Page 17 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

TEN

I guess Andrea got back from the girls’ night out while I was in the shower. If I knew she’d return so soon I should have made sure the damn bathroom door was locked, but as it is, I didn’t and I can only hope she didn’t hear me.

Shit. That would be mortifying if she did, even if I know I wasn’t loud at all. What’s a guy to do when he’s in the shower anyway, but jerk off after thinking of nothing but his best friend all night?

It’s also not how I want her to find out about my true feelings either, even as they’ve taken even me by surprise. Maybe it took Simon to point it out and not far behind, Dax and Harlow saying pretty much the same thing.

And they’re right. Somehow every woman I met before this moment seemed to pale in comparison to her.

And now, I can’t stop imagining how it would be like to kiss her lips, to trail my tongue down her neck, and over her breasts and hear her moan for more, feel her fingers curling into my hair, her nails digging into my skin.

Don’t get me wrong; all the women I’ve been with were all wonderful and amazing, but I’ve never felt the things I’m feeling now whenever Andrea’s near.

The palpitations (and no, it’s not a medical condition, I double-checked), that funny feeling in my belly when she looks at me, the way everything else just falls away when it’s only the two of us.

Am I falling in love? Or am I just lonely, stuck in a honeymoon suite with a fake girlfriend I’m desperately wishing were real?

Or maybe it’s the beers I just had with the guys. A loosening of my inhibitions, perhaps?

Is that why I’m doing my best to distract myself from the sound of the shower in the other room, the vision of her under the spray?

Think of something else, man. Anything.

I take out my phone and start flipping through apps, trying to find something, anything, that’ll take my mind off the fact that she’s naked in the other room. But it’s no use.

But even with the latest role-playing app I downloaded, I see only her.

A few minutes later, the shower stops and I set my phone back on the side table. I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep. I’m exhausted anyway.

The time with the guys had been fun, just the distraction I needed after seeing Andrea in her bikini today, watching her learn to surf and later, having her see me wipe out gloriously.

For once, as the guys and I played poker and shot the breeze, the attention wasn’t on Andrea and me, not from her aunts who couldn’t stop mentioning kids, or her parents who, though they’ve always liked me, had their doubts about me being their daughter’s boyfriend.

A part of me wanted to assure them it wasn’t real, that it was only until the wedding was over and everything would return back to normal.

But there was that other part of me, too, the one that was tired of pretending, that wished with all its heart that Andrea and I could be more than friends.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the suite doorbell and I sit upright, suddenly aware that whoever it could be, what they’d see would lead to the end of the charade.

The sofa bed, my opened luggage, my things on the coffee table.

Suddenly, I’m scrambling for my shorts and yanking them on before hurrying to Andrea’s bedroom door.

I knock just as the doorbell rings again, the sound followed by Tristy’s voice. “Mom, I need your help.”

The bedroom door opens and Andrea stands there, her hair still damp and wearing only a bathrobe.

“Tristy’s outside and we have a problem.” I cock my head toward the living room, not needing to say anymore. “If Tristy sees the sofa bed, she’ll know the truth. And if she knows, then Simon will know. And if Simon knows…”

“Ah, shit,” Andrea mutters under her breath, yanking the door wide open and stepping out into the living room. “Let’s get everything into the bedroom.”

The doorbell rings again and as I toss the sheets and pillows on the bedroom floor, Andrea hurries to the door.

“Just a minute, honey,” she calls out as I close the sofa bed. “We’ll be right there.”

Together, we quickly straighten up the rest of the suite, almost tripping over ourselves as we move my things into the bedroom, the sheets and extra pillows tossed into the closet before we collect ourselves.

“Ready?” she asks as my gaze slides down to her half-opened robe, the smooth olive skin of her left breast making my belly flip. Damn, she’s beautiful. “Sorry,” she mutters as she adjusts her robe and opens the door.

The sight of Tristy, mascara streaking down her cheeks, looking unusually small in what’s clearly Tyler’s oversized hoodie, instantly shifts something in me.

Gone is the confident social media influencer with millions of followers.

In her place is the teenager I met years ago, the one who’d light up talking about soccer and secretly worry she wasn’t smart enough.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Andrea’s voice shifts into full mother mode, and I feel a familiar warmth watching her pull Tristy into her arms.

“Tyler’s gone!” Tristy bursts out, pushing past us into the room.

The desperation in her voice strikes a chord—I’ve known this kid since she was seventeen, watched her grow into the confident young woman she is today.

Seeing her reverting to the insecure teenager beneath the polished exterior tugs at something fiercely protective in me.

Andrea turns to me. “Weren’t you with them?”

“I left early,” I say. “They were still playing poker when I left.”

Tristy exhales. “Well, they decided to go into town and now I can’t reach him and what if they got him a stripper? What if he’s cheating on me? What if?—”

“Whoa, hey,” Andrea says, pulling her into a tighter embrace while I quietly close the door behind them, giving them space while staying close enough to offer support.

“Breathe, baby. Tell us what happened.”

Tristy looks between us, her eyes widening as she takes in the rumpled bed visible through the open bedroom door, our disheveled appearance. “Oh God, I totally interrupted you guys?—”

“No!” Andrea and I blurt simultaneously, exchanging a panicked glance. We might be pretending to be a couple, but we aren’t ready to have her daughter believe we’re actually?—

“I mean,” I add smoothly, “we were just sleeping.” It’s not technically a lie, though the warmth climbing up my neck suggests my brain is filling in alternative scenarios.

Tristy doesn’t look convinced, but her personal crisis quickly overrides her interest in our sleeping arrangements. Fresh tears spill over as she continues, “I’m sorry, I just... I can’t reach Tyler and I’m freaking out because Kitty said?—”

“What did Kitty say?” Andrea’s voice turns sharp, and I feel a matching surge of irritation.

“She said that it’s normal for guys to... that Tyler might... you know, hire strippers and all that.”

“That is not true,” I say with more force than intended, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. Leave it to Kitty to plant seeds of doubt in a bride’s mind the night before her wedding. I’ve seen Tyler with Tristy—the kid is head over heels, has been since they met.

“So why isn’t he answering my texts?” Tristy sobs, her voice cracking. “He always answers my texts and suddenly he isn’t.”

As Andrea pulls her daughter close, I catch her eye over Tristy’s head—a silent communication passing between us.

I nod slightly and move toward the kitchenette.

Tea. That’s what Tristy needs. Specifically, the chamomile blend she’s favored since her college days when exam stress would hit.

I remember seeing a few packets in the suite kitchenette.

While the water heats, I listen to Tristy’s fears spilling out—the pressure of millions of followers watching, waiting for the perfect wedding, the fear that Tyler might realize she’s not perfect.

It’s heartbreaking to hear. This side of influencer life—the constant scrutiny, the unrelenting expectation of perfection—is the part Tristy rarely shows, but I’ve heard Andrea worry about it often enough.

“Everyone’s watching,” she hiccups. “All my followers, waiting for the perfect wedding. But what if it’s not perfect? What if Tyler realizes I’m not perfect?”

I return with the steaming mug, offering it to her as Andrea wipes tears from her daughter’s cheeks with the same gentle touch I’ve seen her use with frightened children at the clinic.

“For what it’s worth,” I say as Tristy accepts the tea with shaking hands, “I was with Tyler earlier. He was talking about how he can’t wait to marry you. How he wants to get the gaming thing done so he can focus on just being with you.”

It’s the absolute truth, though I leave out the part where Tyler had three beers and waxed poetic about Tristy’s eyes for a solid fifteen minutes, making Dax and me exchange amused glances over our drinks.

Her tears continue, but a watery smile breaks through. “Really?”

“Really,” I confirm, settling on her other side. “The guy’s crazy about you, kiddo. No stripper could change that.”

As Tristy curls into her mother’s side, sipping her tea and gradually calming, I catch Andrea watching me.

There’s something in her expression—a warmth, an appreciation, maybe something more—that makes my pulse quicken.

For a moment, everything else fades away—the wedding chaos, the suite, even Tristy’s presence.

It’s just Andrea, looking at me like I’ve done something extraordinary when all I’ve done is what comes naturally—support her, support Tristy, be the person they can count on.

“And what if the first dance is a disaster?” Tristy’s voice breaks the moment, pulling us back to her wedding anxieties. “Tyler’s been so busy with gaming competitions, we barely practiced. What if I step on his feet? What if?—”

Her phone buzzes, cutting off what would undoubtedly have been another spiral of wedding fears. Her eyes widen as she reads the screen.

“It’s Tyler!” She sits up straight, frantically wiping at her mascara-stained cheeks. “They got a flat tire on the way to town and ended up in some dead zone. He says they’re back at the hotel now.”

“See?” Andrea says, smoothing Tristy’s hair back from her face in that motherly gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. “No strippers in sight.”

“Just bad luck with tires,” I add, offering a reassuring smile. “And probably worse luck with cell reception on this side of the island.”

The relief on Tristy’s face is palpable, her laugh still watery but genuine. “I feel so stupid now.” She stands, pulling Tyler’s hoodie tighter around her body. “I should go. He says he’s heading to our suite.”

“Good,” Andrea says, walking her to the door for one final hug. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom.” She squeezes Andrea tight, then turns to include me in her grateful look. “Sorry for interrupting your... um, night.”

After she leaves, Andrea leans against the closed door, exhaling a long breath that seems to release the tension we’ve both been holding. “That was close. With the sofa bed, I mean.”

“Too close,” I agree, running a hand through my already disheveled hair as I glance at the innocent-looking couch that would have completely blown our cover if Tristy had arrived just five minutes earlier.

“Maybe...” she starts.

“We should...” I say simultaneously.

“Share the bed,” we finish in unison, the synchronicity making us both smile despite the tension lingering in the air.

“Just in case,” she adds quickly, like she needs to justify what we’re both thinking.

“Right,” I nod, relieved she’s reached the same practical conclusion. “In case there’s another emergency.”

“Exactly. We can’t risk...” She gestures vaguely toward the couch, her usual eloquence failing her.

“Being caught,” I supply, completing her thought as easily as breathing. “It makes sense.”

“Practical,” she agrees, a hint of color rising in her cheeks.

“Very practical.”

“You can keep using the bathroom outside while I use the one in the bedroom.”

I meet her gaze, not quite knowing what I’m looking for, yet the knowledge that she’d returned to the suite while I’d gotten busy in the bathroom earlier makes heat crawl up my neck.

Had she heard me? Had she heard her name on my lips in that moment of weakness?

The bathroom door had been ajar when I stepped out of the shower—a careless mistake I hadn’t given a second thought then.

But the way Andrea avoids my eyes, the slight deepening of the color in her cheeks, suggests she might have heard more than she’s letting on.

The thought is both mortifying and strangely thrilling—like we’re balanced on a knife’s edge between our carefully maintained friendship and something far more dangerous.

“Right,” I manage, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. “Good thinking.”

We stand there, neither moving, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying. The practical solution is obvious. The implications of sharing a bed—even chastely—are something else entirely.

“I’ll just...” I gesture toward the bedroom we’ve already staged to look like I sleep there, unable to form a complete sentence.

“Right.” She follows me, her voice holding a note I can’t quite identify. “You can have the right side.”

“You sure?” I ask, suddenly concerned with her comfort in a way that seems disproportionate to the situation.

“Yeah, I always sleep on the left anyway.”

Another pause stretches between us, heavy with possibility, with questions neither of us seems ready to voice.

“Well,” I finally manage, “good night. Again.”

“Good night.”

As we slip under the covers on our respective sides, I’m acutely aware of her presence—the soft sound of her breathing, the subtle dip of the mattress toward her weight, the faint scent of her perfume that somehow makes this unfamiliar hotel room feel strangely like coming home.

“Andie?” I say before I can think better of it.

“Hmm?”

“For what it’s worth? You’re an amazing mom.” The words come from somewhere deep inside me—a truth that transcends whatever complicated dance we’re doing around each other.

“Thanks, Gabe.” The warmth in her voice wraps around me more effectively than the hotel’s expensive duvet.

We lie there in the dark, carefully maintaining the space between us, each pretending not to be hyperaware of the other’s every breath, every small shift of the mattress. Just another part of our elaborate charade, I tell myself.

Except nothing about this feels like pretending anymore.