Chapter 7
SEVEN
Brooke
I'm trying on my third outfit when I finally admit to myself that I'm dressing for Dean. Not for the luau, not for the wedding photos that will inevitably be taken, but for the man who just told me he doesn't like seeing another man's hands on me. The man who looked at me in the ocean like he was drowning and I was both the water and the air he needed to breathe. I settle on a white sundress with thin straps that cross in the back, the fabric light enough for the evening heat but elegant enough for the sunset ceremony we'll be attending. It's not the most revealing thing I packed, but something about the way it flows when I move makes me feel both beautiful and untouchable—exactly what I need to be around Dean tonight.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam along with Dean, a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets cling to his broad shoulders, tracing paths down his chest that my eyes follow helplessly.
"Bathroom's free," he says, then stops when he sees me, his gaze traveling slowly from my bare feet up the length of my dress. "You look..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but his eyes say enough. I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
"Thanks," I say, slipping past him into the bathroom, careful not to brush against his damp skin. "I'll just be a minute with my makeup."
I close the door behind me and lean against it, taking deep breaths to steady my racing heart. What is wrong with me? This is Dean—my ex, the man I left behind for a reason. Though for the life of me I can’t remember what that reason was right now. I wanted my career in New York?
I’m not supposed to care what he thinks of my dress. I'm not supposed to notice the way water droplets cling to his skin or how his eyes darken when they look at me.
Yet here I am, heart pounding like I'm twenty-four again and falling for him all over.
I apply my makeup with careful precision, giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror. This is just proximity and nostalgia playing tricks on me. That, and the stress of maintaining this charade for my family. Once the wedding is over and we go back to our separate lives, these feelings will fade. They have to.
When I emerge, Dean is dressed in khaki pants and a button-down shirt in a deep blue that brings out the gray in his eyes. He's rolled the sleeves to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms that I used to trace with my fingertips in lazy Sunday mornings.
"Ready?" he asks, holding the door open for me.
I nod, grabbing my clutch and brushing past him, hyperaware of the scant inches between our bodies.
The walk to the beach is silent, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The resort has transformed the shoreline for tonight's event—tiki torches form a path to a large open-air pavilion where tables are arranged around a central performance area. Beyond, the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink that reflect on the calm ocean surface.
It would be painfully romantic if I were here with anyone else. With Dean beside me, it's almost too much to bear.
"Drink?" he offers as we approach the bar set up at the entrance.
"Please," I say with more enthusiasm than I intend. "Something strong."
He raises an eyebrow but orders two mai tais, handing one to me. The sweet, rum-heavy cocktail is exactly what I need to take the edge off the nervous energy thrumming through my veins.
"Pace yourself," Dean murmurs as I take a large gulp. "Long night ahead."
I ignore his advice and finish half the drink in another swallow, welcoming the warm buzz that begins to spread through my limbs. "I'll be fine."
His skeptical look says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't comment further as we make our way to our assigned table. My family is already seated—parents, Taylor and James, cousins, and a few close friends. Chase is there too, I notice with a sinking feeling, seated directly across from my empty chair.
"There's the lovebirds!" my mother exclaims, waving us over. "Come sit down. The ceremony is about to start."
Dean's hand finds the small of my back as we navigate between tables, a gesture that should be purely for show but sends tingles up my spine nonetheless. We take our seats just as the first performers emerge, their movements graceful and precise as they tell ancient Hawaiian stories through dance.
Under normal circumstances, I'd be captivated by the performance. Instead, I'm hyperaware of Dean beside me, of his thigh occasionally brushing mine under the table, of his arm draped casually over the back of my chair. I finish my mai tai and signal a passing waiter for another.
"You might want to slow down," Dean whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
"I'm celebrating my sister's wedding," I whisper back, a little too defensively.
His fingers brush the nape of my neck, just below my upswept hair—a touch so light it could be accidental, but the way my skin erupts in goosebumps tells me it's not. "Just looking out for you."
The second mai tai goes down as easily as the first, the sweet fruit flavor masking the substantial amount of rum. By the time dinner is served—a traditional feast of local specialties—a pleasant warmth has spread through my body, softening the edges of my anxiety.
"You two are so cute together," my cousin Melissa sighs from across the table. "How do you make it work with the long distance?"
Dean's arm tightens imperceptibly around my shoulders. "Lots of FaceTime," he says smoothly. "And remembering what's important."
"Which is?" Chase interjects, his tone casual but his eyes watchful.
Dean meets his gaze steadily. "That some things are worth any sacrifice."
His words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning that goes beyond our pretend relationship. I take another large sip of my drink, needing the liquid courage.
"Dean's very understanding about my career," I add, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "And I try to get back to Colorado whenever I can."
"Though not as often as I'd like," Dean says, his fingers tracing small circles on my bare shoulder.
"New York must be exciting," Chase says, leaning forward. "All those museums, theaters, restaurants. Very different from small-town Colorado."
The implied comparison isn't subtle. I feel Dean tense beside me but keep my smile fixed in place.
"Both have their charms," I say diplomatically. "I miss the mountains when I'm in the city."
"And I miss her," Dean adds, so naturally that for a moment I almost believe him.
The conversation shifts as the dessert course arrives, but the undercurrent of tension remains. I find myself drinking more than I normally would, finishing a third mai tai and starting on a glass of wine someone places in front of me. The alcohol creates a pleasant buffer between me and the increasingly complicated emotions swirling inside me.
After dinner, the formal part of the evening gives way to music and dancing. The tables are moved aside to create a dance floor, and couples begin to sway to the live band's rendition of Hawaiian love songs mixed with contemporary hits.
"Dance with me," Dean says, standing and offering his hand.
It's not really a request, and I don't really want to refuse. I place my hand in his, letting him lead me to the dance floor. His arm slides around my waist, drawing me against him as we begin to move to the music. My hand rests on his shoulder, our clasped hands held between us.
It's a familiar position—we used to dance like this in his living room to no music at all, just because he knew I loved to dance and he loved to hold me. The memory hits me with unexpected force, bringing a lump to my throat.
"You okay?" Dean asks, his voice low near my ear.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The combination of alcohol and nostalgia has left me dangerously close to tears.
"Liar," he says, but there's no bite to it. "You've had too much to drink."
"Maybe," I admit, letting my head rest against his chest. It's easier than looking at him. "But I'm fine. Just…thinking."
"About what?"
About us. About what we were. About what we could have been if I hadn't left.
"Nothing important," I lie.
Dean's hand splays across my lower back, pulling me closer. Our bodies fit together perfectly, muscle memory taking over as we sway to the music. Over his shoulder, I can see other couples dancing—my parents, Taylor and James, various relatives—all lost in their own worlds.
"I miss this," I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Dean stiffens slightly. "Dancing?"
I should say yes. I should take the easy way out. But the rum has loosened my tongue and lowered my defenses.
"You," I admit softly. "I miss you sometimes."
His step falters, almost imperceptibly, before he recovers. "You're drunk, Brooke."
"A little," I agree. "But that doesn't make it less true."
We dance in silence for a long moment, the admission hanging between us. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear, slightly faster than the rhythm of the music.
"Why did you leave?" he finally asks, his voice so quiet I almost don't hear it over the band.
I lift my head to look at him, finding his eyes dark and unreadable in the torch-lit darkness. "I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I loved you." The words tumble out, alcohol and proximity breaking down the walls I've carefully constructed. "Of disappearing into us. Of giving up my dreams for yours."
His jaw tightens. "I never asked you to give up anything."
"I know." I look away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. "That was my fear, not your fault."
Dean's hand comes up to cup my face, turning it back to his. "Look at me, Brooke."
I do, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Anger, yes, but beneath it something rawer, more vulnerable.
"I never stopped wanting you," he says, each word precise and deliberate. "Not for one goddamn day since you walked out."
The world seems to stop around us, the music fading to background noise. There's just Dean, his eyes fixed on mine, his confession vibrating in the air between us.
"Dean..." I breathe, not sure what I'm going to say next.
Before I can figure it out, Taylor appears beside us, her face flushed with happiness and champagne. "There you are! Mom's looking for you—something about the bridal shower gifts."
The moment shatters. Dean releases me immediately, stepping back with a neutral expression that reveals nothing of what just passed between us.
"I should go see what she needs," I say, my voice unsteady.
"I'll get us more drinks," Dean offers, already turning toward the bar.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. I help my mother sort out some confusion with the gifts, pose for photos with various relatives, and try to avoid both Dean and Chase. The alcohol in my system makes everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but one thing remains crystal clear: Dean's confession.
I never stopped wanting you.
By the time we make our way back to our suite, it's nearly midnight. The walk is silent, tension thick between us. Dean keeps a careful distance, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
The room is marginally cooler than it was earlier—the resort must have fixed the air conditioning while we were out. Still, a sticky warmth permeates the space, or maybe that's just the heat building inside me every time I look at Dean.
"You should drink some water," he says, closing the door behind us. "You had a lot tonight."
"I'm not that drunk," I reply, kicking off my sandals. "Just…relaxed."
He makes a noncommittal sound, moving to the minibar to retrieve bottled water for both of us. I take mine and drink deeply, more thirsty than I realized.
"About what I said," I begin, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. "On the dance floor."
Dean stills, his back to me. "You don't need to explain. You were drunk, feeling nostalgic."
"No." I move toward him, newfound courage propelling me forward. "I meant it. I do miss you."
He turns slowly to face me, his expression guarded. "Brooke..."
"And I think you meant what you said too." I take another step closer. "About still wanting me."
The air between us feels charged, dangerous. Dean's eyes darken as they track over my face, down to my lips, then back up again.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice rough.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm tired of pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That I don't want you too."
Time seems to suspend as we stare at each other, the truth finally spoken aloud. Then Dean moves, closing the distance between us in two strides. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips.
Instead, I rise on tiptoes and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is nothing like the one we shared at dinner the first night—that was for show, a performance. This is real, raw, two years of denial and longing poured into the urgent press of lips and tongue. His hands slide into my hair, loosening the pins until it falls around my shoulders. Mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, eliminating any space between us.
"Brooke," he groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. "We shouldn't?—"
"I know," I whisper back, already working on the buttons of his shirt. "I don't care."
That's all the permission he needs. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, as his hands slide to my waist, then lower, gathering the material of my dress as they go. I push his shirt off his shoulders, eager to feel his skin under my palms, to rediscover the planes and contours I once knew by heart.
We stumble toward the bed, a tangle of hands and mouths, neither willing to break contact for even a moment. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall backward, dragging Dean with me. He braces himself above me, his eyes dark with desire but still questioning.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of restraint.
In answer, I reach behind me and untie the straps of my dress, letting it fall away from my chest. Dean's breath catches audibly as he takes in the sight of me in just a lacy white bra.
"I'll take that as a yes," he murmurs, lowering his head to trace the edge of the lace with his tongue.
I arch into his touch, a small moan escaping me as his mouth finds more sensitive terrain. His hands seem to be everywhere at once—tangled in my hair, skimming along my ribs, pushing my dress up and over my hips. I'm not passive, either, my fingers working at his belt, desperate to feel all of him against me.
"Slow down," Dean whispers against my collarbone. "We've got time."
But it doesn't feel that way. It feels urgent, necessary, like we might never get this chance again. I push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, allowing me to straddle him. I look down at him—his hair mussed from my fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark with want—and feel a surge of power.
"We've waited two years," I say, reaching behind to unhook my bra. "I don't want to wait anymore."
His hands come to rest on my hips as I toss the bra aside, his thumbs making small circles on my bare skin. "God, you're beautiful," he breathes, gaze roaming over me. "Even more than I remembered."
I bend to kiss him, my hair curtaining around us, creating a private world where only we exist. His hands slide up my back, then down again, beneath the waistband of my underwear to cup my backside and pull me more firmly against him. I can feel him hard beneath me, separated only by the thin fabric of his pants and my panties.
"Too many clothes," I murmur against his mouth, shifting to help him push off his pants.
Soon we're both down to just underwear, skin against skin, rediscovering each other with eager hands and mouths. Dean rolls us again, settling between my thighs, his weight a delicious pressure. He kisses a path down my neck, between my breasts, across my stomach, each touch igniting fires I thought had long been extinguished.
When he hooks his fingers in my panties and slides them down my legs, I don't protest. When he parts my thighs and settles between them, his intentions clear, I only nod eagerly. And when his mouth finds me, hot and insistent, I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer.
"Dean," I gasp as pleasure builds rapidly, my body responding to his touch like it was made for it. "Please."
He understands what I'm asking for. He rises above me again, shedding his boxers before reaching for his wallet on the nightstand. I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he retrieves a condom—ever prepared, my Dean—and rolls it on.
Then he's positioning himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine, silently asking one more time if I'm sure. I answer by wrapping my legs around his hips and pulling him toward me.
We both groan as he enters me, the sensation both achingly familiar and brand new. For a moment, we're still, adjusting to the feeling of being joined again after so long. Then Dean begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate.
"I've missed you," he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough with emotion. "So damn much, Brooke."
I turn my head to capture his mouth, pouring everything I can't say into the kiss. My hips rise to meet his, matching his rhythm, urging him deeper, faster. His hand slides between us, finding the spot that makes me see stars, and I arch against him, chasing the release I can feel building.
"Let go," he encourages, his movements becoming more urgent. "I've got you."
And I do, pleasure crashing over me in waves, his name a prayer on my lips as I shatter around him. Dean follows moments later, his face buried in my neck, a groan torn from deep in his chest.
We lie tangled together afterward, sweat cooling on our skin, neither speaking for fear of breaking the spell. His weight is comforting on top of me, his heartbeat gradually slowing to match mine. After a while, he shifts to the side, keeping one arm draped across my waist, his face nestled in my hair.
Reality begins to creep back in as my breathing returns to normal. What have we done? This wasn't part of the plan. This complicates everything.
"That was a mistake," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a self-satisfied smirk that makes my heart flip despite my best intentions.
"Sure it was, sweetheart," he says, dropping a kiss on my shoulder that sends shivers down my spine. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."
His confidence should irritate me. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile, even as I wonder exactly what I've gotten myself into—and how I'm ever going to find my way back out.