Page 1 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

ONE

You better not still be at the clinic.

I stare at my daughter’s text message. Should I lie? My suitcase is packed, at least—sitting in the trunk of my car in the employee lot of Salud Integrada, my nonprofit clinic.

That counts for something, right?

Andrea:

Almost done here. Just checking on a few things.

Tristy:

Mom. Stop mothering the clinic.

Andrea:

I’m not mothering. I’m managing.

Tristy:

MOM. AIRPORT. NOW.

I glance up, trying to catch which of my staff ratted me out to my daughter. Everyone seems suspiciously engrossed in their work.

Too engrossed.

Andrea:

Just making sure everything’s in place before I leave.

Tristy:

MOM GET TO THE AIRPORT NOW OR YOU’LL MISS YOUR FLIGHT. AGAIN. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE YESTERDAY AND NOW YOU’RE LATE FOR YOUR FITTINGS.

I sigh, noticing the pointed looks from patients as they walk past my office.

They’re right—I should be at the airport right now, having my first vacation drink.

A real vacation this time. No conference cleverly disguised as time off, no meetings with potential nonprofit partners, no TED talk about community medicine. Just a vacation.

Well, my daughter’s destination wedding, really. But it still counts.

At twenty-six, Tristy Esmeralda Martin is marrying her Prince Charming, and I couldn’t be happier. Or more aware of the irony.

At her age, I was changing bedpans and reading medical journals out loud to a retired family practice physician, Carsten Williams, dreaming of a future I couldn’t afford.

But he saw something in me that I couldn’t yet see in myself.

When he died, the trust fund he left me came with one condition: medical school or nothing.

I applied the next day, got accepted and survived the gauntlet of medical school, then residency.

Now I get to transform those dreams into reality for others, turning a small two-bedroom house in Albuquerque’s South Valley into a clinic for the uninsured despite my family’s insistence that with my medical degree, I should be working at a large medical center and make more money.

It doesn’t even matter to them that my clinic has been featured in the pages of the New York Times and Washington Post. Or that we’ve received hundreds of thousands in grant funding.

All that matters to them is the fact that even with all that publicity, I’m not making private practice physician level salary—like high six figures like other people they know. Or so those other people tell them.

I mean, they’re not wrong. I make enough to make a good living and save money for a rainy day but I could always do better.

Maybe they’ll never understand why I chose this path, why helping those who have no other options mattered more to me than a big paycheck. But the clinic is my way of giving back to the people who helped me achieve my dreams, most of all Dr. Williams who believed in me.

With no student loans to worry about, I could focus on providing healthcare for all.

It meant working long hours treating patients, filling out endless grant applications for funding, and even doing weekend rotations to pay for some expenses.

I even participated in a few protests on health equality that helped change local policies.

The clinic has thrived since then. We no longer operate out of the two-bedroom casita; instead, we have a new medical building all to ourselves.

This new space includes five examination rooms, a pharmacy, and even a small community vegetable garden.

We’ve also established a partnership with the nearby medical school to host residents for their community health residencies.

My phone buzzes again.

Tristy:

ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY YET?

If there’s one thing I got right raising my only daughter, a social media influencer-slash-fashion model, it was making sure she’d never be like me—that meek Filipino-American girl who tried to do everything right until one mistake with the high school bad boy turned her into the family’s cautionary tale.

Puta . A whore, as Dad spat out the day they decided to send me to the Philippines to hide out my pregnancy.

Sure, he changed his tune and asked for my forgiveness the moment he laid eyes on his granddaughter at the hospital, but by then, I’d learned the crushing lesson that love could be conditional, that respect had to be earned back through countless acts of penance, and that one mistake would shadow you unless you became someone beyond reproach.

Maybe that’s what Salud Integrada really is—my idea of redemption.

That and marrying Simon Gaines when I was thirty-one, the economics professor my parents introduced me to at their church group, their way of finally settling their daughter on the right path.

The perfect match on paper: educated, stable, Catholic.

But after a contentious divorce twelve years later (finalized just six months ago), my self confidence is pretty much shot.

The world might see me as this amazing community doctor, but in private moments like these, when my daughter’s texts light up my phone and my staff watches me with knowing eyes, I still feel like that scared teenager, trying to prove herself worthy of the second chance she was given.

As I trace my fingers along the smooth oak surface of my desk, a vast improvement from the scratched metal one we used to have, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever stop trying to make up for that fateful summer day and all its consequences.

Sometimes, I even find myself searching for remnants of my old self in Tristy’s features, or her contagious laughter, but all I see is the strong, confident woman she has become.

And perhaps that is the true redemption here, something that I will gladly accept any day.

Although, I must admit, I’ll never forgive her for making me learn some ridiculous internet dance for her wedding reception.

“There you are!” A familiar male voice and a rap on my door snaps me out of my thoughts and I look up to find my best friend Gabe Vasquez leaning against my doorframe.

Looking good in a light blue button down shirt over white casual trousers, my receptionist Norma isn’t even trying to hide her appreciative stare.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to the airport?”

“Exactly why I’m here. Turns out we’re on the same flight.

Well, at least the one your daughter reserved for you after you missed your original flight yesterday.

” His grin should be registered as a lethal weapon, especially when combined with those intense brown eyes and the way he absently rakes his fingers through his thick dark hair.

The man looks like he walked off a telenovela set and into my clinic—something my female staff never lets me forget.

“What did you say to her?” I narrow my eyes at Norma’s dreamy expression.

“Who?” The innocence in his voice is undermined by the mischief in his eyes.

“Norma. You know my rule about dating staff.”

“As if I would go against your rules, Doctor Martin.” He presses his hand to his chest in mock offense. “All I did was tell her green brings out her eyes.”

“Did you happen to call her ‘darling’ while you were at it?”

He pretends to consider this. “Maybe. But I also brought Chokola chocolates for everyone.”

Ah, yes, it all makes sense now. The famous handmade chocolates from Taos he never fails to bring for my staff.

“Everything okay at the clinic?” I ask, noticing the slight shadows under his eyes.

“Had a meeting with Daniel this morning.” He drops into the chair across from my desk, loosening his collar. “He’s not too happy about the current financial figures.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Last time we talked, you said the patients were covering the costs.” I should add that his patients mainly comprise Taos and Santa Fe’s wealthy set, thanks to Daniel’s connections, a far cry from the humble cash-only two-room clinic he started with.

“Barely.” He runs a hand through his hair. “The thing is, we’re getting more uninsured patients than ever. Even with Gareth and his Hollywood friends paying premium concierge rates, it’s getting harder to balance the books and Daniel’s not happy.”

I hide a smile, remembering the media circus when Hollywood’s resident bad boy was photographed leaving Gabe’s clinic a few months ago.

My usually tight-lipped friend, who guards patient privacy like a hawk, couldn’t do much about that leak.

Now he mostly does house calls to Gareth’s sprawling ranch, but the damage was done—everyone knows who gets their medical care in that discreet building off the plaza in Taos.

“So what’s the plan?”

He grimaces. “The IRS has some concerns about our nonprofit application. That’s what the meeting with Daniel was about—trying to figure out how to restructure the community health wing so it’s completely separate from the concierge practice.

” His eyes get that familiar determined gleam.

“We need that 501(c)(3) status. At the rate we’re going, the concierge patients’ fees won’t be enough to support all the free care we’re providing.

” He pauses, sucking air between his lips.

“Nonprofit grants would certainly help in that area.”

I lean back in my chair. “Following in my footsteps, Dr. Vasquez?”

“Learning from the best, Dr. Martin.” He grins, then checks his phone. “Speaking of which, your daughter has sent me approximately fifteen texts in the last five minutes. We should probably get going.”

“How many of those texts include capital letters?”

“All of them.” He stands and reaches for my bag. “Come on, mi amor. Time to get the beautiful mother of the bride to the airport.”

“Mission accomplished,” Gabe announces, snapping a selfie of us at the airport terminal and sending it to Tristy. He catches my incredulous expression and pauses. “What?”