Chapter 12
TWELVE
Dean
The morning of Taylor's wedding dawns bright and clear, the perfect Hawaiian day for a perfect Hawaiian wedding. I've been awake for hours, watching pink light seep across the ceiling as Brooke sleeps on the far edge of the bed, as distant in sleep as she was after I bared my soul to her last night. I said the words I've kept locked inside for two years—I never stopped loving you—and she responded by reminding me this is all pretend. I should have known better. Should have remembered that Brooke Callahan runs from anything that threatens the neat, controlled life she's built for herself. Including me. Especially me.
The worst part isn't the rejection—I've survived that before. It's the knowledge that for a moment, I actually believed things could be different this time. That the passion we've rediscovered this week might have opened her eyes to what she left behind. More fool me.
I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. Not ready for the polite mask she'll put on, the careful distance she'll maintain while we continue this charade for her family. Yesterday hurt enough; I need time to shore up my defenses before facing her again.
The shower helps clear my head, the routine of shaving and dressing giving me purpose. By the time Brooke stirs, I'm fully armored in khakis and a button-down, ready for the day's pre-wedding activities.
"Morning," she says, her voice still husky with sleep, her eyes cautious as they find mine. "You're up early."
"Big day." I keep my tone neutral, giving her nothing. "Your dad texted. The groomsmen are meeting at eight for breakfast before getting dressed."
She sits up, drawing the sheet with her even though she's wearing pajamas. "Oh. Right."
"I'll head down, give you some space to get ready." I check my watch, a deliberate gesture to avoid meeting her eyes. "Taylor needs you in the bridal suite at nine, right?"
"Yes." She pushes hair from her face, looking smaller than usual against the big white pillows. "Dean, about last night?—"
"Nothing to talk about." I cut her off, not ready for whatever explanation or apology she's about to offer. "We're good."
Her expression says we're anything but good, but she doesn't push. "Will I see you before the ceremony?"
"Probably not. I'll be with the guys until then." I grab my wallet and phone from the nightstand. "I'll save you a seat at the reception."
I'm nearly to the door when her voice stops me, soft and tentative. "Dean?"
I turn, one hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"
"Be careful with my dad today. He takes his scotch a little too seriously at these things."
It's so unexpected—this small, normal concern—that I feel my armor crack slightly. "I'll keep an eye on him," I promise, our gazes holding for a moment before I turn and leave.
The morning unfolds according to the carefully orchestrated wedding schedule. Breakfast with the groomsmen, where I make the expected jokes and listen to stories about James that I'll probably never remember. Then to the groom's suite, where we dress in matching gray suits with pale blue accents that coordinate with the bridesmaids' dresses. Through it all, I play my part—the supportive almost-family-member, the seasoned boyfriend of the bride's sister—while inside I'm counting the hours until I can leave this all behind.
Just three more days. The ceremony today, the farewell brunch tomorrow, then a polite goodbye at the airport. Then back to my ranch, my life, the quiet existence I've built without Brooke. Only now it'll be harder, knowing that even after everything, even after seeing each other again, feeling what we feel, she still chooses to walk away.
"Dean?" Robert's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Mind getting the boutonnières from Linda? She's in the hospitality suite on the second floor."
"Sure thing," I agree, glad for the excuse to step away from the increasingly rowdy groomsmen.
The resort is abuzz with wedding activity—staff arranging flowers, photographers setting up equipment, guests in formal wear navigating the lobby. I find the hospitality suite easily enough, knocking lightly before entering.
"Robert sent me for the boutonnières," I explain to Linda, who's supervising the arrangement of gift baskets for out-of-town guests.
"Oh, wonderful!" She smiles warmly, the same smile Brooke has when she's genuinely happy. "They're in the cooler by the window. But since you're here, would you mind helping me with something else first?"
"Of course."
Linda dismisses the hotel staff with a grateful nod, waiting until we're alone before turning to me, her expression shifting from cheerful efficiency to something more serious.
"Sit with me for a moment, Dean."
Wariness prickles at the back of my neck as I take a seat opposite her on one of the suite's comfortable couches. Linda Callahan has always been kind to me, but there's a sharpness to her gaze now that reminds me of her courtroom days before she retired from law.
"Is everything okay?" I ask. "Something wrong with the wedding?"
"The wedding is perfect." She folds her hands in her lap, studying me. "It's you and Brooke I'm concerned about."
My muscles tense automatically. "What about us?"
"Something's off." No preamble, no gentle lead-in. Just like Brooke when she gets to the point. "You two have been playing the happy couple all week, but I didn't raise two daughters without learning to spot when they're hiding something."
I consider my options. Deny everything, maintain the charade Brooke is so desperate to preserve. Or tell the truth to this woman who has always treated me like a son, who deserves better than the lies we've been feeding her family.
"What exactly do you think is happening?" I hedge, buying time.
Linda sighs, her expression softening. "I think you and Brooke haven't been together for quite some time. I think she asked you to pretend for this wedding. And I think somewhere along the way, it stopped being pretend for at least one of you."
My hands go numb in my lap, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as a mix of guilt and relief. Guilt for the deception, relief that someone sees through it.
"How long have you known?" I ask quietly.
"I suspected something was wrong when Brooke kept making excuses about why you couldn't make family events. Then this week…the way you look at her when you think no one's watching. Like you're seeing her for the first time in years." Linda's eyes are kind but knowing. "Because you are, aren't you?"
There's no point denying it now. "Two years," I admit. "We broke up two years ago."
Linda nods, unsurprised. "What happened?"
"She got the job offer in New York. I asked her to stay, or at least try long distance. She said..." The memory still stings, even now. "She said she needed to focus on her career, that she didn't see a future where we both got what we wanted."
"That sounds like my daughter." There's a hint of exasperation in Linda's voice. "Always convinced she has to choose between her ambitions and her heart."
"She made her choice." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "And it wasn't me."
"And yet here you are," Linda observes. "Pretending to be together for her sister's wedding. That's quite a favor for an ex-girlfriend."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "Taylor deserves a perfect wedding. Not family drama."
"Noble," she says, but there's skepticism in her tone. "But I think there's more to it than that. I think you're still in love with my daughter."
The blunt assessment lands like a blow. "Does it matter? She's made it clear she doesn't feel the same."
"Has she?" Linda tilts her head, considering me. "Because what I've seen this week is a woman who can't keep her eyes off you. Who laughs more freely when you're near. Who touches you when she doesn't need to, just because she wants the contact."
Hope flares briefly in my chest before I tamp it down. "She's a good actress."
"She's a terrible actress," Linda counters with a small laugh. "Always has been. Remember the Christmas pageant when she was ten? Worst Angel Gabriel in church history."
Despite everything, I smile at the memory Brooke shared with me years ago. "She told me about that. Said she forgot all her lines and announced 'Hey Mary, you're pregnant' instead of the proper verse."
"The point is," Linda continues, leaning forward, "Brooke isn't pretending when she looks at you like you hung the moon. That's real. What I don't understand is why you're both fighting it."
I run a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not fighting anything. I told her last night that I never stopped loving her. That I'd compromise—split time between Colorado and New York, even move if that's what it took."
"And?"
"And she reminded me that this is all fake. Just pretend for her family's sake." The words taste bitter on my tongue.
Linda shakes her head, disappointment clear in her expression. "My stubborn, fearful daughter."
"She's not fearful," I find myself defending her automatically. "She's ambitious. Focused. She knows what she wants."
"Does she?" Linda's gaze is piercing. "Because from where I sit, she looks like a woman terrified of admitting what she really wants because it doesn't fit the plan she made for herself."
I don't have an answer for that. It's a perspective I hadn't considered—that Brooke's rejection might come from fear rather than indifference. But does it matter? The result is the same either way.
"You love her," Linda says, not a question but a statement. "Real love. The kind that survives two years of separation and still burns bright enough to bring you here, to play this exhausting game for her."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
"Then fight for her." Linda's voice is firm, brooking no argument. "Not with grand gestures or ultimatums. Fight by showing her there's a path where she doesn't have to choose. Where she can have her career and you."
"I tried that," I remind her. "She didn't want to hear it."
"Try again." Linda stands, moving to retrieve a box from the cooler—the boutonnières I was sent to collect. "Brooke has spent her whole life believing she has to earn love through achievement. That if she's not perfect, not successful enough, she'll lose what matters. It makes her run from anything that feels too important, too precious to risk."
She hands me the box, her hand lingering on mine. "Don't let her run this time, Dean. Not if you truly love her."
"And if she still chooses New York? Her career?" I can't quite keep the vulnerability from my voice.
Linda's smile is sad but knowing. "Then at least you'll both be choosing with your eyes open. No more pretending."
I take the boutonnières, Linda's words echoing in my mind as I head back to the groom's suite. Is she right? Is Brooke running not from me, but from the fear of having to choose at all?
The possibility changes nothing and everything. She still rejected me last night. Still made it clear this is just pretend.
But maybe—just maybe—there's more to it than I thought. Maybe beneath the carefully composed New York professional is the same Brooke who loved me once, who might love me still if she could find the courage to leap without a safety net.
The question is: am I willing to risk my heart one more time to find out?
As I rejoin the wedding party, watching the joyful chaos of the day unfold, I realize the answer is yes. Because despite everything—the hurt, the rejection, the two years apart—I do love her. Not the memory of her, but the woman she is now. The woman who still fits against me like she was made for my arms, whose laugh still makes my heart race, whose dreams I still want to see fulfilled—even if they don't include me.
I love her enough to try once more. And if she still walks away? At least this time, I'll know I fought for us with everything I had.