Chapter 2
TWO
Dean
I'm knuckle-deep in the engine of my old Ford when my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket. Sweat drips off my brow despite the cool Colorado mountain air, and I curse under my breath as I knock my head against the hood trying to back out too fast. Two years of peace and quiet on this ranch, and I still jump like I'm expecting something—or someone—to come crashing back into my life.
I wipe my greasy hands on a rag tucked into my belt loop and pull out my phone, squinting at the screen against the afternoon sun. The name flashing there stops me cold.
Brooke Callahan.
For a second, I think I'm hallucinating. Maybe that knock to the head was harder than I thought. But the phone keeps buzzing, insistent, her name bold as day on my screen.
Two years of silence, and suddenly she's calling like we talked yesterday.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Part of me—the smarter part—is screaming to let it go to voicemail. But my heart's already racing, and before I can think better of it, I swipe to answer.
"Brooke?" I keep my voice neutral, or try to. There's still a rough edge to it I can't smooth out.
Silence. For a moment, I think she's hung up. Then I hear her breathing, soft and quick.
"Brooke? You there?" I press the phone harder against my ear, like that might somehow bring her closer.
"Dean," she finally says, my name barely a whisper. "I need your help."
Three words, and I'm right back where I was two years ago—ready to move mountains for her. I clench my jaw against the instinct.
"That's a hell of a way to start a conversation after two years." I turn away from the truck, looking out across my land. Fifty acres of Colorado mountainside, the ranch house I built with my own hands sitting proud on the ridge. Everything I've poured myself into since she left.
"I know," she says, her voice stronger now. "I'm sorry to call out of the blue like this."
"But you need my help." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Must be serious if you're calling me."
She takes a deep breath. "It's about my sister's wedding."
"Taylor's getting married?" Despite everything, I smile a little. I always liked her sister.
"Yes, in Hawaii. Eighteen days from now." Her words come faster now. "And my family…they don't know about us. About the breakup."
I freeze, my free hand tightening around the rag. "What do you mean, they don't know?"
"I never told them." Her voice is small, guilty. "I kept making excuses about why you weren't at family things, why I came home alone. They think we're still together."
The laugh that bursts from me is harsh even to my own ears. "You've been lying to your family for two years? Jesus, Brooke."
"I know it's bad."
"Bad? It's—" I cut myself off, running a hand through my hair, not caring about the engine grease. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"Because I couldn't face it!" Her voice cracks. "Everyone loved you. My dad practically started planning our wedding the day he met you. Telling them we broke up meant admitting I failed, that I ran away, that?—"
"That you chose your fancy New York career over us." The words taste sour on my tongue.
Silence again. When she speaks, her voice is quieter. "My mom called about wedding details. She wants to know what meal you want, Dean. She's expecting you to be there, to help my dad handle the groomsmen. Everyone's expecting us to come together."
And just like that, I see where this is going. The pieces slide into place like the tumblers of a lock.
"No." I say it flatly, turning back to my truck. "No way."
"Dean, please." There's genuine panic in her voice now. "I know it's asking a lot?—"
"A lot? Brooke, you're asking me to pretend we're still together. To lie to your family's faces. To act like you didn't walk out on everything we had."
"Just for a week. The wedding's in Hawaii—it'll be like a vacation. I'll pay for everything. Your flight, the hotel, whatever you need."
I close the hood of my truck with more force than necessary, metal slamming against metal. "I don't need your money."
"I know that." She sounds desperate now. "But I need you. Please, Dean. I'm begging you."
I lean against the truck, closing my eyes. I should say no. Every shred of pride I've rebuilt since she left is screaming at me to hang up. But beneath that pride is something else—something that never quite died, no matter how deeply I buried it.
The memory of her laugh. The way her hazel eyes catch the light. The feeling of her hand in mine, perfect fit.
"Why should I help you?" I ask, my voice rough. "Give me one good reason, Brooke."
She's quiet for a moment. "Because despite everything…we were friends once. Before we were anything else. And I don't have anyone else I can ask."
Friends. The word is a knife between my ribs. We were never just friends. From the moment I saw her, I was done for.
"You've got plenty of friends in New York." I push off the truck, pacing now. "Find some suit-wearing investment banker to play your boyfriend."
"It wouldn't work." Her voice is small. "My family knows you, Dean. They'd see through anyone else in a heartbeat."
I laugh without humor. "So I'm uniquely qualified because your family already thinks I'm in love with you."
"Are you saying no?" She sounds like she might cry, and damn it, that still gets to me.
I should. I should say no and hang up and go back to my life. Back to trying to forget her. Back to pretending I have.
Instead, I sigh, heavy and long. "When's the flight?"
The hope in her voice is almost painful to hear. "You'll do it? Really?"
"I'm not saying yes yet." I'm lying, and I know it. I've already decided, had probably decided the moment I saw her name on my screen. "Tell me the details first."
"It's eighteen days from now. We'd fly to Maui. The wedding's at this beautiful resort on the beach. It's a whole week of events—welcome dinner, rehearsal, the ceremony, a farewell brunch."
"A week." I rub my face. "You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend for a whole week."
"Yes." She pauses. "I know it's a lot to ask."
It is. It's too much. I've spent two years trying to get over her, trying to build something new out of the ashes she left behind. Going back now, pretending—it'll undo all of that. And yet...
"What about the ranch?" I ask, already knowing I'll figure it out.
"Can your foreman handle things? Just for a week?"
I think of Mike, who's been with me since I bought this place. "Yeah, he could manage."
"So…will you do it?" Her voice is tentative, like she's afraid to hope.
I let the silence stretch, making her wait. Let her feel a fraction of the anticipation I'm feeling at the thought of seeing her again.
"Dean?" she prompts.
"Fine." I finally say, the single word feeling like surrender. "I'll do it."
Her relief is audible, a soft exhale that travels across the miles between us. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Dean. I—I don't know how to repay you."
"Don't thank me yet." I start walking toward the house, suddenly needing a shower, a drink, something to clear my head. "We need ground rules."
"Of course, anything you want."
"We're not sharing a room." The thought of being that close to her, night after night—I couldn't handle it.
"Agreed."
"And I'm not paying for anything. If you want this charade, it's on your dime."
"That's fair." She sounds like she'd agree to anything right now.
"One more thing." I stop on my porch, looking out over the mountains where the sun has started its descent. "When this is over, we're done. For good. No more calls, no more favors. I deserve to move on with my life, Brooke."
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with all the things we're not saying. When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft I barely hear it.
"Okay."
I nod, even though she can't see me. "Email me the flight details. I'll meet you at the airport."
"Thank you, Dean. Really."
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "See you in Hawaii."
I hang up before she can say anything else, before I can change my mind about any of it. My hand is shaking slightly as I lower the phone, and I stare at it for a long moment.
What the hell am I doing? Agreeing to spend a week pretending to be in love with the woman who broke my heart? It's insane. Self-destructive. Possibly the worst idea I've had since thinking she'd choose me over New York in the first place.
But as I walk into my too-quiet house, kicking off my boots at the door, I can't deny the treacherous spark of anticipation burning in my chest. For two years, I've told myself I'm over her. For two years, I've been lying.
Maybe it's fitting that now I'll be lying to everyone else too.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop heavily onto my couch, looking around the living room I designed with her in mind—the big windows she would have loved, the stone fireplace where I imagined us sitting on winter nights.
Eighteen days. In eighteen days, I'll see Brooke Callahan again. I'll hold her hand and put my arm around her waist and pretend it doesn't kill me to touch her.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get her out of my system for good.
I take a long pull of my beer, but it does nothing to douse the heat spreading through my chest—an uncomfortable warmth that I recognize as hope—the most dangerous feeling of all.