Page 31 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

SEVENTEEN

The Hawaiian sunrise filters through the curtains we forgot to close fully last night, painting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. I blink awake slowly, aware of Gabe’s warmth beside me, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm in the quiet morning air.

For a moment, I simply lie still, absorbing the reality of where I am—in bed with my best friend, my colleague, the man who’s been a constant in my life for a decade.

Last night changed everything between us.

After ten years of friendship, of carefully maintained boundaries and professional distance, we’ve crossed into territory from which there’s no returning.

And despite the risks, despite all the reasons we shouldn’t have taken this step, I can’t bring myself to regret it.

I shift slightly, feeling the pleasant soreness in muscles I haven’t used this way in far too long. Gabe’s eyes are already open, watching me with an expression so tender it makes my chest ache.

How long has he been awake? How long has he been looking at me like that—like I’m something precious, something he can’t quite believe is real?

“Morning,” I say, my voice husky with sleep and the remnants of last night’s intimacy.

“Morning,” he replies, his voice warm and deep. “Sleep well?”

I stretch, feeling the soft sheets slide against my bare skin. “Better than I have in months,” I admit, and it’s true. Even during the worst of the divorce, I never slept as deeply as I did in Gabe’s arms. “You?”

“The same,” he says, and something in his tone makes me believe him.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the intrusion of the outside world unwelcome in our private cocoon. I reach for it reluctantly, checking the display.

“Everything okay?” Gabe asks, and I can hear the slight worry in his voice.

“My parents,” I explain, showing him the text. “They want to meet for breakfast. Apparently they have news to share.”

“Sounds important.”

“Everything is important to them,” I say, making no move to leave the bed. Not when there’s something we need to address first, something that can’t wait, even for my parents. I turn to face him fully, gathering my courage. “Gabe, about last night?—”

“Do you regret it?” he interrupts, anxiety flashing across his features so quickly I might have missed it if I hadn’t known him so well.

“No,” I say firmly, reaching for his hand beneath the sheets. His fingers are warm, strong, slightly calloused from his weekend home renovation projects. “Not at all. Do you?”

“God, no,” he breathes, relief evident in his voice. “Last night was...” He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. “Perfect.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “It was, wasn’t it?” But there’s more we need to discuss, practical matters that can’t be ignored. “It’s just that we haven’t really talked about what happens next. About us, about where this goes from here.”

It’s the question that’s been hovering in the back of my mind since the moment his lips first touched mine. What does this mean for our friendship? For our professional relationship? For our lives that exist three hours apart on the interstate?

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits, his honesty both refreshing and slightly alarming. But then he continues, “But I know I want to find out. With you.”

His simple declaration settles something in me. Whatever this is, wherever it leads, we’ll navigate it together—the way we’ve approached every challenge over the last decade.

“Me too,” I say softly, squeezing his hand. “But for now, I should probably get ready for breakfast. Mom doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

As much as I’d like to stay in this bed all day, exploring this new dimension between us, I have responsibilities—to my family, to my daughter, to the life waiting for me back in Albuquerque.

I slip out of bed, gathering the sheet around me in a gesture that feels strangely modest given what we shared last night.

“Will you be gone long?” Gabe asks, watching me gather clothes for my shower.

“An hour or two, probably,” I reply, trying to calculate how quickly I can politely extract myself from family breakfast. “What about you? Any plans for the morning?”

His expression shifts subtly. “I need to pack,” he says, sitting up against the headboard.

The sheet pools around his waist, and I force myself to focus on his words rather than the expanse of his chest. “And deal with some clinic paperwork Daniel sent over. The IRS application has a few issues that need addressing before the deadline next week.”

Reality intrudes on our perfect bubble—Gabe’s flight home tomorrow, the ongoing demands of our separate clinics, the professional obligations that won’t pause for our personal revelations.

“Right,” I say, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “The application. Is it serious?”

“Potentially,” he admits. “If we miss this window for 501(c)(3) status, it pushes everything back by months. The community health wing needs that nonprofit designation to qualify for certain grants, and without those funds...” He trails off, but I understand the implications.

At the core of it all, every business still needs to make money.

I pause at the bathroom door, turning back to face him. “Send me the documentation,” I say, my mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. “I’ll look it over when I get back.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protests. “This is your family time, your vacation.”

His consideration warms me, but I shake my head. “Gabe, I want to help. Besides, I’ve been through this process before with Salud Integrada. I might spot something you and Daniel missed.”

Before he can argue further, I disappear into the bathroom, turning on the shower to give myself a moment to process everything.

As the warm water washes over me, I find myself smiling at how naturally we’ve slipped into our old patterns —working together, supporting each other’s projects, sharing expertise.

Only now, there’s this new layer beneath it all, this awareness of each other that transforms even the most routine interactions.

By the time I emerge, dressed in a casual sundress that seems appropriate for both family breakfast and tropical weather, Gabe has pulled on shorts and a t-shirt.

His hair is still mussed from sleep and my fingers, and it takes considerable willpower not to cross the room and run my hands through it again.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” I say, gathering my phone and room key. “Text me if you need anything?”

“I will.” He moves toward me, his hands settling on my waist with a new possessiveness that sends a shiver through me. “Have a good breakfast.”

I look up at him, struck once again by how right this feels, despite all the complications that await us. “I’ll try. But I’d rather be here with you.”

The admission—so honest, so unlike my usual careful restraint—surprises even me. But Gabe’s answering smile is worth the vulnerability.

He leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. My hands slide up his chest to curl around his neck, and for a moment I consider canceling breakfast altogether, responsibilities be damned.

With visible reluctance, I pull away. “I really should go,” I murmur, though I make no move to step back from his embrace.

“You should,” he agrees, sounding equally reluctant. “Your parents are waiting.”

“Right.” Another moment passes before I finally manage to step away, smoothing my dress with slightly shaky hands. “I’ll see you soon.”

The resort corridors feel strangely dreamlike as I make my way to the restaurant, my mind still half-back in the suite with Gabe.

I’ve never experienced this before—this inability to fully focus on the present because another person occupies so much space in my thoughts.

Not with Simon, not even in the early days of our marriage.

Certainly not with Tristy’s father, a teenage mistake that resulted in my greatest blessing.

This feeling—this constant awareness, this magnetic pull toward another person—is entirely new. And at forty-three, that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

Breakfast with my parents passes in a blur of conversation about their retirement plans for the Philippines, their thoughts on the wedding, and endless questions about Tristy and Tyler’s future that I answer on autopilot.

I contribute enough to avoid suspicion, but my mind keeps drifting back to Gabe, to last night, to what awaits when I return to the suite.

“Andrea? Andrea, are you listening?” My mother’s voice breaks through my distraction.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “What were you saying?”

She gives me a knowing look. “I was asking if you and Gabe have plans for when you return to New Mexico. You seem... distracted this morning.”

Heat rises to my cheeks at her perceptiveness. “We haven’t discussed it yet. It’s still... new.”

My father snorts softly. “New? Anak, that man has been looking at you the same way for years. The only thing new is that you’ve finally noticed.”

“Anyway, I should probably head back,” I say after glancing at my watch. “Gabe needs help with some paperwork for his clinic.”

My mother’s smile turns knowing. “Of course he does. Tell him we expect to see him before he leaves.”

I promise to relay the invitation, though a part of me wonders if we’ll make it to dinner at all. The way Gabe looked at me this morning, the heat in his eyes when I mentioned how few days we have left together...

The walk back to the suite feels both too long and too short—too long because I’m eager to see him again, too short because I’m still processing everything that’s happened between us. What am I walking back to? My best friend? My lover? Something in between that doesn’t yet have a label?