Chapter 4
FOUR
Dean
I've faced down angry 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?—
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."
"Robert," Linda chides, but she's smiling too.
"No one's sweeping me anywhere," Brooke says firmly. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
The ambiguity of that statement hangs in the air between us. Where does she want to be? In New York? In her career? Or—and this is the thought I can't allow myself to entertain—with me?
Dinner progresses with the expected questions about our relationship, my ranch, her job. We field them effortlessly, a well-rehearsed duet of half-truths and outright lies. By dessert, I'm almost enjoying myself. Brooke's family has always felt more like a real family than my own ever did—warm, boisterous, genuinely interested in each other's lives.
"Remember when Dean taught Taylor to ride?" Linda reminisces, her expression fond. "She was so scared, but he was so patient."
"I wasn't scared," Taylor protests, but she's smiling. "Cautious."
"You were terrified," Brooke laughs, the sound genuine for the first time tonight. "But Dean was amazing with you."
Her eyes meet mine across the table, soft with the memory. It was a good day—Taylor conquering her fear, Brooke proud of her sister, me feeling like I belonged with these people.
"Dean's always been good with the Callahan women," Robert says, raising his glass in my direction.
Something loosens in my chest at the simple acknowledgment. A reminder that once upon a time, I really was part of this family.
"Well, let's see if he still is," Taylor's maid of honor—Jessie? Jamie?—says with a mischievous grin. "I dare you two to kiss. Right now."
The table erupts in theatrical "oohs," and Brooke's cheeks flush pink. Under normal circumstances, this would be nothing—a quick peck, maybe slightly more showy for the audience. But these aren't normal circumstances. We haven't touched each other that way in two years.
"Come on," Taylor eggs us on. "You're acting like you've never kissed before!"
If only she knew.
Brooke turns to me, her expression a complicated mix of panic and resignation. I could make this easy—a brief, chaste kiss that would satisfy the crowd without crossing boundaries. The smart move.
But I've never claimed to be smart when it comes to Brooke Callahan.
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and watch her eyes widen slightly. Then I lean in, giving her a moment to prepare, to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn't.
The first brush of her lips against mine is electric, a jolt that travels from my mouth straight to my core. Her lips are soft, warm, achingly familiar. I meant to keep it simple, but then her mouth parts slightly on a small intake of breath, and I'm lost.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, drawing her closer as I deepen the kiss. She tastes like champagne and the chocolate dessert she just ate, sweet and intoxicating. For a moment—one perfect, suspended moment—she kisses me back with equal fervor, her hand coming up to grip my shirt.
The table around us disappears. The ruse disappears. There's only Brooke, her lips moving against mine, her body leaning into me, her small sigh that I feel rather than hear.
Then reality crashes back as the table erupts in cheers and whistles. I pull away slowly, reluctantly, to find Brooke staring at me with dark, dazed eyes.
"Damn," someone says appreciatively. "Get a room, you two!"
Little do they know, we already have one. One room with one bed that I'll now be acutely aware of all night.
I clear my throat and lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. Like I didn't just kiss her with two years' worth of pent-up longing. Like my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.
"Satisfied?" I ask the table at large, my voice remarkably steady.
Brooke's aunt fans herself dramatically. "Oh my. No wonder you've kept him around, Brooke!"
Laughter ripples through the gathering. Brooke manages a smile, though her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for her water glass. I place my hand casually on her thigh under the table—a gesture that would look like a comfortable intimacy to anyone watching, but is actually meant to steady her.
She jumps at the contact, her eyes flying to mine. I raise an eyebrow slightly, silently asking if she's okay. After a moment, she nods, almost imperceptibly.
The conversation moves on, but the energy between us has shifted irrevocably. The careful distance we've maintained since arriving has collapsed, leaving us in dangerous proximity to feelings neither of us wants to acknowledge.
By the time we make our way back to our suite, the moon is high over the ocean, casting a silver path across the water. Brooke walks slightly ahead of me, her arms wrapped around herself despite the warm night.
"That went well," I say to her back as she unlocks our door.
She doesn't answer until we're inside, the door safely closed behind us. Then she turns to me, her expression guarded.
"You didn't have to kiss me like that."
"Like what?" I lean against the wall, arms crossed.
"Like you meant it."
I hold her gaze steadily. "I was playing the part. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. Then she nods curtly and turns away.
"Right. Of course. Good job, then."
She disappears into the bathroom with her pajamas, and I exhale slowly, unclenching fists I didn't realize I'd made. The memory of her lips under mine, her body pressing close, threatens to undo my carefully maintained composure.
It was just a kiss. Just part of the act.
So why does it feel like so much more?
I grab a pillow and extra blanket from the closet and make up the couch while she's in the bathroom. By the time she emerges in silk shorts and a tank top that reveals more skin than it covers, I'm stretched out with my arm over my eyes, pretending to be halfway to sleep.
"Goodnight, Dean," she says softly.
"Night," I reply, not looking at her.
I listen to her settle into the bed, the rustle of sheets, the soft sigh as she gets comfortable. The rhythmic sound of her breathing eventually slows and deepens, telling me she's asleep.
Only then do I allow myself to look at her, moonlight spilling across her face, her dark hair spread across the pillow. She looks younger in sleep, more like the Brooke I fell in love with—the one before New York, before ambition pulled her away from me.
I turn away, facing the back of the couch, and try to convince myself the ache in my chest is just from the uncomfortable makeshift bed.
Across the room, Brooke stirs in her sleep, making a small sound that could be a sigh or a moan. I clench my jaw and close my eyes, willing myself to sleep.
It's going to be a very long night.
* * *
Brooke
In my dreams, I’m back in his arms.
Dean’s mouth is hot against my neck, his hands sliding beneath my tank top to cup my breasts. “Still a mistake, sweetheart?” he murmurs against my skin, and I arch into his touch.
“Yes,” I gasp as his thumbs brush my nipples. “The best kind.”
The dream shifts, and we’re on the beach, waves lapping at our feet as he presses me into the sand. His weight above me is perfect, familiar, his hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that makes me moan.
“Tell me you want me,” dream-Dean demands, his gray eyes dark with desire.
“I want you,” I admit, the truth coming easily in sleep when I can’t speak it awake. “I’ve always wanted you.”
He smiles then, that slow, devastating smile that’s only ever been for me, and slides his hand between us, under the waistband of my shorts. His fingers find me wet and ready, and I cry out at the first touch.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he encourages as I rock against his hand. “Let go for me.”
I’m close, so close, my body trembling on the edge of release. Dean’s mouth captures mine in a kiss that mirrors the one from dinner—hungry, possessive, real.
“Dean,” I whimper against his lips. “Please.”
“I’ve got you,” he promises, curling his fingers just right, his thumb circling my most sensitive spot. “Come for me, Brooke.”
And I do, pleasure crashing through me in waves as powerful as the ocean beside us. I cling to him, crying out his name as my body shudders through the aftershocks.
I wake with a gasp, my body hot and aching, sheets twisted around my legs. For a disorienting moment, I can still feel his hands on me, his weight pressing me down.
Then reality reasserts itself. I’m alone in the king-sized bed. Dean is asleep on the couch across the room, his back to me, breathing deep and even.
It was just a dream. A vivid, incredibly detailed dream that’s left me frustrated and aroused in a way I haven’t felt in—well, in two years.
I close my eyes, willing my racing heart to slow. This is bad. Very bad. One kiss—admittedly a mind-blowing kiss—and I’m having erotic dreams about my ex. About the man I left behind. About the man I’m lying to everyone about still loving.
The worst part? In my dream, it hadn’t felt like lying at all.