Page 25 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

FOURTEEN

The sofa bed is every bit as uncomfortable as I remembered, the metal bar digging into my spine a persistent reminder of my noble sacrifice.

But as I blink awake to sunlight streaming through the suite’s partially open curtains, I find I don’t regret the decision.

Andrea needed her rest before today’s festivities, and I needed. .. distance.

After that dance floor confession, after that kiss, sleeping beside her would have required more self-control than I’m currently capable of mustering.

My phone buzzes in my hand, a series of notifications appearing in rapid succession.

I groan, remembering the social media firestorm that erupted yesterday.

The Instagram revelation about Valerie feels like it happened a lifetime ago, overshadowed by everything that followed—especially the moment Andrea’s lips met mine on that dance floor, changing everything between us with a single kiss.

But the outside world apparently hasn’t moved on. I scan the notifications warily:

Dad (3 missed calls) Daniel Drexel (2 missed calls) Text from Dad: Call me. Now.

And a string of message previews from colleagues, acquaintances, and what appears to be every Vasquez relative with internet access, all variations on “Have you seen what’s happening online?”

I sigh, sitting up and running a hand through my hair.

Whatever fresh hell has erupted, it will have to wait until I’ve had coffee.

I stand, stretching the kinks from my back as I move to the kitchenette.

The suite’s coffee maker is already set up—Andrea’s doing, no doubt, a small kindness that brings a smile to my face despite the looming digital drama.

As the coffee brews, filling the suite with its rich aroma, my phone buzzes again. Daniel’s name appears on the screen, and this time I answer. As Dax’s father and my business partner, he’s not someone I can easily ignore.

“Morning, Daniel,” I say, trying to sound more awake than I feel.

“Gabe.” His tone is clipped, businesslike. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I just woke up,” I explain, watching the coffee drip slowly into the carafe. “What’s up?”

“Have you been online at all this morning?” he asks, the background noise suggesting he’s in transit somewhere.

“No,” I admit. “But based on the flood of notifications, I’m guessing the Instagram thing is still causing waves.”

Daniel sighs, the sound of a man accustomed to managing public relations crises. “The Instagram ‘thing,’ as you call it, has escalated. Your father’s been calling me, by the way. Seems quite pleased that you’re still—and I quote—‘playing the field.’”

I wince, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of course he is.”

“More concerning,” Daniel continues, “is that three of our potential donors have emailed asking for clarification about your relationship status. Apparently, they’re concerned about the clinic’s... stability.”

“My relationship status has nothing to do with the clinic,” I protest, though even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true.

In a small community like Taos, personal and professional boundaries often blur.

My reputation affects everything I touch, including the clinic we’ve worked so hard to build.

“In theory, no,” Daniel agrees. “In practice, we’re still waiting on that IRS approval for nonprofit status, and perception matters.

These donors were impressed by your apparent settling down with a respected physician like Dr. Martin.

The suggestion that you might be... less than committed raises questions. ”

“Questions about what?” I demand, frustration building. “My clinical skills? My dedication to patients?”

“About whether you’re serious about building something lasting,” Daniel says bluntly. “Fair or not, people associate personal stability with professional reliability. Especially in a community health setting where trust is everything.”

Two years ago, I had firmly rejected Daniel’s initial proposal to bring in private equity investors after my accident.

The collision that had nearly cost me my career had also opened Daniel’s eyes to the potential of what I was building, but he’d thought bigger meant better.

I’d spent three exhausting nights explaining why I couldn’t let my practice be “eaten up” by private equity when the investors inevitably wanted to cash in on their returns.

Serving the poor communities in and around Taos was my mission, not an optional feature that could be discarded when profit margins tightened.

I’d made it clear that if it meant moonlighting as an ER doctor at the reservation on weekends just to keep the lights on, I’d do it rather than compromise my vision.

Only then had Daniel agreed to be my sole business partner, keeping private equity out of the equation entirely.

He’d respected my principles then, even when he didn’t fully understand them.

I pour the now-ready coffee into a mug, trying to gather my thoughts. “So what do you suggest?”

“Damage control,” he replies promptly. “A clear statement about your relationship with Dr. Martin. Something that addresses the timeline discrepancy directly and puts it to rest.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Our fake relationship—created specifically to avoid drama and save face—has now created more complications than we could have anticipated.

And just when the pretense was becoming something real, something honest, the outside world demands explanations we’re not ready to give.

“I’ll handle it,” I promise, though I have no idea how. “After the wedding.”

“The sooner the better,” Daniel advises. “And Gabe? You might want to call your father. He’s been blowing up my phone all morning, asking if your ‘midlife crisis dating an older woman’ is finally over.”

My grip tightens on the mug. “I’ll talk to him.”

After disconnecting the call, I take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter liquid burn away some of the morning fog.

My father’s reaction is predictable—he’s never understood my choices, from medical school to opening my own practice to, apparently, my taste in women.

That he would welcome evidence suggesting my relationship with Andrea isn’t serious comes as no surprise.

What does surprise me is how fiercely protective I feel about what’s developing between us—this fragile, tender thing still taking shape. The last thing I want is for Andrea to face more scrutiny, more judgment, especially from my family.

With a resigned sigh, I scroll through my messages, confirming what Daniel suggested—the social media situation has indeed escalated.

Someone has apparently created a side-by-side timeline of my “relationship” with Andrea versus the hot tub incident with Valerie, complete with source links and date stamps.

The hashtag #DoctorPlayerGames is trending in certain circles.

Worse, Andrea’s clinic has been tagged repeatedly, with commenters questioning her judgment in dating someone with my “history.”

My blood boils seeing her professional reputation dragged into this mess—a mess I created, however unintentionally. Before I can formulate a response strategy, my phone rings again. This time, it’s my father’s face on the screen.

I briefly consider letting it go to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a deep breath, I answer.

“Dad.”

“ Mijo ,” he says, his tone falsely jovial. “Finally. I was beginning to think you’d lost your phone.”

“It’s barely past seven here,” I remind him, moving to the lanai for privacy. “What’s so urgent?”

“This Instagram business,” he says, cutting straight to the point. “Your aunt forwarded me the posts. Quite the scandal you’ve created.”

“It’s not a scandal,” I argue, gazing out at the ocean. In the distance, resort staff are already setting up chairs on the beach for Tristy’s ceremony. “It’s a misunderstanding about timing.”

He makes a dismissive sound. “So you weren’t in a hot tub with some flight attendant while supposedly dating the doctor?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” His voice takes on that familiar superior tone that never fails to make me feel sixteen again. “Seems simple to me. You’re still living like a bachelor, despite this... performance with Dr. Martin.”

I grip the railing, willing myself to remain calm. “It’s not a performance, Dad.”

“No?” He pauses, then continues more carefully. “Gabriel, you know I only want what’s best for you. And a woman Andrea Martin’s age?—”

“Don’t,” I warn, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I’m only being practical,” he continues, undeterred. “She’s over forty, divorced, with a grown daughter. Her childbearing years are behind her. And you’ve always talked about wanting a family someday. Besides, I want a little Vasquez to spoil, too.”

“My relationship with Andrea is my business,” I say firmly. “Not yours, not the internet’s, not anyone’s but ours.”

“So there is a relationship?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I thought perhaps this social media exposure might have been a blessing in disguise—an excuse to end whatever midlife crisis led you to?—”

“Dad,” I interrupt, my patience finally snapping. “I’m going to say this once, so listen carefully. I care about Andie. Deeply. This isn’t a midlife crisis or a phase or a performance. And if you can’t respect that, if you can’t respect her, then we have nothing more to discuss.”

Silence stretches between us, tense and uncomfortable. Finally, he sighs, a sound of resignation rather than understanding.

“Your mother wants to know if you’re bringing her to Christmas,” he says, changing tactics. “She’s already planning the menu.”

The abrupt shift is so typical of my father—deflect, redirect, avoid direct confrontation. “I haven’t discussed holiday plans with Andrea yet,” I say truthfully. “Her daughter’s wedding is today, in case you forgot.”