Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Brooke
The morning after our shower encounter, I wake early and slip out of bed, careful not to disturb Dean's sleeping form. The room is cool now, the air conditioning having kicked back on sometime during the night, but there's a different kind of heat burning inside me—a confusion that no amount of cold air can soothe. I stand on the balcony, watching the sunrise paint the ocean in shades of gold and pink, wondering when exactly this charade stopped being pretend for me. Or if it ever was.
Three days in Hawaii. Three days of playing Dean's girlfriend, of his hands on me, his lips against mine. Three days of remembering what it felt like to be loved by him, body and soul. And with each passing hour, the line between performance and reality blurs further, leaving me unsteady, uncertain.
What terrifies me most isn't that we've fallen back into physical intimacy so easily—it's how right it feels. How natural. Like the two years apart were nothing but a brief intermission in the ongoing story of us.
Behind me, I hear the sheets rustle as Dean shifts in his sleep. I don't turn around, afraid of what I might do if I see him there, vulnerable and warm in the morning light. Afraid I might crawl back into bed and curl against him, press my lips to his chest, whisper all the things I've been afraid to admit even to myself.
That I've missed him every day.
That no one in New York has ever made me feel the way he does.
That leaving him might have been the biggest mistake of my life.
But admitting those things means facing the same impossible choice I ran from two years ago—my career or the man I love. Because nothing has changed, not really. I still live in New York. He still has his ranch in Colorado. I still can't see how we fit those pieces together without one of us sacrificing everything.
So I stay on the balcony, watching the day begin, gathering my defenses for another day of pretending that pretending is all we're doing.
* * *
The rehearsal dinner is tonight, which means today is filled with last-minute preparations. I throw myself into helping Taylor, grateful for the distraction from my tangled emotions. Dean is dragged off with the groomsmen for what James calls "important wedding business," which I suspect involves cigars and expensive whiskey.
The separation gives me space to breathe, to remind myself why boundaries are necessary. By the time we reunite at lunch—a casual affair on the resort's terrace—I've reconstructed some of my walls, enough to smile naturally when he drops a kiss on my cheek in full view of my watching family.
"Miss me?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"It's been three hours," I reply, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
His eyes say he knows exactly what I'm doing, but he plays along, keeping his hand at the small of my back as we join the others at the table. The conversation flows around us—wedding details, family gossip, plans for tomorrow's ceremony. Dean participates easily, charming my aunts, talking sports with my male cousins, seamlessly fitting into the family dynamics like he never left.
That's the problem. He fits so well—too well—making it easy to forget this isn't real. That we're not really picking up where we left off.
After lunch, Taylor steals me away for bridesmaid dress final fittings, while Dean joins my father for a round of golf. The day passes in a flurry of activities, allowing me to postpone any serious conversation about what's happening between us.
But the evening comes, as evenings do, and we find ourselves back in our room, preparing for the rehearsal dinner. Dean emerges from the bathroom in dress pants and an unbuttoned shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. My breath catches at the sight, my hands itching to reach out and touch him.
"Need help with your zipper?" he offers, nodding toward my half-fastened dress.
"Please." I turn, lifting my hair out of the way, hyperaware of his proximity as he approaches.
His fingers brush my spine as he draws the zipper up, the touch deliberately light but still electrifying. When he finishes, his hands linger on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
"Brooke," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. "We need to talk about what's happening here."
I step away, busying myself with selecting earrings from my jewelry case. "We're getting ready for the rehearsal dinner."
"You know that's not what I mean."
I do know. But acknowledging it means facing truths I'm not ready for. I slip the earrings in, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. "What's there to talk about? We're doing what we came here to do—convincing my family we're still together."
"Is that all this is to you?" There's an edge to his voice now. "A performance?"
I turn to face him, finding his eyes darkened with something that might be anger, might be hurt. "What else would it be?"
"Don't." He steps closer, invading my carefully constructed space. "Don't pretend the shower yesterday was just part of the act. Or the night before that."
"It was..." I falter, unable to lie convincingly when he's looking at me like that. "Complicated."
"Actually, it's pretty simple." Another step closer, until I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I never stopped loving you, Brooke."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I knew, on some level, that his feelings ran deeper than lust or nostalgia. The way he touches me, looks at me, speaks to me—it all points to something more enduring than I wanted to admit. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way I can't deflect or deny.
"Dean," I breathe, his name half plea, half protest.
"I know you're scared." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over my skin. "I know you think nothing's changed, that we still want different things. But that's not true."
"Isn't it?" I step back, needing distance to think clearly. "I still live in New York. You still have your ranch. How is that different from before?"
"Because I'm different." The intensity in his gaze pins me in place. "Because I spent two years thinking I lost you forever, and now I know I'll do whatever it takes to keep you. Even if that means compromise."
The word hangs between us, loaded with implications. Compromise. The thing I was too afraid to consider two years ago, convinced it would mean sacrificing my dreams.
"What kind of compromise?" I ask cautiously.
"Whatever works." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I remember well. "Split our time between Colorado and New York. Find a middle ground—Denver, Chicago, somewhere with flights to both. Hell, I'd move to New York if that's what it took."
The admission stuns me. Dean McAllister, the man who once told me he'd die if he had to live in a concrete jungle, would consider New York for me? It's too much, too fast, too overwhelming.
"This is fake, remember?" The words burst out of me, a desperate attempt to restore the boundaries crumbling around us. "We're pretending, Dean. For my family. For Taylor's wedding. That's all this is."
His face shutters, the openness replaced by a mask I can't read. "Right," he says flatly. "Just pretend."
"I didn't mean—" I start, already regretting my panicked response.
"No, you're right." He steps back, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm opening between us. "I forgot the rules for a minute there. My mistake."
"Dean, please?—"
"We should go." He buttons his shirt with quick, efficient movements, not looking at me. "Don't want to be late for the rehearsal."
I watch, helpless, as he rebuilds his walls, brick by brick, until the man standing before me is a stranger wearing Dean's face—polite, distant, unreachable. It's my fault. I pushed him away because I was afraid of what letting him in might mean.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Nothing to be sorry about." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Just keeping things in perspective."
He holds the door open for me, every inch the perfect gentleman, and I walk past him with a heavy heart. In the elevator, we stand side by side, not touching, the silence between us thick and uncomfortable.
Just before the doors open to the lobby, Dean speaks, his voice so low I almost miss it. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. Every word."
Then the doors slide open, and he's offering his arm with a practiced smile, stepping back into the role of devoted boyfriend as we join my waiting family. I take it automatically, pasting on my own smile while inside I'm screaming.
I never stopped loving you, Brooke.
The words echo in my head throughout the rehearsal, through the dinner that follows, through the toasts and laughter and preparations for tomorrow's ceremony. Dean plays his part flawlessly—attentive, charming, the perfect partner. No one would guess that just an hour ago, he laid his heart bare and I stomped on it out of fear.
No one except me, acutely aware of the subtle changes in his behavior. The way his hand no longer lingers at my waist. The way his smile doesn't reach his eyes when he looks at me. The careful distance he maintains even when we're side by side.
I did this. I pushed away the one person who knows me better than anyone, who loves me despite all my flaws and fears, who offered compromise when I couldn't see past my own insecurities.
As the evening winds down and we make our way back to our room, I wonder if I've finally broken something that can't be fixed. If my instinct to run from anything that threatens my carefully constructed independence has cost me the one man who might be worth the risk.
Dean goes through the motions—holding doors, making small talk about the dinner, behaving exactly as a boyfriend should. But there's a distance in his eyes that wasn't there before, a guardedness that tells me he won't be making himself vulnerable again.
And the worst part is, I don't blame him. I'd protect myself too, if I were him. I'd build walls a mile high to keep out the woman who rejected me not once, but twice.
The question is, now that I'm starting to realize what I've done—what I might be losing—is it too late to tear those walls down?