Chapter 8
EIGHT
Dean
I wake before Brooke, my arm numb underneath her head, her body curved against mine like a question mark seeking its answer. Early morning light filters through the half-closed blinds, painting stripes across her bare shoulder and the tangle of dark hair spread across my chest. She sleeps deeply, one hand curled near her face like a child, lips slightly parted. If I were a better man, I'd carefully extract myself, let her wake alone so she could preserve the fiction that last night was just a drunk mistake. But I've never claimed to be a better man, and the weight of her against me is something I'm not ready to surrender.
Last night changed things. I'm not fool enough to think one passionate night erases two years of separation or solves the fundamental problems that drove us apart. But it's a crack in the wall she built between us, a confirmation that whatever else has changed, this—the way our bodies speak to each other—remains as powerful as ever.
She stirs, eyelids fluttering as consciousness begins to creep in. I stay perfectly still, savoring these last moments before reality intrudes. Her leg shifts against mine, her foot running along my calf in a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. Then her eyes open, confusion giving way to recognition as she takes in our position.
"Morning," I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
Brooke blinks rapidly, pushing hair from her face as she sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest like I didn't memorize every inch of her body last night. "Um, good morning."
I prop myself up on one elbow, making no move to cover myself as the sheet pools at my waist. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine," she says, not meeting my eyes as she scans the room for her discarded clothes. "What time is it?"
"Early." I reach out, my fingers brushing her bare back, feeling her shiver at the contact. "We don't need to be at breakfast for another hour."
She stands abruptly, wrapping the sheet around herself and leaving me exposed on the bed. I don't miss how her eyes flicker down, then quickly away.
"I should shower," she says, her voice overly bright. "Big day ahead."
"Brooke." I sit up fully now, catching her wrist as she tries to move past me. "Are we really not going to talk about this?"
She stops, still not looking at me. "What's there to talk about? We had sex. It happens."
"It happens," I repeat flatly. "That's what you're going with?"
"What do you want me to say, Dean?" She finally meets my gaze, her expression a complicated mix of defiance and uncertainty. "It was a mistake. We both know that."
"Do we?" I release her wrist, watching as she takes a step back. "Because from where I'm sitting, it felt pretty damn right."
A flash of something—longing, maybe—crosses her face before she shutters it away. "We got carried away. The wedding, the pretending, the alcohol…it was inevitable, maybe, but that doesn't make it a good idea."
"And now you want to pretend it didn't happen."
"I want to focus on getting through this week without making things more complicated than they already are." She tugs the sheet tighter around herself. "We have a job to do, remember? Convince my family we're still together. That's it."
I lean back against the headboard, deliberately casual, watching her discomfort grow. "And the fact that I can still make you come apart with just my tongue? That your body remembers mine like it was yesterday, not two years ago? We just ignore that?"
Her cheeks flame red, and she turns away. "I'm taking a shower."
"Running away again," I call after her. "Some things never change, do they, Brooke?"
The bathroom door closes with more force than necessary, and I hear the lock click into place. I drop back onto the pillows with a frustrated sigh. I shouldn't have pushed. Shouldn't have called her out so bluntly. But damn it, I'm tired of the dance we've been doing since I agreed to this charade.
The shower runs for a long time. When she finally emerges, hair wet and slicked back, she's wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, her expression carefully neutral.
"All yours," she says, gesturing to the bathroom.
I stand, stretching deliberately, still completely naked. Brooke's eyes widen slightly before she busies herself with her suitcase, rifling through clothes with unusual intensity.
"Thanks," I say, padding past her. "By the way, the thing you did with your hips last night? Still my favorite."
I close the bathroom door on her scandalized expression, smiling to myself despite the frustration building in my chest. If she wants to play it cool, fine. But I'm done pretending this doesn't affect me. Done pretending she doesn't still own pieces of me I never got back when she left.
By the time I finish my shower, Brooke is fully dressed in a summery skirt and blouse, her hair dried and styled, makeup perfect. The composed New York professional, all evidence of last night's passion erased.
"We should head down," she says, checking her watch. "Mom texted. They're waiting."
I take my time getting dressed, deliberately choosing a t-shirt that I know shows off my shoulders, leaving it untucked above my jeans. Brooke watches from the corner of her eye, pretending not to notice but failing miserably.
"Ready?" she asks, a bit too brightly when I finally slip on my shoes.
"As I'll ever be." I hold the door for her, my hand finding the small of her back as we step into the hallway—a gesture that could be read as simply boyfriendly for any watching eyes, but that I know sends electricity up her spine.
The resort's breakfast restaurant is on an open-air terrace overlooking the beach. Most of the wedding party is already seated at a long table, plates loaded with tropical fruits and breakfast pastries. Brooke's mother spots us first, waving enthusiastically.
"There they are! We were just talking about you two."
Brooke tenses beside me. "Nothing bad, I hope?"
"Only how handsome you looked dancing together last night," her mother says, patting the empty chairs beside her. "Come, sit. The buffet is wonderful."
I pull out Brooke's chair for her, bending to murmur in her ear, "Play nice, sweetheart."
She shoots me a warning look but smiles for the benefit of her watching family. "Always."
I load my plate with enough food for a ranch hand working from dawn to dusk—eggs, bacon, fresh pineapple, pastries that look like they were made by angels. Brooke takes considerably less, picking at a fruit salad with the enthusiasm of someone facing a tax audit.
"Did you sleep well?" Linda asks innocently. "I heard the air conditioning was fixed in most rooms."
"Like a baby," I say, my knee brushing Brooke's under the table. "Your daughter is very cuddly."
Brooke chokes slightly on her coffee. I pat her back solicitously.
"Careful, babe. Don't want you choking."
She recovers, shooting me a death glare thinly veiled as a smile. "Dean's such a caring partner."
"Always have been," her father agrees, nodding approvingly from across the table. "Remember when Brooke had that terrible flu three years ago? Dean drove through a snowstorm to bring her medication."
I did. It was one of those moments when I realized how deeply I loved her—standing in a 24-hour pharmacy at 2 AM, desperate to find anything that would ease her suffering. The memory lands like a weight in my chest.
"He's always taking care of me," Brooke says, and there's something genuine in her voice now, a softening that wasn't there before.
Our eyes meet briefly, and I see the acknowledgment there—that not everything between us was bad. That there were moments of real tenderness, real connection, that neither of us has forgotten.
"So," Linda says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air, "I was talking to Mrs. Henderson yesterday—you remember, Taylor's future mother-in-law—and she mentioned the most beautiful ring shop in the resort's shopping area."
Brooke freezes, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Ring shop?"
"For engagement rings, dear." Her mother's smile is wide and hopeful. "I thought perhaps you and Dean might want to take a look. No pressure, of course, but after four years..."
"Mom!" Brooke's voice rises an octave. "We're here for Taylor's wedding. This isn't about us."
"Of course, of course." Linda waves her hand dismissively. "But you're not getting any younger, Brooke. And Dean's such a catch."
Brooke's face floods with color. "We're not—I mean, we haven't really discussed?—"
"We're taking our time," I interrupt smoothly, placing my hand over hers on the table. "Brooke's career is important to her, and I respect that."
"But surely you've thought about marriage?" Linda presses, undeterred. "You two should get married already!"
Brooke chokes on the bite of pineapple she's just taken, coughing violently. I pat her back again, fighting a smile at her obvious distress.
"You okay there, sweetheart?" I ask innocently.
She glares at me through watering eyes. "Fine," she gasps. "Just went down the wrong way."
"Marriage is a big step," I say, turning back to Linda. "But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it."
Brooke's head whips toward me, her eyes wide with surprise—and something else I can't quite read. Fear? Hope? Whatever it is, it's real, not part of our act.
"You have?" she asks, her voice smaller than I've heard it since arriving in Hawaii.
I hold her gaze steadily, letting her see the truth behind my words. "Of course I have. Haven't you?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than anyone at the table could possibly understand. For a moment, the charade falls away, and we're just Dean and Brooke again, facing the question that loomed over us two years ago when she chose New York over a future with me.
Brooke looks away first, tucking hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture I remember well. "We should probably focus on Taylor's wedding before planning our own."
"Wise words," her father agrees, coming to her rescue. "One wedding at a time in this family, Linda."
The conversation moves on to the day's events—a catamaran tour for the wedding party, last-minute errands for the mothers—but something has shifted again between Brooke and me. My non-denial about marriage has rattled her, forced her to confront the reality that this isn't just a performance for me.
Under the table, her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining briefly before retreating. It's a small gesture, could mean nothing. But I choose to see it as an acknowledgment—that last night wasn't just a drunk mistake. That there's something still alive between us, something neither of us quite knows what to do with.
As breakfast winds down and people begin to disperse to prepare for the day's activities, Brooke leans close under the pretense of fixing my collar.
"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs. "Let my mother think marriage is on the table."
I catch her hand before she can pull away, bringing it to my lips in a gesture that looks romantic to observers but allows me to whisper, "Who says it isn't?"
Her eyes widen, and for once, she has no quick comeback. I stand, offering my hand to help her up, the perfect image of a devoted boyfriend. But the question still hangs between us, unanswered and unavoidable.
Who says it isn’t?