Chapter 3
THREE
Brooke
The Hawaiian air hits me like a warm, fragrant blanket the moment I step off the plane. It should be paradise—this island oasis with its swaying palms and azure waters stretching to the horizon. Instead, my stomach twists into origami shapes, folding and refolding with each step toward baggage claim. Somewhere in this airport is Dean McAllister, the man I haven't seen in two years, the man who's agreed to be my fake boyfriend for the next seven days. The man whose heart I broke.
I check my reflection in a bathroom mirror before heading to baggage claim. The ten-hour flight from New York hasn't done me any favors—my hair is a mess despite my attempts to tame it, and there are shadows under my eyes that concealer can't quite hide. I smooth down my wrinkled silk blouse and take a deep breath.
"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. "It's just pretend."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Nothing about Dean has ever been "just" anything.
By the time I make it to baggage claim, my pulse is racing so fast I can feel it in my throat. I scan the crowd, part of me hoping he's late, that I'll have more time to prepare. Another part—the treacherous part I've spent two years trying to silence—hopes he's already here.
I don't see him among the people milling around the carousel, and relief mingles with disappointment as I spot my suitcase. Maybe we'll meet at the hotel instead. Maybe?—
"Need a hand with that?"
The voice behind me sends electricity down my spine. Deep, slightly rough, with that hint of a drawl he never could shake. I know who it is before I turn around, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him.
Dean McAllister stands before me, solid and real and devastatingly handsome in a way that makes my chest ache. His light brown hair is a bit longer than he used to wear it, slightly tousled like he's been running his hands through it. His gray eyes catch mine, and for a moment, the bustle of the airport fades away.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and faded jeans with boots—so different from the suits and designer clothes of the men I've dated in New York. So quintessentially Dean.
"Hi," I manage, the word embarrassingly breathless.
Dean's eyes travel over me slowly, taking in every detail, and I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. When he finally speaks, his voice is controlled, giving nothing away.
"You look tired, Brooke."
Not 'you look good' or 'it's nice to see you.' Just an observation, coolly delivered. I shouldn't be disappointed. This isn't real.
"Ten-hour flight," I say with a shrug I hope appears casual. "You look..." Incredible. Better than I remembered. Like everything I've been trying to forget. "...well."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Ranch life agrees with me."
It does. He's always been fit, but there's a new kind of strength to him now—earned from hard work under the Colorado sun, not gym sessions between meetings like the men I know in New York.
"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."
"That's not what I asked."
Our eyes meet, and there's an intensity in his gaze that makes it hard to breathe. For a moment, I consider telling him the truth—that New York is exciting and fulfilling and sometimes overwhelmingly lonely. That I've dated but nothing has stuck. That sometimes I wake up reaching for him.
Instead, I say, "Yes, I'm happy."
Something shutters in his expression. "Good."
The taxi pulls into the resort's circular driveway, a sprawling paradise of white buildings with red tile roofs nestled among tropical gardens. A doorman in a floral shirt opens my door with a cheerful "Aloha!" and I step out, grateful for the interruption.
The resort lobby is open-air, with soaring ceilings and views straight through to the ocean beyond. Everywhere I look are flowers—vibrant hibiscus, delicate orchids, birds of paradise standing proud in massive arrangements.
Dean appears beside me with our luggage, and I'm suddenly, acutely aware that this is it. The performance begins now.
"Ready?" he asks quietly.
Before I can answer, a familiar squeal cuts through the lobby.
"Brooke! Dean! You're here!"
My sister Taylor hurries toward us, resplendent in a flowing white sundress, her skin already golden from days in the Hawaiian sun. Behind her is her fiancé, James, grinning broadly.
"Oh my God, look at you two!" Taylor throws her arms around me, then Dean. "I've missed you both so much!"
"Hey, Taylor," Dean says, and the warmth in his voice is genuine. He always did like my sister. "Congratulations."
"Thank you!" She beams up at him. "I'm so glad you could get away from the ranch. Brooke says you've been swamped."
"Wouldn't miss it." Dean's arm slides around my waist, his hand resting lightly on my hip. It's such a natural gesture, so familiar, that my breath catches. "Right, sweetheart?"
The endearment almost undoes me. He used to call me that all the time, his voice low and intimate in my ear. Now it's just part of the act.
"Right," I manage, forcing a smile. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."
Taylor's gaze bounces between us, her expression softening. "You two are still so cute together. What is it now, four years?"
"Four years, three months," Dean says smoothly, squeezing my hip. "Not that I'm counting."
I stare at him, surprised he remembered so precisely.
"You guys check in, freshen up," James says, his arm around Taylor's shoulders. "Welcome dinner's at seven in the beachside pavilion. Most of the guests are already here."
"My parents?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Arrived yesterday. Mom's already reorganized the welcome bags twice." Taylor rolls her eyes affectionately. "Dad's at the golf course with James's dad."
"Great," I say weakly. "We'll see you at dinner."
Taylor hugs us both again before she and James head off toward the beach. As soon as they're out of sight, Dean's arm drops from my waist, and I feel the loss like a physical thing.
"That wasn't so bad," I say, trying to sound casual as we approach the check-in desk.
"It's just the beginning." Dean's voice is low. "Your parents will be harder to convince."
The receptionist—a cheerful woman with a plumeria tucked behind her ear—checks us in efficiently. "The Callahan-Bennett wedding party! We have you in one of our ocean-view suites, Mr. McAllister and Ms. Callahan."
I freeze. "One suite?"
"Yes, the Orchid Suite. King bed, private lanai overlooking the beach. Very romantic." She winks.
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.