardest," I agree, looking at Brooke with what I hope passes for devotion rather than the complicated mess of feelings actually churning inside me. "But she's worth the wait."

Brooke's eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain. For a second, I glimpse something raw and real behind her careful mask—confusion, regret, maybe even longing. Then it's gone, replaced by a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Dean's very patient," she says, her voice only slightly strained.

"Patient?" Her father laughs. "I'd have put a ring on her finger years ago if I were you, before some New York hotshot swept her away."

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