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

TWO

Two drinks into our official start of vacation—one on the flight to Denver, another during our layover—and Andrea’s finally relaxed enough to flip through the SkyMall catalog. At least, she’s not dwelling on Simon anymore. Not outwardly, anyway.

It kills me to see her like this. The Andrea Martin I’ve known for the last ten years doesn’t do self-pity. But I guess finding out your husband’s been sleeping with his grad student for the last two years of your marriage does that to a person.

I miss the old Andrea with her signature laugh that always made any day better.

The one who could whip up Filipino dishes like chicken adobo and lumpia without glancing once at a recipe.

The one who believed in me enough to convince me to start my own practice right out of the gate, who showed up with freshly made lumpia and encouragement every time things went sideways those first few years.

And when I did weekend night shifts in Albuquerque to make ends meet, the one who insisted I stopped by her house for breakfast and a nap before driving back to Taos.

Of course, the one time I went straight home was the day I fell asleep behind the wheel.

I can still remember waking up to the sight of her at my bedside, her arms folded in front of her, as she announced that she and our colleagues would cover my patient load until I was cleared to work again. I tried talking her out of it, but Andrea was adamant.

That’s what friends are for, Gabe. We show up for each other , she’d said. End of discussion.

And she’s right. From the moment I ended my community health rotation at her clinic and she stopped being my mentor and became a friend, that’s been our thing.

There was just something about Andrea that has me lowering my guard, knowing nothing romantic will ever come between us even though she’s one of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out.

Most people see Dr. Andrea Martin, the accomplished physician who runs a nonprofit clinic and publishes research papers on health equality.

But I see Andrea—the woman who sneaks homemade meals to residents working night shifts, who tears up watching dog rescue videos, who still buys presents for her ex-husband’s parents because “they’re still family. ”

And that’s why it pisses me off to see her so defeated now, avoiding showing up early to her only daughter’s wedding because of Simon.

I should have noticed something was off with the guy—that he was cheating on her—but living three hours away made it easy to miss.

If he was that unhappy, why didn’t he just leave?

But of course, I know why.

Andrea’s standing in the community meant she was around people with money and influence. It meant introducing him to people who could further his budding career as a news commentator on anything involving the market and economics.

And maybe it wasn’t just the career. Maybe it was the comfort and stability she provided, the nice house and the health insurance. Maybe it was the kick of knowing you’re getting away with having it both ways, the thrill of living a double life.

I drain the last of my gin and tonic, the ice cubes clinking like tiny, broken promises.

“Anything else from the bar, Dr. Vasquez?” The flight attendant’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts as she collects my empty glass. “We have a few other choices up front I may have missed listing for you…. Gabe.”

The familiar way she says my name makes me look up and study her face.

Who…?

Then it clicks.

Denver. Snow storm. Hot tub.

“Not right now, thanks, Valerie,” I say, catching her name tag just in time.

It’s been a few months since that layover during the medical conference when a snowstorm stranded me for an extra night.

The memories flood back: the empty hotel bar, the too-strong cocktails, the warmth of the hot tub cutting through the winter chill.

She smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. “Maybe later then.”

As Valerie walks away, Andrea slaps my arm.

“What was that for?” I whisper as she glares at me, her eyes flicking between me and the retreating flight attendant.

“Did you and her—?” she starts, then pauses, waiting for my denial.

I flash back to that night, to the easy laughter and the way Valerie had pulled me into the hot tub, to the kiss that lingered longer than it should have. “I can’t say.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “You totally did, didn’t you?”

“A gentleman never tells,” I say, attempting a virtuous tone.

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Mile High Club, by any chance?”

I pause, letting her wonder. “She’s a professional, Andie,” I say, sidestepping the accusation. “And so am I.”

Andrea crosses her arms, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. “Gabe, you dog.”

I shrug. “It was a lonely conference.”

She raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, I think she’s going to scold me. Instead, she leans back in her seat and smirks. “Well, at least someone’s getting lucky.”

I should deny it and play innocent, but I’ve missed that curl of Andrea’s lips, that spark of mischief that’s been too rare lately. Maybe this trip will actually help her get back to the old Andrea I know. “I can’t say either,” I add, leaving just enough ambiguity to keep her guessing.

She laughs, a genuine burst that cuts through the recycled air of the cabin, and for a moment, it looks like we’re back in the old days, before Simon’s betrayal. “Seriously, Gabe, the bathroom’s so tiny. How can you even fit?”

I shrug, playing it cool. “You just can.”

“But really, how?”

“There are a few techniques.” I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “At least five different ways.”

Andrea’s mouth drops open, her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and intrigue. I fight back a grin, trying to look serious. She always says she tries to be curious, not judgmental—something she picked up from Walt Whitman or Ted Lasso .

Well, her curiosity’s about to make this flight a lot more interesting than I anticipated.

“And you’ve tried all five?” she asks, her tone half disbelieving, half impressed. When I shrug again, she persists, “Well, I guess she could stand facing the wall and you’re behind her. That’s doable, right?”

I can’t believe she’s actually going there. Usually, Andrea is the one to steer us back to safer, more comfortable topics when things get too personal, too loaded, too real.

“Or,” she continues, and I’m stunned she’s not stopping, “she could sit on the sink and you could?—”

Jesus. Are we really doing this? I nod. “Hmmm.”

Her brow furrows in concentration. “And there’s sitting. With the seat down, of course, either facing you or away.”

She’s actually mapping this out and I can almost see the diagrams forming in her thought, like that popular meme. “Definitely, but that only counts as one.”

“And then there’s her on the sink, although she’d need to be flexible. Like yoga, flexible.” Andrea brings her hands to her ears. “Knees up here.”

God help me if anyone’s listening. “Yeah.”

“I’d probably cramp.”

I push the image that pops in my head. This is Andrea Martin, my friend. I can’t be thinking of her in those positions. Not at all. “I’ve seen you do yoga,” I say instead. “You’d be fine.”

“And there’s you carrying her in front of you, like this.”

As she mimes cupping someone’s ass, I want to beg her to stop. But I’d take this ridiculousness over her earlier depression any day. “Right.”

“How many is that now?” She looks absolutely serious. “I’ve lost count.”

“I wasn’t counting but I think that’s four.” How can I count when the vision of Andrea—my Andie—is currently occupying my brain? As I trace the rim of my empty glass, I’m grateful for tray tables.

“Does there have to be penetration to be a member of the Mile High Club?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea why you think I’m an expert on it but I don’t think so.”

Her face brightens. “Then what about her sitting down and giving you a blowjob? Or her on the sink and you going down on her? Although that means kneeling on the floor, and I wouldn’t trust how clean that is.

” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “But that’s only if you go down on her.

I hear not every guy likes that and you might be one of those. ”

“What makes you think that I don’t?” I ask, suddenly defensive.

Andrea shrugs. “I don’t know anything about your… interests in the bedroom, Gabe. So I’m just guessing.”

“Well, guess no more, Dr. Martin,” I whisper. “Because I’m into those things.”

“Ooh, you learn something new everyday.”

“I can’t believe it,” I mutter though I can’t help smiling. “You really are imagining me and some stranger... inside the bathroom.”

She cocks her head toward the front of the plane where Valerie is collecting someone’s empty glass. “She’s not exactly a stranger, is she?”

“Excuse me,” a blonde wearing dark glasses interrupts, cocktail in one hand, mini Bacardi in another. “But I couldn’t help overhearing.”

I groan. “Sorry. We’ll keep it down.”

The woman giggles. “Oh no, please don’t. I think you two would make a better pair than him and that flight attendant.” She gives Andrea a thumbs up. “And way to go, girl! Landing such a hot young man.”

“Oh no, we’re just friends,” Andrea protests, but the woman continues, speaking to me this time.

“In fact, if you decide to induct her into the Mile High Club, young man,” she winks, “I’ll keep watch at the door for you.”

“What happened with Courtney? You guys were pretty serious.”

I tear my gaze away from the unwatched movie playing on my screen.

It’s been an hour since Andrea’s rundown of the five different sex positions possible inside the airplane bathroom and I guess this is the next topic on the agenda for the rest of the flight.

“Six months isn’t exactly serious territory. ”

“It’s the longest you were seeing someone,” Andrea says. “But if you’d rather not answer, that’s fine, too.”