Page 14 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

EIGHT

I scan the resort’s infinity pool area, searching for an empty set of lounge chairs.

The place is crowded but not packed—just enough people to create a pleasant background hum of conversation and laughter.

Behind me, the endless blue of the Pacific stretches to the horizon, almost indistinguishable from the sky.

“Over there,” Dax points to a cluster of four chairs in a prime spot where the edge of the infinity pool seems to drop directly into the ocean beyond. “I’ll grab them before someone else does.”

As Dax jogs ahead, I adjust the towel slung over my shoulder and check my phone. It’s five minutes to noon. Andrea should be here soon.

The thought sends an unexpected wave of nervousness through me.

Which is ridiculous. It’s not like I haven’t seen Andrea in casual clothes before.

We’ve spent countless weekends working on grant proposals at her kitchen table, grabbed impromptu dinners after late clinic hours, even hiked Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks that time she needed to clear her head during the divorce proceedings.

But something feels different today. Maybe it’s the way her aunts kept making suggestive comments at breakfast. Maybe it’s how naturally she leaned into me when Simon approached.

“Earth to Gabe.” Harlow’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s already setting up on one of the lounge chairs, arranging her towel with practiced precision. “You planning to stand there all day?”

“Just enjoying the view,” I reply automatically, though I haven’t actually been looking at anything.

Dax snorts as he applies sunscreen to his shoulders. “Yeah, and I’m sure it’s the ocean you’re scanning for.”

I ignore him, dropping my towel and bag on one of the empty chairs. “Andie should be here soon.”

“So,” Harlow says, her tone deliberately casual as she settles onto her lounger, “three months, huh?”

I knew this was coming. “Three months,” I confirm, keeping my voice neutral.

“Which means you started dating around...” Dax pretends to count on his fingers, though we both know exactly when it was. “Right after her divorce was finalized.”

“Three months after,” I correct, sticking to our story. “I didn’t want to rush her.”

Harlow’s eyebrows rise. “That’s... considerate. Especially for someone who usually moves at warp speed when it comes to relationships.”

“Andie’s different,” I say, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all weekend. She is different—always has been. Different from the women whose names and faces blur together in my memory. Different from Courtney with her ultimatums. Different in ways I’ve never allowed myself to fully examine.

“Different how?” Dax presses, but I’m saved from answering by the sight of Andrea approaching from the pathway.

And suddenly, I can’t remember what we were talking about.

She’s wearing a sundress in a vibrant teal that makes her skin glow, so unlike the muted tones she typically favors.

The color reminds me of the Caribbean waters I visited once during a medical conference—deep, inviting, slightly dangerous if you don’t know what lies beneath.

Her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual practical bun, and large sunglasses shield her eyes.

But it’s her smile—tentative yet genuine—that catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget we’re pretending. I forget that this whole thing is just an elaborate charade. Because that smile? That’s real. That’s my Andie.

Whoa!

My Andie?

Where the hell did that come from?

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she reaches us. “Tristy called with some last-minute wedding details.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, automatically reaching for her bag to set it on the empty lounger beside mine.

“Just typical bride stress.” She slips off her sandals, and I notice her toenails are painted a bright coral color that matches her fingernails—another departure from her usual unvarnished practicality. “She’s worried about everything, from the flower choices to the weather forecast.”

“I’m sure the resort has backup plans for that,” Harlow assures her. “Tyler’s planner walked us through everything yesterday.”

Andrea nods, then hesitates, her hands moving to the hem of her sundress. I realize she’s about to reveal whatever swimsuit she’s wearing underneath, and for some reason, my mouth goes dry.

“I feel ridiculous,” she mutters, glancing around at the other pool-goers. “Tristy packed for me, and I think she’s forgotten I’m not twenty anymore.”

With that warning, she pulls the dress over her head in one smooth motion, and I forget how to breathe.

The two-piece swimsuit is nothing scandalous by resort standards—a halter-style top and matching bottoms in the same teal as her dress—but on Andrea, it’s devastating.

The color accentuates curves I’ve spent a decade politely not noticing, curves usually hidden beneath lab coats and practical clothing.

The smooth expanse of her midriff, the elegant line of her collarbones, the gentle swell of her breasts?—

I force my gaze away, suddenly very aware that I’m staring at my best friend like I’ve never seen a woman before.

“You look amazing,” Harlow says, saving me from having to formulate words with a brain that’s suddenly stopped functioning. “That color is perfect on you.”

“Tristy said the same thing,” Andrea sighs, adjusting the top self-consciously. “Apparently my wardrobe needs more color.”

Andrea settles onto the lounger beside mine, and I busy myself with applying sunscreen to avoid watching the way she arranges herself.

It’s just Andie, I remind myself. The same Andie who cried on my shoulder when her clinic nearly lost its funding.

The same Andie who lectured me about work-life balance in my hospital room after I fell asleep behing the wheel on my way back to Taos after a twelve hour shift in Albuquerque three years ago.

The same Andie who now happens to be wearing a swimsuit that makes it impossible to remember all the reasons why crossing the carefully maintained boundaries of our friendship would be a catastrophically bad idea.

“Need help with your back?” Her question, innocent as it is, sends a jolt through me.

“I’m good,” I say, perhaps too quickly. The last thing I need right now is Andrea’s hands on me. “But I can do yours if you need.”

What the hell, Vasquez? I silently curse myself for the offer, but it’s too late to take it back.

“That would be great,” she says, turning to present her back to me and gathering her hair to one side. “I always miss spots.”

And just like that, I’m confronted with the smooth expanse of her back, the delicate knobs of her spine, the subtle tan lines from whatever more modest swimsuit she usually wears.

I squeeze sunscreen into my palm, trying to approach this clinically.

I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. I’ve examined countless patients. This shouldn’t be different.

But the moment my hands touch her skin, I know this is nothing like a medical examination. Her sharp intake of breath mirrors my own as I work the lotion across her shoulders. Her skin is warm and impossibly soft under my fingers.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Cold?”

“A little,” she responds, though the day is blazing hot and the sunscreen has been sitting in the sun.

I work methodically, keeping my touch as professional as possible while fighting the urge to trace the elegant curve where her neck meets her shoulder, to follow the path of her spine downward to?—

“I think that’s good,” I say, pulling my hands away before my thoughts can travel any further down that dangerous path. “All covered.”

She turns, a slight flush coloring her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun. “Thanks.”

“Anyone want a drink?” I ask, desperate for a reason to put some distance between Andrea and myself. “First round’s on me.”

“Pina colada,” Harlow requests immediately.

“Beer,” Dax adds. “Whatever local IPA they have.”

Andrea hesitates, then smiles. “Surprise me. Something tropical.”

I nod and practically bolt toward the pool bar, grateful for the reprieve. I need to get my head straight. This is Andrea—Andie—and we’re just pretending. In four days, we’ll go back to our normal lives, our comfortable friendship, and this weekend will become just another story we tell.

So why does that thought suddenly feel like a loss rather than a relief?

“Knees bent, back straight, eyes on the horizon!”

The surf instructor’s voice carries over the crash of waves as I watch Andrea attempt to stand on her board for what must be the tenth time. She wobbles precariously, arms windmilling, before pitching sideways into the water with a splash and a shriek that carries across the beach.

“She’s determined, I’ll give her that,” Dax says, paddling up beside me as we wait for the next set of waves.

We abandoned the beginners’ section an hour ago, both of us having surfed before on various trips.

The waves here aren’t challenging, but they’re enough to keep us entertained while still allowing us to keep an eye on the women.

Harlow seems to have a natural talent for it, already managing to stand and ride the smaller waves to shore. Andrea... well, what she lacks in natural ability, she makes up for in sheer stubbornness.

“She’ll get it,” I say, watching as she surfaces, pushing her wet hair back from her face with a laugh. Even from here, I can see the gleam of determination in her eyes as she hauls herself back onto the board. “She never gives up once she sets her mind to something.”

“Like you?” Dax’s tone is casual, but I know him too well to miss the trap.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, eyes on the horizon as he gauges the approaching waves. “Just that you seem pretty determined, too. Ten years of friendship, and suddenly you’re dating? Right after her divorce?”

I focus on adjusting my position on the board, buying time. “Sometimes the timing has to be right.”

“And sometimes,” Dax counters, “people get scared of losing what matters to them, so they hold on tighter.”

I shoot him a look. “You think that’s what this is? Me being afraid of losing her?”

“I think,” he says carefully, “that Simon was an ass who never deserved her, and seeing her hurt must have been hard for you. I also think you’ve been half in love with her for years without admitting it.”

His words hit me like a rogue wave, unexpected and disorienting. “That’s not?—”

“Dude,” Dax interrupts, “you drove three hours in a blizzard to bring her soup when she had the flu. You’ve never missed a single one of her clinic fundraisers.”

“That’s what friends do,” I insist, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. “Look, she filled in for me after my accident, remember? For a week! It’s not a one-way street.”

“Sure.” Dax nods toward the shore where Andrea has finally managed to stand on her board for a full five seconds before tumbling into the surf again. “And friends also stare at other friends like they hung the moon when they think no one’s watching.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but what’s the point? Dax knows me too well.

“We’re taking it slow,” I say instead, sticking to our story. “She’s been through a lot.”

Dax studies me for a long moment, then nods, seemingly satisfied with whatever he sees in my expression. “Good. Because if this is just another one of your hit-and-run relationships, I’d have to kick your ass. Andrea deserves better.”

“She does,” I agree, surprising myself with the fierceness in my voice. “She deserves everything.”

“And if you guys break up, it’ll make for a few interesting birthday parties for the twins,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to see a perfect wave beginning to form. “This one’s yours, lover boy. Show off a little for your girl.”

I roll my eyes but take the wave anyway, popping up to my feet with practiced ease. As I glide toward shore, I catch Andrea watching me, her expression a mix of admiration and something else—something that makes my heart beat faster than any wave ever could.

For a moment, our eyes lock across the water, and I wonder if she can see the truth written all over my face—that maybe this isn’t entirely pretend for me anymore. That maybe it never was.

The realization hits me harder than any wipeout: I’m in serious trouble. Because in three days, this ends. We go back to being just friends, and I go back to pretending I don’t feel anything more.

Suddenly the wave beneath me shifts, the board tilting unexpectedly and I’m airborne, arms windmilling in a spectacularly undignified fashion before crashing face-first into the surf.

Water rushes into my nose and mouth as I tumble beneath the surface, the board tethered to my ankle yanking me sideways. By the time I surface, sputtering and disoriented, I’ve been unceremoniously deposited in the shallows, my dignity nowhere to be found.

“Are you okay?” Andrea calls, paddling toward me with far more grace than I just displayed. The concern in her voice would be touching if it weren’t so humiliating.

“Fine,” I manage, pushing wet hair out of my eyes as I stand in thigh-deep water. “Just got distracted.”

“By what?” she asks, reaching me and steadying herself with a hand on my shoulder.

By you. By us. By whatever this is becoming.

“Nothing important,” I lie, forcing a grin I don’t feel. “Just thinking about the clinic.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but thankfully doesn’t press the issue.

From further out, I hear Dax’s laughter carrying across the water. “That was spectacular, man! Perfect ten for the wipeout!”

I raise a middle finger in his direction, which only makes him laugh harder.

“For someone who was showing off pretty well a moment ago, that was quite the finale,” Andrea teases, her eyes bright with amusement.

I should have a witty comeback. I always have a witty comeback.

But standing here, with water streaming down her face and that smile—that real, unguarded smile I’ve missed seeing these past months—all I can think is that I would happily wipe out a thousand more times just to keep that expression on her face.

And that thought scares me more than any wave ever could.