Page 33 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

But the evening comes, as evenings do, and we find ourselves back in our room, preparing for the rehearsal dinner. Dean emerges from the bathroom in dress pants and an unbuttoned shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. My breath catches at the sight, my hands itching to reach out and touch him.

"Need help with your zipper?" he offers, nodding toward my half-fastened dress.

"Please." I turn, lifting my hair out of the way, hyperaware of his proximity as he approaches.

His fingers brush my spine as he draws the zipper up, the touch deliberately light but still electrifying. When he finishes, his hands linger on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Brooke," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. "We need to talk about what's happening here."

I step away, busying myself with selecting earrings from my jewelry case. "We're getting ready for the rehearsal dinner."

"You know that's not what I mean."

I do know. But acknowledging it means facing truths I'm not ready for. I slip the earrings in, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. "What's there to talk about? We're doing what we came here to do—convincing my family we're still together."

"Is that all this is to you?" There's an edge to his voice now. "A performance?"

I turn to face him, finding his eyes darkened with something that might be anger, might be hurt. "What else would it be?"

"Don't." He steps closer, invading my carefully constructed space. "Don't pretend the shower yesterday was just part of the act. Or the night before that."

"It was..." I falter, unable to lie convincingly when he's looking at me like that. "Complicated."

"Actually, it's pretty simple." Another step closer, until I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I never stopped loving you, Brooke."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I knew, on some level, that his feelings ran deeper than lust or nostalgia. The way he touches me, looks at me, speaks to me—it all points to something more enduring than I wanted to admit. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way I can't deflect or deny.

"Dean," I breathe, his name half plea, half protest.

"I know you're scared." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over my skin. "I know you think nothing's changed, that we still want different things. But that's not true."

"Isn't it?" I step back, needing distance to think clearly. "I still live in New York. You still have your ranch. How is that different from before?"

"Because I'm different." The intensity in his gaze pins me in place. "Because I spent two years thinking I lost you forever, and now I know I'll do whatever it takes to keep you. Even if that means compromise."

The word hangs between us, loaded with implications.Compromise.The thing I was too afraid to consider two years ago, convinced it would mean sacrificing my dreams.

"What kind of compromise?" I ask cautiously.

"Whatever works." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I remember well. "Split our time between Colorado and New York. Find a middle ground—Denver, Chicago, somewhere with flights to both. Hell, I'd move to New York if that's what it took."

The admission stuns me. Dean McAllister, the man who once told me he'd die if he had to live in a concrete jungle, would consider New York for me? It's too much, too fast, too overwhelming.

"This is fake, remember?" The words burst out of me, a desperate attempt to restore the boundaries crumbling around us. "We're pretending, Dean. For my family. For Taylor's wedding. That's all this is."

His face shutters, the openness replaced by a mask I can't read. "Right," he says flatly. "Just pretend."

"I didn't mean—" I start, already regretting my panicked response.

"No, you're right." He steps back, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm opening between us. "I forgot the rules for a minute there. My mistake."

"Dean, please?—"

"We should go." He buttons his shirt with quick, efficient movements, not looking at me. "Don't want to be late for the rehearsal."

I watch, helpless, as he rebuilds his walls, brick by brick, until the man standing before me is a stranger wearing Dean's face—polite, distant, unreachable. It's my fault. I pushed him away because I was afraid of what letting him in might mean.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

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