Page 15 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)
NINE
“To the bride!” I raise my glass, joining the chorus of women’s voices as tequila sloshes precariously close to the rim. “May your marriage be as beautiful as you are.”
“And as hot as your husband,” adds Tyler’s cousin Maddie, drawing appreciative hoots from around the table.
Tristy beams, the flower crown on her head slightly askew after three rounds of drinks. “Thank you all for being here,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Especially you, Mom, because I know you were having second thoughts.”
I feel a pang of guilt at her emphasis. Did she think I wouldn’t come? Was she expecting me to find some excuse to avoid confronting Simon and Kitty? The thought sobers me more effectively than the artisanal coffee we’d sipped earlier at the seaside café.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.
The impromptu girls’ night had been Tristy’s idea—a last-minute gathering of the women in the wedding party while Tyler and “the boys” (her words, not mine) had their own celebration elsewhere at the resort.
Initially, I’d been reluctant to leave the suite after Gabe and I ordered room service, especially after the surfing lesson.
The memory of him wiping out spectacularly after our eyes met across the water brings an involuntary smile to my lips. The renowned Dr. Gabriel Vasquez, who usually moved with the confidence and grace of an athlete, tumbling head-first into the surf because he was... distracted? By me?
It was probably just a coincidence. A rogue wave, a momentary lapse in concentration. It couldn’t have anything to do with the way we’d been looking at each other.
Could it?
“Earth to Mom,” Tristy says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Sorry,” I say, blinking away thoughts of Gabe’s expression as he’d surfaced, water streaming down his face and chest. “Just tired from all the sun today.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Tristy hums skeptically. “Nothing to do with thinking about your hot doctor boyfriend?”
Heat creeps up my neck as several pairs of eyes turn to me with interest. “I wasn’t?—”
“Oh, she totally was,” Harlow interjects, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I saw your face when Gabe wiped out today. You practically sprinted through the water to get to him.”
“I was concerned,” I protest weakly. “He hit the water pretty hard.”
“And then he hit the bar with Dax pretty hard,” Tristy laughs. “Tyler texted that they’re doing shots and playing poker.”
I laugh along, but something twists in my stomach at the thought of Gabe’s typical resort behavior reasserting itself. How many times had I listened to his stories of vacation conquests? How many gorgeous women had he charmed at hotel bars just like the one he’s sitting in right now?
Not that it should matter to me. This is all pretend, after all. A charade for Simon’s benefit, nothing more.
So why does the thought of Gabe flirting with someone else tonight make me feel slightly ill?
“Hey,” Harlow says, her voice low as the other women become engrossed in a debate about the merits of various boy band members. “You okay?”
I nod automatically, then catch myself. Harlow has always been able to see through my practiced “I’m fine” facade.
“It’s just...” I search for words that won’t reveal too much. “This is all happening so fast.”
Harlow’s eyes are knowing but kind. “That tends to happen when feelings that have been simmering for years finally come to a boil.”
“Years?” I nearly choke on my drink. “What are you talking about?”
She gives me a look that’s equal parts affection and exasperation. “Andrea, please. The way you two orbit each other? The way his eyes follow you around a room? How he drops everything when you need him?” She shakes her head. “We all saw it. We were just waiting for you two to catch up.”
“It’s not—“ I start, then stop myself. What’s the point of denying our relationship to Harlow when that’s precisely the fiction we’re trying to maintain? “It’s complicated.”
“The best ones usually are,” she says, raising her glass in a small toast before returning to the main conversation.
I hesitate, then lower my voice. “Doesn’t the age difference bother you?” The question that’s been nagging at me slips out before I can stop it.
Harlow looks genuinely puzzled. “Between you and Gabe? It’s what, nine years?”
“Almost ten,” I correct her, feeling every one of those years weighing on me. “He’s thirty-four. I’m forty-three.”
“And I’m forty-six while Dax is thirty-three,” Harlow points out with a shrug. “That’s thirteen years, Andie, in the opposite direction. Has that ever seemed weird to you?”
“That’s different,” I protest weakly.
“How?” She fixes me with that penetrating gaze that made her such an effective volunteer coordinator at my clinic all those years ago.
“You and Dax... that was different.” I struggle to articulate why their situation feels so unlike mine and Gabe’s. “Lightning struck. You rented his place for a week and fell in love.”
Harlow laughs softly. “Seven days… or was it five? Anyway, we knew each other for a week give or take when I left Taos. Then three months of me being back in New York before he stopped by my office to hand-deliver an invitation to his private event—to his father’s dismay, I might add.
” She chuckles. “Daniel was not happy to see me that evening, I can tell you that.”
“Look at him now,” I say, grinning. “Your biggest champion. Next to Dax and Nana, of course.”
I remember those days vividly. Harlow had volunteered at my clinic for two months—a pediatric transplant surgeon trying to find herself while in the midst of a contentious divorce.
It was my suggestion that she explore northern New Mexico before heading home, a casual comment that changed the course of her life when someone in Santa Fe directed her to the sustainable homes outside Taos.
“And now you’re godparents to our twins,” Harlow continues, her expression softening. “Life doesn’t always follow a logical timeline.”
“But that’s my point,” I insist. “You didn’t waste time overthinking it. You jumped in headfirst.”
“And you’re not overthinking it with Gabe?” Her question hits uncomfortably close to home.
I take a careful sip of my drink. “I just worry that... I’m not what he really wants. That I’m a phase, or worse, a charity case. The divorced friend he’s helping through a rough patch.”
“Andrea Martin,” Harlow says with surprising firmness, “that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say, and I was there when you tried to convince the hospital board that crystal healing deserved a research budget.”
“That was for a comprehensive study on the placebo effect,” I protest automatically.
“My point,” Harlow continues, “is that you’re not seeing yourself clearly. Or Gabe, for that matter.” She leans closer, her voice dropping further. “Do you have any idea how many gorgeous twenty-something women have thrown themselves at that man over the years? And yet here he is, with you.”
“For now,” I mutter.
“Look at the way he looks at you,” Harlow insists. “That’s not pity or charity or a phase. That’s a man who’s found his person and knows it.”
“But he’s so young,” I whisper, voicing the fear that keeps me up at night. “What happens when he decides he wants children with someone his own age? When I’m going through menopause and he’s still in his prime?”
Harlow rolls her eyes. “Then you’ll have beautiful babies together if that’s what you both want, or you won’t if you don’t. I was forty-one when I had the twins, remember? And Dax was twenty-eight. If anything, I should have been the one worrying about holding him back.”
“You’re Harlow James,” I counter. “Brilliant pediatric transplant surgeon, co-director of Miller General’s Nephrology Department…
whose phone number is on some big-shot senator’s quick dial.
Of course, he was all in.” I don’t add that she shared that title with her now ex-husband, or that the senator was the father of one of her transplant patients and the only reason everyone found that out was because it was leaked to the press during her divorce.
What matters is that Harlow James is BFD.
Big Fucking Deal, especially in my neck of the woods.
“And you’re Dr. Andrea Martin,” she fires back. “Brilliant physician, community leader, woman who built a clinic from nothing and raised an amazing daughter. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I stare into my glass, unconvinced. “It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” Harlow agrees unexpectedly. “Because Dax and I rushed into things without thinking. You and Gabe have had ten years to build something real. Ten years to see each other at your best and worst. That’s a foundation, Andie. That’s something most people dream of having.”
“Besides,” she adds with a wicked smile, “Dax tells me Gabe hasn’t looked at another woman since you two got together. Not even a glance. And trust me, women have tried.”
Something warm flutters in my chest at her words, even as I remind myself that Gabe is just playing a role. A very convincing role, apparently.
I sit back, letting the chatter flow around me as I consider her words. Had Gabe really been looking at me differently all these years? Had I missed something that was apparently obvious to everyone else?
No. This is just the charade working too well. Even Harlow, one of my closest friends, is convinced by our performance. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means Simon won’t suspect either.
And yet, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a grain of truth in what she’s saying. If perhaps I’ve been so focused on maintaining the boundaries of our friendship that I’ve been blind to something more.
Or maybe I’m just allowing myself to get caught up in our own lie, reading into casual touches and friendly gestures because it’s convenient for our cover story. Because it’s easier than admitting how lonely I’ve been since the divorce.