Page 18 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

ELEVEN

I wake slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the usual jarring snap to alertness that accompanies my alarm.

Warmth envelops me—not just from the plush hotel bedding, but from the solid presence behind me, an arm draped across my waist, a chest rising and falling against my back in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Gabe.

The events of last night filter back into my awareness—Tristy’s tears, the “practical” decision to share the bed, the careful distance we’d maintained as we fell asleep on opposite sides.

Clearly, our sleeping selves had other ideas.

Somehow during the night, we’d gravitated toward each other like magnets finally freed from their restraints.

I should move. Should carefully extract myself from this intimate embrace before he wakes. But I remain still, allowing myself the indulgence of this moment, of the sensation of being held by someone for the first time since Simon.

And not just someone. Gabe. My colleague, my friend for a decade, Taos’ most eligible bachelor who’s now serving as my fake boyfriend—a role he’s playing with surprising conviction.

The memories from last night’s return to the suite flood back—not just our awkward negotiations about sharing the bed, but the moment before.

When I’d returned early from the girls’ night out and the sound that had stopped me outside the bathroom door—his low groan, barely audible but unmistakable.

The way I’d frozen, knowing exactly what he was doing, knowing I should leave immediately.

But then I’d heard it. My name. Not spoken but almost sighed, escaping his lips in a moment of abandoned control.

“Andrea...”

And now, here we are. My back pressed against his chest, his arm around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. It feels strangely comfortable, as if our bodies have done this dance before.

His breathing changes slightly—the subtle shift from sleep to wakefulness. I feel him stiffen as awareness returns, as he realizes our position. For a moment, neither of us moves, the only sound in the room our slightly accelerated breathing.

“Morning,” he finally murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, sending an involuntary shiver through me.

“Morning,” I reply, not turning around, not sure I can face him just yet. “Seems we didn’t maintain that practical distance after all.”

His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.” There’s a pause, and then, “I should move.”

“You don’t have to,” I say before I can stop myself. “I mean, not unless you’re uncomfortable.”

His arm remains around my waist, neither tightening nor withdrawing. “I’m not uncomfortable,” he admits. “Are you?”

I finally turn in his embrace, needing to see his face, to read whatever might be written there. We’re close—much closer than I anticipated—his dark eyes mere inches from mine, his expression soft and unguarded in the gentle morning light.

“No,” I say truthfully. “Though I probably should be, for the sake of our friendship.”

He smiles, that easy smile that’s charmed half the women in northern New Mexico. “We’re just playing our parts, right? Method acting.”

“Right,” I agree, though something about the explanation feels hollow. “Very committed performances.”

“Oscar-worthy,” he says, making no move to increase the distance between us.

We stay like that, studying each other in the gentle morning light filtering through the curtains, neither advancing nor retreating.

“Is this how you always are in the morning?” I ask, trying to inject some levity into the moment, to slow my racing heart. “This charming with all your overnight guests?”

His expression shifts, a flicker of something almost like hurt crossing his features before his usual smile returns.

“First, I don’t typically have ‘overnight guests’ in the traditional sense.

Believe it or not, I prefer my own space most nights.

” His gaze holds mine, unexpectedly serious.

“And second, I don’t wake up holding other women.

I’m surprisingly a one-woman man in that regard. ”

“Really?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice, thinking of his reputation, of the flight attendant, of the myriad women who’ve crossed his path over the years.

“Really,” he affirms. “Whatever you may have heard about my dating habits, I don’t make a practice of sharing my bed. Not for the entire night.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me believe him, despite years of evidence suggesting otherwise. The thought that this might be unusual for him, special even, sends a warm curl of curiosity through me.

“So I’m getting the full Gabe Vasquez experience?” I tease, trying to regain some equilibrium. “Should I feel honored?”

“Yes,” he says without a hint of his usual humor. “Because I’m getting the full Andrea Martin experience, and I consider that an honor.”

His sincerity catches me off guard, stealing the witty retort I was forming. In its absence, something deeper rises to take its place—a curiosity I can no longer ignore.

“I’ve always wondered,” I say, my voice dropping to nearly a whisper, “what all the fuss is about.”

His eyebrow quirks. “The fuss?”

“About you. Half the nurses in the hospital system have stories about Gabe Vasquez. The charming doctor from Taos who leaves broken hearts in his wake.” I watch his expression carefully. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”

“What what would be like?” he asks, though I think he knows exactly what I’m referring to.

“What it would be like to kiss Taos’ most eligible bachelor,” I say, the words coming out in a rush before I can second-guess them. “Just out of scientific curiosity, of course.”

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, followed by interest. “Scientific curiosity,” he repeats, his voice dropping slightly. “Well, I’ve harbored some curiosity myself.”

“About?”

“What it would be like to kiss Albuquerque’s most brilliant doctor,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips. “The woman who intimidates half the hospital board with her intelligence and dedication. Just for research purposes, naturally.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “Research is important in our field.”

“Critical,” he agrees, humor dancing in his eyes though his voice remains serious. “And we’re nothing if not thorough in our investigations.”

We’re circling something dangerous, using humor and professional language to mask the very real curiosity building between us.

Part of me wants to pull back, to make a joke and break this mounting tension.

But another part—a part I’ve been suppressing for longer than I care to admit—wants to see where this leads.

“Maybe,” I suggest, my voice barely audible, “we should satisfy our curiosity. For science.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “For science,” he agrees. “A controlled experiment.”

“Exactly,” I breathe. “One variable at a time.”

His hand slides to cup my cheek, his touch gentle yet confident. “And what’s our hypothesis, Dr. Martin?”

“That playing these roles so convincingly,” I whisper, “might make us better actors than we thought.”

“An excellent hypothesis,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he leans slightly closer. “Though there’s one complication we should address.”

“What’s that?”

“Last night, came back to the suite while you were taking a shower,” I admit, keeping my eyes on his. “The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed and I heard... everything.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by shock, embarrassment, and then something darker, more intense. “Everything?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave.

“Everything.”

For a moment, he looks like he might pull away, might retreat behind humor or denial. Instead, his gaze steadies on mine.

“Well,” he says finally, his thumb tracing my lower lip in a touch so light it might be imagination, “in the interest of scientific integrity, we should probably account for that variable too.”

And then he’s kissing me, closing the final distance between us with a gentleness that belies the heat in his eyes.

His lips are warm, tentative at first, as if giving me every opportunity to pull away.

When I don’t—when I lean into him instead—the kiss deepens, transforming from question to answer in the space of a heartbeat.

This is nothing like I imagined during those rare moments of weakness.

It’s better—more real, more complex. There’s no artifice in the way he holds me, no practiced moves or calculated pressure.

Just Gabe, the man who’s been at my side for a decade, who knows my coffee order and my insecurities, who’s seen me at my professional best and personal worst.

I find myself responding with equal honesty, letting the kiss communicate what words can’t quite capture. My hand slides up to tangle in his hair, drawing him closer, erasing the last vestiges of hesitation between us.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, there’s wonder in his eyes that mirrors what I’m feeling—surprise at the intensity, at the rightness of something we’re both still pretending is just curiosity and research.

“Well,” he says, voice rougher than before, “I believe our experiment yielded interesting results.”

A laugh bubbles up, unexpected but genuine. “Preliminary findings are promising,” I agree, my fingers still absently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Though proper scientific method would suggest we need to replicate the experiment.”

His smile turns wicked. “Multiple trials? I like the way you think, Dr. Martin.”

He leans in again, his intent clear in the darkening of his eyes, but before our lips meet, my phone chimes loudly from the nightstand. We both freeze, the real world intruding on our perfect, suspended moment.

“Should I get that?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Probably,” he sighs, rolling onto his back as I reach for the phone.

It’s a text from Tristy: Mom! Final fitting in 30 mins! WHERE ARE YOU??