Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Dean
Weddings are strange things—celebrations of love surrounded by people pretending to be happier and better dressed than they actually are. I stand at the edge of the reception, nursing a whiskey and watching Brooke laugh with her cousins across the room. She's breathtaking in her bridesmaid dress, a pale blue thing that brings out the gold in her hazel eyes, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant curve of her neck. Every now and then, her gaze drifts to find me, a question in her expression that I pretend not to see. After last night's confession and rejection, I can't afford to give her more of myself without some sign she's ready to meet me halfway.
The ceremony itself was picture-perfect—sunset on the beach, Taylor radiant in white, her groom looking at her like she hung the moon. I stood with the other groomsmen, listened to vows about forever and partnership, and tried not to think about what might have been if Brooke had been brave enough to fight for us two years ago. If I had been wise enough to follow her to New York instead of stubbornly believing she'd come back to me.
Linda's words from this morning echo in my mind: *Fight for her. Not with grand gestures or ultimatums. Fight by showing her there's a path where she doesn't have to choose.*
But how do you fight for someone who keeps running away? Who responds to "I never stopped loving you" with "This is fake, remember"?
The answer, according to Robert Callahan—who cornered me with some excellent scotch before the ceremony—is patience. "My daughter's stubborn," he told me, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. "Gets it from her mother. But she's also smart. Give her time to realize what she really wants."
So that's my strategy now. Give her space. Let her come to me when she's ready. If she's ready.
Across the reception hall, Brooke finishes her conversation and moves toward Taylor, helping adjust something on her sister's dress with the careful attention she brings to everything she cares about. When she smiles at something Taylor says, genuine and unguarded, I feel it like a physical ache in my chest. That smile used to be for me.
Throughout the evening, we orbit each other carefully, fulfilling our roles as members of the wedding party but never quite connecting. During the formal dances, I spin Robert's sister around the floor while Brooke partners with James's brother. For photos, we stand side by side, my hand at the small of her back—a touch that once would have been intimate but now feels performative.
The worst part is, I can tell she's trying. She keeps glancing my way, keeps finding excuses to be near me, keeps touching my arm or shoulder when she speaks to me. Small gestures that might indicate she's reconsidering her stance on us.
But I've been burned twice now—once when she left Colorado, and again last night when she reduced what we have to pretend. My heart can't take a third rejection, so I maintain the careful distance I've established, responding to her overtures with polite smiles and brief answers before moving away.
It's cruel, perhaps. But it's also self-preservation.
"You look like you're planning someone's murder," Chase comments, appearing beside me at the bar where I've gone for a refill. "Let me guess—mine?"
I glance at him, surprised by his direct approach. "Nothing that dramatic."
"Good to hear." He signals the bartender for two drinks. "Though I wouldn't blame you. I came on pretty strong with Brooke the other day."
This is unexpected—an olive branch from the man I've spent the week irrationally disliking. I study him, looking for the catch, but his expression seems genuine enough.
"Water under the bridge," I say finally, accepting the fresh whiskey he offers.
"Appreciate that." Chase takes a sip of his own drink. "For what it's worth, I backed off the minute I realized how serious you two are."
I almost laugh at the irony—he thinks we're serious, while Brooke insists we're just pretending. Instead, I nod noncommittally. "Thanks."
"She looks at you the way my parents look at each other," he continues, his gaze finding Brooke across the room. "Like you're the answer to a question she's been asking her whole life."
The poetic observation surprises me, coming from the man I'd written off as a shallow flirt. "You don't strike me as a romantic, Chase."
He grins, unexpectedly self-deprecating. "I hide it well. Pediatrician, remember? Gotta maintain my tough guy image when I'm putting Hello Kitty bandages on scraped knees."
Against my better judgment, I find myself warming to him. "How'd you end up in pediatrics?"
"Always loved kids. Plus, they're the only patients who appreciate my dinosaur jokes." He shrugs. "What about you? How does a guy like you end up running a ranch in Colorado?"
"Grew up on one. Smaller scale, though. My dad had about twenty acres, mostly horses." I take another sip of whiskey, memories surfacing. "When he passed, I used the insurance money for a down payment on my own place. Started with fifty acres, expanded from there."
"Sorry about your dad," Chase says, genuine sympathy in his voice. "Must have been tough."
"It was." I don't elaborate—don't mention how Brooke was my rock during that time, how she helped me navigate the grief and paperwork and decisions that followed. How she was the one who encouraged me to follow my dream of a larger operation rather than selling my father's land and moving on.
"Well, for what it's worth, you seem to have built something good." Chase raises his glass slightly. "To knowing what you want and going after it."
I clink my glass against his, an unexpected moment of camaraderie with the man I'd considered a rival. "I'll drink to that."
As we continue talking—about our respective careers, about Taylor and James, about the merits of Hawaii versus other vacation destinations—I become aware of Brooke watching us from across the room. There's a strange expression on her face—confusion mixed with something that looks almost like possessiveness.
Interesting.
Chase notices too, a small smile playing at his lips. "I think your girlfriend is wondering what we're plotting."
"Let her wonder," I reply, surprising myself with the edge in my voice.
He raises an eyebrow. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Nothing we can't handle." I drain the last of my whiskey. "Thanks for the drink."
"Anytime." Chase glances at Brooke again, then back to me. "Word of advice? Don't make her work too hard for forgiveness, whatever she did. Pride's a cold bedfellow."
With that cryptic remark, he moves away, joining a group of Taylor's friends near the dance floor. I remain at the bar, turning his words over in my mind. Is that what I'm doing—making Brooke work for forgiveness? Or am I simply protecting myself from another heartbreak?
Before I can answer my own question, Robert appears at my side. "Time for the father-daughter dance," he says, straightening his tie nervously. "Wish me luck. Taylor picked some modern song I've never heard of."
I smile, genuinely fond of the man who once might have been my father-in-law. "You'll do fine. Just don't try any fancy moves."
He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder before heading toward the center of the room where Taylor waits. As the music starts—something soft and contemporary—I watch father and daughter sway together, the love between them evident in every movement.
My gaze drifts inevitably to Brooke, standing at the edge of the dance floor. She's watching her father and sister with a small smile, but there's something wistful in her expression that tugs at me. When she looks up and finds me watching her, she doesn't look away. Instead, she holds my gaze across the crowded room, something like determination settling over her features.
A moment later, she's moving toward me, weaving between guests with purposeful strides. My heart rate picks up, a Pavlovian response to her approach that I can't seem to control even after all this time.
"Hey," she says, stopping in front of me.
"Hey yourself." I keep my tone neutral, waiting to see what she wants.
She gestures to where Chase is now laughing with James's cousins. "You two seemed pretty deep in conversation."
"Just getting to know each other," I shrug. "He's not so bad once you get past the perfect hair and white teeth."
A small frown creases her brow. "What did you talk about?"
"Work. Life. The usual." I study her, noting the tension in her shoulders, the slight flush in her cheeks. "Why? Worried he's telling me your high school secrets?"
"No," she says too quickly. "I just…I was surprised to see you talking to him. Given how you felt about him flirting with me."
"Water under the bridge," I repeat my earlier words to Chase. "Besides, he backed off once he realized how serious we are."
I emphasize the word "serious," watching her reaction carefully. She blinks, her gaze dropping briefly before returning to mine with renewed intensity.
"About that," she starts, then hesitates. "Dean, I think we need to talk. About last night. About us."
It's what I've been waiting for—an opening, an indication she's ready to have a real conversation about what's happening between us. But after the emotional whiplash of the past few days, I'm wary of hoping too much, too soon.
"Now?" I ask, glancing around at the reception in full swing. "In the middle of your sister's wedding?"
"Later," she amends. "After the reception. Just…don't disappear on me, okay?"
There's vulnerability in her request, a hint of the fear that's been driving her away from me. It softens something in my chest that I've been holding rigid since her rejection.
"I'm not going anywhere, Brooke." I reach out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, allowing myself this small touch. "Not until we've said everything that needs saying."
Relief flashes across her face, followed by something warmer, more hopeful. But before she can respond, Taylor's voice calls her name from across the room.
"Maid of honor duties call," Brooke says with a small smile. "Save me a dance?"
"Always," I promise, the word carrying more weight than she probably realizes.
As she hurries back to her sister, I feel something shift inside me—a loosening of the guard I've maintained all day. Linda was right. Brooke is trying, in her own cautious way, to bridge the gap between us. Meeting her halfway doesn't mean laying myself bare again, but it does mean being open to the possibility that she's finally ready to stop running.
The rest of the reception passes in a blur of speeches, dances, and cake cutting. I fulfill my groomsman obligations, chat with Brooke's relatives, even find myself in another surprisingly enjoyable conversation with Chase and some of James's friends.
But throughout it all, I'm aware of Brooke's gaze finding me across the room, a silent promise of the conversation to come. When our eyes meet, there's none of the guarded distance from earlier—only a quiet intensity that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts at caution.
By the time the newlyweds depart in a shower of flower petals and well-wishes, anticipation has built to a low hum beneath my skin. Whatever Brooke wants to say, whatever happens next, at least we'll finally be honest with each other.
And maybe, just maybe, that's the first step toward finding our way back to what we lost.