Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Dean
If someone had told me this morning that I'd be heading back to the resort with Brooke instead of boarding a plane to Denver, I'd have called them delusional. Yet here we are, sitting in the back of a taxi, her hand in mine, the airport receding in the distance behind us. I'm still trying to process what just happened—Brooke Callahan, queen of practicality and careful planning, making a public declaration of love worthy of a rom-com finale. The same woman who hours ago suggested we "just be friends" just chased me down at an airport to tell me she loves me in front of a crowd of strangers. It would be funny if it weren't so damn beautiful.
She sits beside me now, her head resting on my shoulder, her fingers intertwined with mine. There's a new steadiness to her, a certainty I haven't seen before. Whatever internal battle she's been fighting seems resolved, at least for now.
"I can't believe you were actually going to leave," she says quietly, breaking the comfortable silence that's settled between us.
"I can't believe you actually came after me." I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "That wasn't very practical of you, Callahan."
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my shoulder. "Turns out I'm tired of being practical all the time. It's exhausting."
"And terrifying," I add, understanding more than she might realize. "Throwing careful plans out the window for something that might not work."
Brooke lifts her head to look at me, her eyes serious now. "It will work," she says with a conviction that makes my heart swell. "I don't know exactly how yet, but we'll make it work. Together."
"Together," I echo, the word feeling right on my tongue. "That's a good start."
The taxi winds along the coastal road, the same stretch I traveled in the opposite direction just hours ago with a heart full of resignation. Now, with Brooke's hand in mine and her promise hanging between us, the vibrant colors of the island seem sharper, the scent of plumeria and sea salt more pronounced, as if my senses have reawakened along with my hope.
"What did my mom say to you?" Brooke asks suddenly. "Before you left?"
I consider how to answer, remembering Linda's pointed advice. "She told me I should make it harder for you to walk away," I admit. "That I shouldn't let you go so easily."
"She was right." Brooke's fingers tighten around mine. "I needed the push. Needed to realize what I was really losing."
"And what was that?" I need to hear her say it, need the reassurance after so many near-misses and almost moments.
Her smile is soft, a little sad but mostly determined. "Everything that matters. You. Us. A chance at the kind of love most people only dream about."
The simple honesty of her words touches something deep inside me, a place that's been bruised and guarded for too long. I lift our joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, unable to find words adequate to express what I'm feeling.
But maybe words aren't necessary. Not right now. Not when her eyes tell me everything I need to know.
The taxi pulls into the resort's circular drive, the same spot where Brooke watched me leave hours ago. As I pay the driver, I catch sight of Linda standing on the terrace, a knowing smile spreading across her face when she spots us. She raises a hand in greeting but makes no move to approach, giving us the space we need.
"Your mother's looking pretty pleased with herself," I observe as we walk hand-in-hand toward the entrance.
Brooke follows my gaze and groans softly. "She'll be insufferable now. She loves being right."
"Runs in the family," I tease, earning a light shove in response.
The walk to our suite passes in comfortable silence, both of us aware that we've crossed a threshold but not quite ready to discuss what comes next. When the door closes behind us, shutting out the world and its expectations, Brooke turns to me with a mixture of determination and vulnerability that takes my breath away.
"I meant everything I said at the airport," she says, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "I'm all in, Dean. Whatever it takes."
The words trigger a memory—a decision I made two years ago, a plan derailed by her departure, a hope I never quite abandoned despite my best efforts. Before I can second-guess myself, I move to my suitcase, reaching into the inner pocket where a small velvet box has traveled with me from Colorado to Hawaii, a talisman of what might have been.
"There's something you should know," I say, my back still to her as I retrieve the box. "Something I've never told you."
"What is it?" Her voice holds a note of concern.
I turn, the box hidden in my closed fist. "Two years ago, before you left for New York, I had plans."
"Plans?" she echoes, confusion clear in her expression.
"I was going to ask you to marry me."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with the weight of missed opportunities and paths not taken. Brooke's eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise.
"You—what?"
"I had it all planned out," I continue, moving closer to her. "Dinner at that Italian place you loved in town. Then a drive up to the ridge on my property, where you could see the lights of the valley spread out below. I was going to tell you that I'd bought the adjacent forty acres, that we could build our dream house there, with enough space for your home office and maybe, someday, a nursery."
Emotion flickers across her face—surprise, regret, a dawning realization of what might have been.
"I didn't know," she whispers.
"You couldn't have." I shrug, trying for casualness despite the weight of the moment. "I wanted it to be a surprise. I'd just picked up the ring that morning. Had it in my pocket when you told me about the job offer in New York."
Understanding floods her features. "That's why you were so adamant about me staying. Why you couldn't understand why I'd even consider leaving."
"Partly," I admit. "Though I'd like to think I'd have supported your career either way, if you'd given us the chance to figure it out together."
"Dean, I—" she starts, but I shake my head, stopping her.
"No apologies. Not for the past. We can't change it, and maybe we needed this time apart to grow into people who can make this work now."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods, accepting the grace I'm offering. "So what happened to the ring?" she asks softly.
I uncurl my fingers, revealing the small black velvet box I've carried for two years—through anger and heartbreak, through attempts to move on, through the gradual acceptance that some loves don't fade, no matter how much time or distance separates them.
"I kept it," I say simply. "I told myself it was because I couldn't bear to return it, to explain to the jeweler that the woman I loved had chosen a different path. But the truth is, I think I always hoped that somehow, someday, I'd have the chance to give it to you."
Brooke's breath catches audibly, her eyes fixed on the box in my palm. "Dean," she whispers, my name a question and plea all at once.
"I'm not rushing you into anything,” I clarify quickly, not wanting to pressure her when we've just found our way back to each other. "Not now. I know we have things to figure out first. But I wanted you to know that this—" I hold up the box, "—has always been part of how I saw our future."
I slide the box into her hand, our fingers brushing in a contact that sends electricity up my arm. "You don't have to open it. You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to have it, to know that when you're ready—if you're ever ready—it's here. I'm here."
Her hands tremble slightly as she holds the box, turning it over in her palm as if memorizing its contours. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for a reaction I can't predict.
"What is this?" she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"Is this—" she swallows visibly, "—are you giving me the ring to hold for someday? Or are you..."
She trails off, leaving the question unfinished but clear nonetheless. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize what she's asking—not if I'm proposing, but if I'm not.
"What do you want it to be?" I ask, giving her the space to define this moment herself.
Brooke looks up from the box, her eyes meeting mine with a directness that takes my breath away. "I want it to be a beginning," she says. "Not just of our relationship, but of our life together. I want it to be a promise that we'll figure out the hard parts together, that we won't run from the challenges."
She takes a deep breath, then asks the question I never expected to hear today: "Dean McAllister, are you asking me to marry you?"
The world seems to still around us, the moment crystallizing into perfect clarity. This isn't how I planned it—not two years ago, and certainly not this morning when I was preparing to leave Hawaii with a broken heart. But maybe that's fitting. Our path has never been the neat, straight line Brooke prefers in her carefully ordered life. It's been messy and complicated and real.
"Yes," I say, the word emerging with absolute certainty. "I am asking you to marry me, Brooke. Not because it's the logical next step or because it's what's expected, but because I love you. Because I want to build a life with you, wherever and however that takes shape."
My hands are numb with anticipation, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an overwhelming heat that I recognize as love in its purest form—the kind that endures separation, that forgives mistakes, that believes in second chances.
"I was gonna propose two years ago," I continue, my voice rough with emotion. "I still want to. I still see you as my future, my family, my home."
Tears spill down her cheeks now, but her smile is radiant through them. "Then ask me properly," she says, holding out the still-closed box. "Ask me, and I'll answer."
I take the box from her hand, dropping to one knee on the hotel room floor. It's not the romantic setting I once envisioned—no sunset view, no carefully prepared speech. Just us, raw and honest and certain in a way we never were before.
"Brooke Callahan," I say, opening the box to reveal the ring I chose for her two years ago—a simple solitaire diamond set in platinum, elegant and timeless like the woman herself. "Will you marry me? Will you take this risk with me, build a life with me, love me through all the complications and challenges ahead?"
Her hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. "Yes," she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. "Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to all of it."
I slide the ring onto her finger with hands that aren't quite steady, marveling at how perfectly it fits—as if it was always meant to be there, waiting for the moment when we were both ready to embrace our future together.
When I stand, pulling her into my arms, Brooke clings to me as if afraid I might disappear. "We're really doing this," she murmurs against my chest, wonder in her voice.
"We really are," I confirm, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Scared?"
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, her eyes clear and certain despite the tears still clinging to her lashes. "Terrified," she admits with a small laugh. "But in the best possible way."
I capture her lips in a kiss that contains all the promises we've just made—tender at first, then deepening as she melts against me, her fingers tangling in my hair. When we finally break apart, both breathless, I rest my forehead against hers.
"I love you," I tell her, the words simple but carrying the weight of everything we've been through to reach this point.
"I love you too," she replies, no hesitation, no qualifiers, just the pure, unvarnished truth. "Always have. Always will."
Outside our window, the Hawaiian sun begins its descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. It's not the ending I expected when I woke this morning, but as Brooke's arms tighten around me, her ring catching the dying light, I realize it's the beginning I've been waiting for all along.