Page 11 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

As our eyes lock, something changes in her expression—a flash of something I can’t quite name that sends an unexpected jolt through me.

Her smile softens at the edges as her hand finds mine for the turn.

Her fingers interlace with mine with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so right but somehow does.

Have we always fit together this naturally, or is this something new?

I’m acutely aware of the cameras, of Tristy and her friends filming us, but in this moment, the performance feels less like pretense and more like permission—permission to acknowledge something that’s perhaps been there all along, buried beneath layers of friendship and professional respect.

“Everyone’s watching us,” she whispers, a slight nervousness creeping into her voice.

“Let them,” I reply, surprising myself with the possessive edge in my tone. “We make a convincing couple.”

“Do we?” There’s vulnerability in her question that makes my chest tighten.

I spin her gently, bringing her back against me as the music swells. “More than convincing,” I admit. “Look at Dax and Harlow—they can’t take their eyes off us.”

And it’s true. Our friends are watching with expressions that range from confusion to knowing smiles, as if they’re witnessing a revelation that’s been obvious to everyone but us. Tyler’s parents are nudging each other, whispering behind their hands while sneaking glances our way.

As the drums quicken, I place my hands on Andrea’s shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers. I can feel her muscles relaxing under my touch, her shoulders dropping slightly from the rigid posture she’s maintained since the airport.

With me, she seems different than she is with others—less guarded than with her colleagues, more relaxed than with her parents.

I’ve always been able to make her laugh when no one else could.

It’s a privilege I’ve never examined too closely until now—this unique space I occupy in her life where she shows sides of herself others rarely see.

And God help me, but I want more than glimpses.

The realization hits me with the force of those drums, reverberating through my chest. This woman who has been a constant in my life for a decade, who has seen me at my best and worst, whose opinion matters more than anyone else’s—I’ve been circling her all this time without admitting why.

Andrea turns, her back against my chest, moving in perfect harmony with me. When did we learn each other’s rhythms so completely? The scent of her perfume—something floral and subtle that I’ve caught hints of before but never allowed myself to truly notice—envelops me, making my head spin.

Could Simon have been right? Have I been in love with her all this time without admitting it to myself?

The thought terrifies me, even as something settles into place, like the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.

She turns to face me then, breaking into a triumphant smile as she nails a complicated hip movement.

For a split second, our eyes lock, and something in her expression shifts—a flicker of awareness, perhaps, or just gratitude for my steadying presence.

Whatever it is, it makes my heart stutter in my chest.

I open my mouth, not sure what I’m about to say, but knowing with sudden certainty that something important is happening between us—something that deserves acknowledgment.

Before I can find the words, before I can even begin to untangle the complicated web of emotions tightening around my heart, a commotion beside us breaks the spell.

As if on cue in some poorly scripted drama, Simon and Kitty insert themselves beside us, their movements exaggerated, and it’s clear they’re angling for the attention of the crowd and cameras.

I watch as Andrea’s smile tightens, her shoulders tensing visibly.

That spark of joy I’d been basking in just moments before vanishes from her expression, replaced by the composed mask she wears whenever Simon is around.

Not happening. Not on my watch.

I guide her into an impromptu spin and a dip—definitely not traditional hula, but it feels right in the moment.

Her startled gasp dissolves into a genuine laugh that reverberates through my chest where her body presses against mine.

When I pull her back up, her eyes meet mine with a brightness I haven’t seen in months, maybe longer.

The woman who carefully measures every reaction around Simon is gone, replaced by someone unguarded, luminous.

Take that, Simon.

The music swells around us as we return to the proper steps, our bodies finding a natural rhythm together.

Andrea’s hair brushes against my jaw as she sways, and I’m enveloped in that scent I’ve noticed a hundred times without truly acknowledging—jasmine with subtle notes of coconut, and something uniquely her.

It’s the same scent that lingered in my car after driving her home from late grant-writing sessions, that drifted across the table during our weekend brunches at Frontier.

When did that scent become so familiar? When did I start anticipating it?

By the time the music ends, we’re both flushed and breathless, caught in a moment neither of us seems ready to break. The applause around us shatters the spell, bringing us back to reality —to the wedding, the guests, the performance we’re supposed to be giving.

Back at our table, Andrea’s fingers find mine under the tablecloth. She squeezes my hand, her voice low and intimate. “Thank you.”

I return the pressure, trying not to overthink the way her hand fits in mine like it was designed to be there. “Anytime.”

And I mean it with a fierceness that startles me. I’d do anything to protect that spark in her eyes, to stand between her and Simon’s attempts to diminish her. I’d cross oceans, battle dragons, make a complete fool of myself on a Hawaiian dance floor—whatever it takes.

It’s what friends do.

Isn’t it?

The walk back to our suite feels different after the hula dance.

Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the pina coladas, or the way Andrea stays close to my side as we navigate the torch-lit path, her hand tucked in mine like it belongs there.

The ocean breeze carries the scent of plumeria, mixing with her perfume in a way that makes my head spin.

Or maybe it’s just her.

“You’re quiet,” she says as we reach the elevator. Her silk dress rustles as she leans against the wall, and I find myself tracking the movement with my eyes.

“Just thinking about the evening so far,” I reply. “I think we managed it quite well.”

“Managed it?” Andrea raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. As they close, sealing us in this small space, the air feels charged with something I can’t quite name.

“Well, we didn’t cause a scene,” I offer, trying to keep my tone light. “No one threw drinks or stormed off in tears. By wedding standards, I’d call that a success.”

She laughs, the sound echoing in the confined space. “A ringing endorsement for your amazing performance then. You make a very good plus-one, Dr. Vasquez.”

The way she says my title, a little breathless and with a hint of teasing, sends a shiver down my spine. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing in the elevator.

“And you make a beautiful bride’s mother, Dr. Martin,” I reply, matching her playful tone.

Her eyes crinkle in amusement. “Just the bride’s mother?”

The elevator doors open before I can answer and we step out into the hallway. The silence between us suddenly feels charged as I fumble with the key card, hyperaware of Andrea’s presence beside me.

When the door finally swings open, we hesitate on the threshold. The enormity of sharing the suite with her suddenly hits me. It shouldn’t but it does.

“After you,” I manage, stepping aside to let her enter first.

Andrea moves past me, the scent of her perfume lingering in her wake. I follow, closing the door behind us with a soft click that seems to echo in the quiet room.

“I’m going to head to my room,” she says, cocking her head toward the master bedroom. “You sure you’re going to be okay sleeping on the sofa bed?”

“Of course,” I say, forcing a casual tone.

Andrea nods, but doesn’t move toward her room. She stands there, fidgeting with the strap of her purse, looking like she wants to say something more.

“Gabe, I...” she starts, then trails off. Her eyes meet mine, and I see a flicker of uncertainty there. “Thank you. For everything tonight. For being here.”

“Always,” I reply, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

“Well, good night.”

“Good night, Andie.” Before I can say any more, she disappears into her room and closes the door behind her.

As I head to the guest bathroom, I hear the sound of her shower starting up. The sound of running water mingles with the distant crash of the waves below, a rhythmic backdrop that does nothing to calm my racing thoughts.

I splash some cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. But as I dry off, my mind drifts back to the way Andrea felt in my arms during that dance, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. I remember every detail with startling clarity—the curve of her neck, the…

Focus, Gabe. This isn’t why you’re here.

Exactly. The old Gabe would have already left the resort to meet up with Valerie at her hotel for drinks and more. It’s not like we didn’t run into each other at baggage claim and she told me which hotel she and her crew would be staying at.

“I’ll be at the bar if you’re so inclined,” she’d said and up until the moment when Andrea declared to everyone that we were sharing the suite, I had every inclination to spend the night with Valerie.

But something shifted when Andrea grabbed my arm and claimed me as hers. The familiar thrill of pursuit—the anticipation of a night with no strings attached—gave way to something more compelling. More meaningful. I realized I'd rather play pretend with Andrea than live out reality with Valerie.

Strange how a lie can sometimes feel more honest than the truth.

Was Simon right to say what he said?

I shake my head, trying to clear these dangerous thoughts. This line of thinking leads nowhere good. Andrea is my friend, my mentor. She’s still healing from Simon’s betrayal. The last thing she needs is me complicating things with misplaced feelings.

But as I change into sleep clothes and settle onto the sofa bed, I can’t shake the memory of her hand in mine, the way she leaned into me during that dance, the way her laugh made my stomach clench, the?—

I groan, rolling onto my side away from her bedroom door.

This is going to be a long four days.