Page 12 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

SEVEN

I wake up disoriented, reaching for my phone before realizing the sound in my ears isn’t my morning alarm. Instead, it’s waves crashing against a Hawaiian shore.

I lay my head back down on the pillow and exhale. Twenty-four hours I go, I had a plan: keep my distance from Simon and survive the wedding. Then head back home.

But then he showed up at the airport with Kitty and suddenly I was claiming Gabe as my plus-one in front of everyone.

Gabe. Who stepped in without hesitation, like he always does when I need him.

Except now there are cameras documenting our every move, millions of my daughter’s followers dissecting each touch, each glance, and complete strangers deciding we’re “couple goals” based on how he held me during the hula lesson.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

This isn’t me.

Dr. Andrea Martin doesn’t do impulsive.

She would have proudly showed up alone. Defiant. Independent. Professional.

Only there’s nothing professional about the way Gabe looked at me last night. I caught that look, a look that just sent my ovaries in… what exactly? How did Tristy describe it when she first met Tyler? Explode?

But it sure felt like it, didn’t it? When Gabe looked at me that way last night while we dance the hula, and later in the elevator. I didn’t imagine it. And neither did my ovaries.

I groan and roll over, burying my face in the plush hotel pillow. What am I doing? This isn’t some rom-com where the uptight doctor lets loose on a tropical getaway. This is real life, with real consequences.

But then I remember the warmth of Gabe’s hands, the intensity in his eyes. The way my skin tingled at his touch. It felt so... right. Natural. Like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place after years of being jumbled.

I sit up abruptly, shaking my head to clear it. No. I can’t let myself get carried away. Four days of pretending. That was the arrangement and that’s how it’s going to be because the last thing I want is to ruin our friendship over some temporary lapse in judgment.

As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the ocean breeze drifting through the open windows carries the scent of plumeria and saltwater. It’s intoxicating, almost as intoxicating as the scent of his…

Nope. Not again.

We are not going there.

I pad over to the closet, rifling through the clothes Tristy helped me pack.

What does one wear to a destination wedding brunch?

I settle on a breezy sundress, its pale blue fabric swirling around my knees as I slip it on.

It’s a reminder that I’m on vacation. No white lab coat or scrubs to wear, no consultations to prepare for.

Just me attending my daughter’s wedding with my plus-one who happens to be sleeping on the sofa bed outside my door because heaven help me, my ovaries probably couldn’t survive sleeping in the same bed with him.

The aroma of coffee greets me the moment I open the bedroom door and I see him on the balcony wearing a blue rash guard that clings to his broad shoulders, board shorts riding low on his hips.

My body’s immediate response catches me off guard—the quick intake of breath, the warmth spreading through my chest, the way my fingers itch to trace the line of his shoulders.

After two years of Simon’s excuses and six months of self-imposed celibacy following our divorce, guess all it took was a hula dance to get me feeling something again.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, cocking his head toward the living room. “Coffee’s still hot. Grabbed it from the cafe downstairs.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Such a normal moment—Gabe always making sure I have my caffeine at the ready even on vacation.

Coffee in hand, I join him on the balcony. “How did you sleep?”

“Great,” Gabe replies, grinning. “You?”

“It was… great, too.” Actually, it wasn’t. I’d been too preoccupied thinking about him sleeping on the sofa bed, letting my thoughts drift to inappropriate territory as I debated using the vibrator I’d taken along with me on this trip. After all, it was just supposed to be me in the suite.

His brow furrows. “You okay? You look worried.”

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just thinking about breakfast. We’re supposed to be joining my parents.”

“You worried we can’t pull off our story?”

“I hate having you pretend to be something you’re not in front of them.”

He leans against the railing. “We can always come clean.”

I stare at him. “After going viral?” I pause, sighing. “I’m so sorry about all this, Gabe. If I’d known–”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Andie,” he says, shrugging. “If we didn’t go viral, then we didn’t do it right.”

I chuckle. “Well, we certainly did it right then.”

Gabe turns to face me fully, his expression suddenly serious. “Look, Andie, I know this isn’t ideal. But I meant what I said at the airport. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“Even if that means facing the Spanish Inquisition at breakfast?” I joke weakly. “Just... remember we’re keeping things casual. No need to oversell it.”

“Got it. Casual but convincing.” He winks, and my stomach does that flip again. “So, do I get to hold your hand under the table?’

“Of course,” I reply. “Speaking of holding hands, we should talk about–”

My phone beeps with an incoming call.

“It’s Tristy,” I say before answering the call.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you, guys,” she says. But everyone’s at the restaurant already.”

“Ten minutes,” I say, noting the stress on my daughter’s voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, just the usual wedding stuff. Floral arrangements all wrong and all that. Dad and Kitty doing their usual PDA in front of the cameras.” She pauses. “Oh, I should give you fair warning before you and Gabe come down.”

“What warning?”

“Tita Linda brought up your fertility window at the spa yesterday, so... good luck with that!” She chuckles. “Anyway, I need to go. See you in ten.”

After she hangs up, I turn to Gabe with horror. “My fertility window?”

His laugh, though strained, breaks some of the tension. “Don’t worry. I’ll rescue you before they start planning our hypothetical babies.”

“Our hypothetical babies?” The words come out strangled. “Gabe, what did I get you into?”

“Hey.” He steps closer, his hand grasping mine. “We’ve got this. Just follow my lead, okay?”

The resort’s breakfast pavilion is already bustling when we arrive. I spot my parents immediately, seated with my aunts Joy and Linda at a table overlooking the beach. Three pairs of eyes lock onto Gabe and me as we approach, their scrutiny almost palpable.

“Remember,” I whisper to Gabe, “this is just for show. Nothing crazy.”

“Define crazy,” he murmurs back, his hand finding the small of my back in what’s becoming a familiar gesture. I tell myself it’s just part of our act, even as I notice the warmth of his palm through my sundress.

“Andrea! Gabe!” Mom waves us over enthusiastically. “We saved you seats!”

As we reach the table, my aunts’ eyes travel from my face to where Gabe’s hand rests on my back, their expressions a mix of curiosity and barely concealed excitement. Great. The Filipino-American auntie network is fully activated.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning down to kiss my mother’s cheek before taking the seat Gabe pulls out for me. Such a simple gesture, but it makes my aunts exchange meaningful glances.

“So,” Tita Joy begins before we’ve even settled, “I hear you two are dating now. How long?”

“Three months,” Gabe answers smoothly as he sits beside me, his thigh brushing mine under the table. I resist the urge to shift away, reminding myself that couples don’t flinch at casual contact.

I reach for a croissant, focusing on tearing it into neat sections rather than on how easily Gabe slips into the role of attentive boyfriend. “We wanted to keep it private while we figured things out.”

“Figured what out?” Tita Linda asks, stirring her coffee with unnecessary vigor. “The age difference?”

“Linda,” my mother warns, but it’s too late.

“Andrea, I just don’t understand,” Tita Linda continues. “You’re forty-three. Your fertility window is?—”

“Actually,” Gabe interrupts smoothly, “we haven’t discussed children yet.” His eyes meet mine, a silent apology for speaking on my behalf, but I’m grateful for the rescue. “We’re still getting to know each other in this new context.”

“New context,” Tita Joy repeats skeptically. “You’ve known each other for a long time. Ten years.”

Dad clears his throat. “What Joy means is that it’s sudden. After everything with Simon...”

I feel myself tensing, fingers pressing too hard into the delicate pastry. “Simon has nothing to do with this.”

“Precisely,” Gabe says, his hand covering mine on the table, stilling my nervous destruction of the croissant. The gesture is presumably for show, but the gentle way his thumb traces my knuckles feels surprisingly soothing. “When the timing is right, it’s right.”

His hand is warm against mine, callused in places I never noticed before—probably from his weekend projects around the house he just bought a year ago.

It’s strange to think how many times our hands have touched over the years—passing patient charts, exchanging coffee cups, high-fiving over grant approvals—yet this deliberate contact feels utterly different.

“And how exactly did this happen?” Tita Linda persists, gesturing between us with her coffee spoon.

I open my mouth to deliver our rehearsed story, but Gabe beats me to it.

“I’ve always admired Andie,” he says, his voice taking on a softness that catches me off guard.

“Her dedication to her patients, her brilliance, her resilience.” His eyes meet mine, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“After the divorce, I realized I didn’t want to be just her friend anymore. ”

The sincerity in his voice is so convincing that for a moment, I almost believe him myself. It’s easy to forget what a good actor Gabe can be when he needs to charm someone.