Page 22 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

Aunt Linda’s eyebrows rise, clearly not expecting such candor. Before she can respond, Andrea’s mother materializes at her elbow.

“Linda, stop interrogating the poor man,” Maribel Martin chides, though her own expression suggests she’s equally interested in my answer. “It’s Tristy’s rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m just looking out for Andrea,” Linda says, unrepentant. “Someone has to make sure he’s serious this time.”

“This time?” I repeat, confused.

“The Instagram photo,” Maribel explains gently. “It’s making the rounds among the family now. Eduardo’s brothers are quite... protective of Andrea.”

As if summoned by her words, I notice a group of older men across the room, all watching me with unmistakable disapproval. One of them—who I recognize as Andrea’s Uncle Joey from her Christmas card photos—draws a finger across his throat in what I can only interpret as a universal warning.

“Wonderful,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry,” Maribel pats my arm reassuringly. “Eduardo will calm them down. He likes you.”

“He does?” This is news to me.

“Of course. He says you look at Andrea the way he looks at me.” Her smile turns slightly mischievous. “He also says you’re not subtle about it.”

Before I can process this revelation, the dinner bell chimes, signaling guests to find their seats. Maribel and Linda move away, but not before Linda gives me a final warning look that clearly communicates: Don’t hurt her or we’ll make you regret it.

Message received.

I scan the room for Andrea, finally spotting her near our assigned table.

Our eyes meet across the crowded space, and something in her expression—vulnerability mixed with a quiet resolve—makes my heart constrict.

I start toward her, determined to clear the air, to explain about Valerie, to tell her how I really feel.

But before I can reach her, Simon steps into my path, his smile sharp as a blade.

“Dr. Vasquez,” he says, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard by those nearby. “Quite the social media storm you’ve stirred up. Valerie, was it? The flight attendant?”

I force my expression to remain neutral, though what I really want to do is wipe that smug smile off his face. “Simon,” I acknowledge coolly. “Shouldn’t you be finding your seat?”

“Oh, I will,” he assures me, not moving an inch. “I just wanted to express my... concern about the negative attention Andrea’s receiving. Her clinic depends on its reputation, you know.”

The implication is clear, and anger flares hot and sharp inside me. “Andrea’s clinic has an impeccable reputation because she’s a brilliant doctor who’s done incredible work in the community for fifteen years,” I say evenly. “Nothing on social media will change that.”

“Perhaps,” Simon allows, his gaze calculating. “But donors can be fickle. Especially when they start wondering about the judgment of someone who would date a man with your... track record.”

“My personal life has nothing to do with Andrea’s clinic,” I say, keeping my voice low despite my growing anger.

“Doesn’t it?” Simon raises an eyebrow. “Everything Andrea does reflects on her work—who she associates with, who she brings to events, who she... trusts.”

Before I can respond—before I can figure out how to respond to such a precise strike at my deepest insecurity—Tristy’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Dad,” she calls, approaching us with a fixed smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “They’re waiting for you at the head table. It’s almost time for your toast.”

Simon’s demeanor shifts instantly, all traces of malice hidden behind a paternal smile. “Of course, sweetheart. Just having a quick chat with Gabe here.”

“Save it for after dinner,” she says lightly, though I catch the warning in her tone. “Tonight’s about Tyler and me, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Simon presses a kiss to her cheek before moving away, but not before casting one final knowing look in my direction.

Once he’s out of earshot, Tristy turns to me with concern. “You okay? Dad can be... intense.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her, though I’m anything but. “Just wedding stress, I’m sure.”

She doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “Mom’s looking for you. And just so you know, I’ve got your back with this whole Instagram thing. My post is already turning the tide.”

“Thank you, Tristy,” I say, truly meaning it. “You’re handling this with incredible grace.”

She grins. “Years of dealing with internet trolls builds character. Now go find Mom—she looks like she needs you.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I make my way through the crowd to where Andrea stands by our table, her expression carefully neutral though I can see the tension in her shoulders. When she spots me, something flickers in her eyes—relief, perhaps, or worry, or both.

“Hey,” I say softly, reaching for her hand. To my relief, she doesn’t pull away. “You okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” she responds, her voice equally low. “The internet seems determined to paint you as the villain of the hour.”

“I’m more concerned about what you think,” I admit, searching her face.

She sighs, her fingers tightening slightly around mine. “I think social media is ridiculous, and I think Simon is enjoying this far too much.”

“He cornered you too?”

“Of course.” Her smile is tight. “Wanted to know if I’d seen the ‘evidence’ of your playboy ways. As if I haven’t known you for a decade.”

There’s something in her tone I can’t quite interpret—a defensive note that suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. Before I can probe further, the emcee announces it’s time to be seated for dinner.

We take our places, and I’m hyper-aware of the eyes on us from around the room—Andrea’s extended family, Tyler’s relatives, Simon watching with that calculating expression from the head table.

For the first time, our pretense feels less like a casual charade and more like walking a high wire without a net.

“I’m sorry about all this,” I murmur to Andrea as the waiters begin serving the first course. “The last thing I wanted was to cause you or Tristy any embarrassment.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says firmly. “You weren’t doing anything wrong three months ago. We weren’t —” she pauses, lowering her voice further “—we weren’t actually together.”

“I know, but still.” I meet her gaze directly. “If I’d known then what I know now...”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Gabe?—”

But whatever she was about to say is cut off by the clinking of a glass. Simon stands at the head table, preparing to give his toast, and the room falls silent.

“For those who don’t know me,” he begins, voice carrying easily through the space, “I’m Simon Gaines, Tristy’s stepfather. When I first met this incredible young woman, she was twelve years old and determined to convince me that soccer was more important than homework.”

Polite laughter ripples through the room as he continues, painting a picture of family life that bears little resemblance to the reality I witnessed—one where he frequently missed Tristy’s games for “conferences” and dismissed her early interest in social media as frivolous.

“While I may not be her biological father,” Simon continues, his gaze finding Andrea in the crowd, “I’ve had the privilege of watching Tristy grow into the remarkable woman she is today, guided by her extraordinary mother.”

Andrea’s expression remains neutral, though I feel her tense beside me at the mention.

“Andrea,” Simon says, raising his glass slightly, “has always put Tristy first, making sacrifices few would understand to give her daughter every opportunity.” His smile turns reflective.

“During our marriage, I was continually amazed by her dedication—to Tristy, to her patients, to building something that would outlast us all.”

Despite myself, I glance at Andrea, catching a flicker of genuine surprise in her expression. This unexpected praise from Simon seems to have caught her off guard.

“Though our paths have diverged,” Simon continues, his tone softening, “I will always be grateful for the years we shared raising this exceptional young woman.” His gaze shifts to Tyler.

“And now, as she begins this new chapter with a young man clearly worthy of her, I can only offer my heartfelt blessing and the wish that your marriage be filled with the kind of love that endures even when circumstances change.”

He raises his glass higher. “To Tristy and Tyler—may your journey together be long, your happiness abundant, and your commitment to each other unshakable.”

The room echoes with “hear, hear” as everyone drinks to the toast. I turn to Andrea, expecting to find her relieved that Simon kept things civil. Instead, her expression is troubled, her eyes fixed on her ex-husband as he returns to his seat.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper.

“Nothing,” she says quickly—too quickly. “It was a nice toast.”

“But?”

She hesitates, then leans closer, her voice barely audible. “It’s just... that’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged the sacrifices I made. After years of acting like my clinic was just a hobby that inconvenienced him.”

The hurt in her voice makes me want to cross the room and demand Simon explain himself—demand he account for the years of dismissing Andrea’s work, her passion, her purpose. But this isn’t the time or place, and Andrea deserves better than a scene at her daughter’s rehearsal dinner.

Instead, I reach for her hand under the table, covering it with mine. “He’s right, you know,” I tell her softly. “You are extraordinary. And he was a fool not to see it every day you were together.”

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something in her expression shifts—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability I rarely glimpse behind her carefully maintained composure.

“Gabe,” she begins, then stops as if unsure how to continue.

“Yes?”

She takes a deep breath. “After dinner, we need to talk. About how we’re going to handle the end of this charade once the wedding is over. We should plan how we’re going to ‘break up’ and put an end to all this talk about us so we can go back to our friendship.”

The words hit like a physical blow, though I keep my expression carefully neutral. “Of course,” I agree, relief at her willingness to talk warring with the anxiety her words provoke. Because while she’s planning our pretend breakup, I’m realizing something else entirely.

The truth that this isn’t pretend for me anymore. Maybe it never was.