Chapter 5
FIVE
Brooke
Morning arrives with relentless Hawaiian sunshine pouring through the balcony doors I forgot to close last night. I squint against the light, disoriented for a moment until memories crash back like a hangover: the kiss at dinner, the walk back to our room in loaded silence, and worst of all, that dream. That vivid, toe-curling dream about the man currently sprawled across our suite's too-small couch, one muscular arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths.
I close my eyes again, mortification washing over me in hot waves. Did I make noise? Did he hear me? The dream felt so real, so intense that I wouldn't be surprised if I'd called out his name in my sleep.
When I dare to peek again, Dean is still asleep, his long legs dangling off the end of the couch, a blanket twisted around his waist. His t-shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of tanned abdomen and the trail of light brown hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
I should look away. I should definitely not be staring at my ex-boyfriend's bare skin while he sleeps, especially after the dream I just had. But I can't seem to tear my eyes away.
He stirs, and I snap my gaze to the ceiling, heart pounding like I've been caught doing something illicit. There's a groan, the sound of joints popping as he stretches.
"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I reply to the ceiling, not trusting myself to look at him directly. "Sleep okay?"
"Like a baby," he lies. I know it's a lie because that couch is about a foot too short for his six-foot-two frame, and I saw how his neck was bent at an awkward angle. "You?"
Images from my dream flash through my mind—his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, the weight of him pressing me down.
"Fine," I lie back, my voice embarrassingly high. "Perfectly fine. Normal sleep. Nothing unusual."
I can feel his eyes on me, curious at my babbling. I risk a glance and find him watching me, those gray eyes still soft with sleep, his light brown hair sticking up in a way that makes him look younger, more like the Dean I left behind.
“I’m going to get ready,” I say hurriedly, throwing back the covers and grabbing my toiletry bag. "I'm just going to—yes."
I practically sprint to the bathroom, closing the door perhaps a bit too firmly behind me. I lean against it, taking deep breaths, willing my racing heart to slow.
"Get it together, Brooke," I mutter to my reflection. My dark hair is a tangle of messy waves, my eyes still heavy with sleep, lips swollen from biting them during the night. During the dream.
I turn on the shower, cranking it colder than I'd prefer, and step under the spray. The cool water helps clear my head, washing away the lingering heat of the dream. It was just my subconscious processing that kiss, I tell myself. A perfectly normal physiological response to physical stimulus. Nothing more.
By the time I emerge, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe with my hair turbaned in a towel, I've almost convinced myself I'm fine. Then I see Dean, now standing on the balcony in fresh clothes, the morning sun gilding his profile, and my carefully constructed composure threatens to crumble.
"All yours," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.
He turns, eyes tracking over my robe-clad form before quickly looking away. "Thanks. Taylor texted—breakfast in the main restaurant in thirty minutes."
"Great." I keep my tone deliberately light. "I'll be ready."
He passes me on the way to the bathroom, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—that familiar scent that used to cling to my clothes, my sheets, my skin. The bathroom door closes behind him, and I exhale shakily.
It's going to be a very long day.
* * *
Breakfast is blessedly busy, with the entire wedding party spread across several tables. Dean and I are separated by well-meaning relatives who want to catch up with us individually, giving me space to breathe without his overwhelming presence beside me.
"You look tired, honey," my mother comments, passing me a plate of tropical fruit. "Jet lag?"
"Probably," I agree, spearing a piece of pineapple with more force than necessary. Definitely not because I spent half the night having erotic dreams about my ex.
"Well, try to rest today. The luau tonight is the big event before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow." She leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Your father and I are so happy to see you and Dean still going strong. We were worried, you know, with the distance."
Guilt sours the sweet fruit in my mouth. "Were you?"
"Of course! Long-distance relationships are so hard. But look at you two—still so in love after all this time."
Across the restaurant, Dean laughs at something my cousin says, his head thrown back, throat exposed. My stomach flips traitorously.
"Yep," I manage. "Still…that."
After breakfast, the day unfolds in a blur of wedding preparations and family activities. Dean and I maintain a careful orbit around each other—close enough to maintain our couple facade, far enough to avoid being alone together. When my aunt offers to take a group to a local market, I practically leap at the chance. Dean opts for a hike with my father and some of the groomsmen.
"Meet you back at the room before the luau?" he asks as we part ways in the lobby, his hand on my elbow, putting on a show for my mother watching nearby.
"Sure," I say, hyper-aware of his touch, of my mother's fond gaze. "Have fun hiking."
"Have fun shopping, sweetheart." He drops a quick kiss on my forehead—a perfectly boyfriendly gesture that makes me freeze like a startled deer.
The market is a welcome distraction—colorful stalls selling everything from handmade jewelry to tropical fruits I've never seen before. I let my aunt and cousins pull me from vendor to vendor, forcing Dean from my thoughts with each new discovery.
By late afternoon, I'm laden with small bags containing gifts for friends back in New York and a sarong in shades of blue that the seller assured me would "make my man crazy." I didn't bother correcting her assumption that I had a "man" to make crazy.
The resort is bustling when we return, guests enjoying the pool and beach as the afternoon heat begins to wane. I wave goodbye to my shopping companions and head up to the suite, hoping Dean is still out with his hiking group so I can have a moment alone to regroup.
No such luck. I swipe my key card and push open the door to find Dean standing in the middle of the room, frowning at the ceiling vent.
"Hey," I say, setting down my shopping bags. "Something wrong?"
"Air conditioning's out." He looks over at me, wiping sweat from his forehead. Despite the hiking, he looks unfairly good—slightly flushed, his t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. "Called the front desk. They're sending someone up."
Now that he mentions it, I realize the room is stifling. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, moving hot air around without cooling it.
"Great," I sigh, dropping onto the edge of the bed. "Perfect."
Dean eyes me warily, like he's not sure if my frustration is directed at the situation or at him. Before he can say anything, there's a knock at the door.
The maintenance worker is apologetic but not helpful. "System's overloaded," he explains as he fiddles with the thermostat. "Too many rooms, not enough cooling capacity. We're working on it, but might not be fixed until tomorrow."
"Is there another room we could move to?" I ask hopefully. "Maybe one where the AC is working?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry, ma'am. We're fully booked with the wedding and two corporate retreats. No vacant rooms."
"What about fans?" Dean asks. "Can you bring up some extra fans?"
"I'll see what I can do, sir, but we're getting the same request from a lot of guests."
After he leaves, promising to return with fans if any are available, I flop back on the bed with a groan. "This is just perfect."
"It's not that bad," Dean says, but he's already pulled off his outer shirt, leaving him in just a thin undershirt that does nothing to hide the definition of his chest. "We could go down to the pool if you want to cool off before the luau."
The thought of Dean in swim trunks, water droplets trailing down his chest, is absolutely the last thing I need right now.
"I think I'll just take a cool shower," I say, standing abruptly. "You can go ahead."
He looks like he might argue, but just nods. "Suit yourself."
The shower helps marginally, but by the time I've dried my hair and applied makeup for the evening luau, I'm sweating again. I emerge from the bathroom in a sundress that's as light as I could manage while still being appropriate for a family event, to find Dean has opened all the balcony doors, trying to coax a breeze.
"No fans?" I ask.
"All out." He's changed into a button-down shirt in a light fabric, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms. "But the sun's starting to set. Should cool down soon."
We head down to the luau together, maintaining our couple facade with practiced ease. The beach provides some relief with its ocean breeze, and the swaying palm trees offer patches of shade. Tiki torches mark a large area where tables have been set up around a central stage for the traditional performances.
"There you two are!" Taylor waves us over to a table near the front. "We saved you seats."
Dinner is a traditional Hawaiian spread—kalua pig roasted in an underground oven, poi, lomi salmon, and platters of tropical fruit. The dancers are mesmerizing, their movements telling ancient stories of gods and heroes.
Under normal circumstances, it would be magical. But with Dean beside me, his thigh occasionally brushing mine, his arm around the back of my chair, I can't focus on anything but his proximity and the memory of that dream.
By the time we make our way back to our suite, night has fallen, but the room is still uncomfortably warm. Dean immediately opens all the windows and doors again, letting in what little breeze there is.
"It's like a sauna in here," I complain, fanning myself with a room service menu.
"You should change," Dean suggests, not looking at me. "Something cooler."
I grab my lightest pajamas from my suitcase and retreat to the bathroom. When I return in silk shorts and a tank top, Dean has changed too—into just a pair of basketball shorts, his chest bare and gleaming with a light sheen of sweat.
I avert my eyes, though not before I've taken in the sight of him—more muscular than he was two years ago, his shoulders broader, abs more defined. Ranch work clearly agrees with him.
"I'll take the couch," I say quickly, grabbing a pillow from the bed.
Dean looks at me like I've lost my mind. "In this heat? With no AC? You'll be miserable."
"I'll be fine." I start arranging the couch cushions. "You take the bed."
"Brooke." His voice has that tone—the one that always meant he wasn't going to back down. "You're not sleeping on that couch. It's too small for me, and it's definitely too hot for either of us to be cramped up like that."
I turn to face him, pillow clutched to my chest like a shield. “You take the bed. I'm not letting you sleep on the couch again. I’m shorter. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
"Like hell you are." He crosses his arms over his chest, drawing my attention to the defined muscles there. "I'm not taking the bed while you suffer on the couch."
We stare at each other in stubborn silence, a standoff neither of us seems willing to break. Finally, Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"The bed's big enough for both of us," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "We're adults. We can share it without making things weird."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Share the bed?"
"It's king-sized. We can stay on opposite sides." He shrugs like he's suggesting we share a taxi, not spend the night inches apart. "Unless you're afraid you can't keep your hands off me."
The teasing glint in his eyes is so familiar, so Dean, that I almost smile despite myself. Instead, I roll my eyes and toss the pillow back onto the bed.
"In your dreams, McAllister."
More like in my dreams, but he doesn't need to know that.
"So that's a yes?" he presses.
I consider my options: a cramped, hot couch or a spacious bed with Dean beside me. Neither seems ideal, but one is clearly more comfortable than the other.
"Fine," I concede, trying to sound put-upon rather than panicked. "But stay on your side."
"Yes, ma'am." He gives me a mock salute that makes me want to throw something at him.
We turn down the bed together, a strangely domestic act that reminds me of countless nights when we actually were a couple. I take the side nearest the balcony, hoping for any breeze that might come through, while Dean takes the side by the door.
I lie down stiffly, hyperaware of his presence beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. We're not touching—there's at least a foot of space between us—but I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his soap.
"Night, Brooke," he says, his voice low in the darkness.
"Goodnight," I whisper back, staring up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan that's doing absolutely nothing to cool the room.
I close my eyes, trying to ignore his presence, trying not to think about the dream from last night, trying not to remember how it felt when he kissed me at dinner. It's hopeless. Every inch of me is attuned to him, aware of each breath, each small movement.
The minutes stretch into an hour, then two. I can tell from his breathing that Dean is still awake too, neither of us able to find sleep in the oppressive heat and the tension between us.
I roll onto my side, facing away from him, trying to get comfortable. The silk of my tank top sticks to my back, and I shift again, frustrated.
"Can't sleep?" Dean's voice is rough in the darkness.
"Too hot," I mumble, though that's only part of the problem.
"Try to relax," he suggests, and I can hear him shifting too. "Think cool thoughts."
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, lying in bed with my ex-boyfriend, both of us pretending this is perfectly normal while neither of us can sleep.
"Right," I say dryly. "Cool thoughts."
I try to picture snow-capped mountains, icy streams, anything but the man lying beside me. It doesn't work. All I can think about is Dean—his presence in the bed we're sharing, the memory of his kiss, the lingering images from my dream.
I spend the whole night thinking about him, drifting in and out of restless sleep, always aware of his body just inches from mine. And the worst part? I'm starting to wonder if coming up with this fake relationship plan was the biggest mistake I've made since leaving him two years ago—or maybe the best thing that's happened to me since.
Either way, I'm in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.