Page 34 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)
And beneath it all, a thin current of anxiety—a voice wondering if this transition from friendship to romance, from island fantasy to everyday reality, can really work.
If the Gabe who’s been my friend and colleague for a decade can truly become something more without disrupting everything else in my carefully balanced life.
I wince as I reach for my coffee mug, a sharp twinge in my lower abdomen catching me off guard. It’s the third time this week—these random flashes of pain that seem to come from nowhere and disappear just as quickly.
“You okay?” Norma asks, catching my grimace as she places a stack of patient files on my desk.
“Fine,” I say automatically, straightening in my chair. “Just sat too long.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “That’s the second time I’ve seen you do that today. Maybe you should listen to your own medical advice and get it checked out.”
I wave her concern away with practiced dismissal. “It’s nothing. Probably just stress from the trip and catching up on everything here.” And the emotional whirlwind of my evolving relationship with Gabe, though I keep that part to myself.
“If you say so, Dr. Martin.” Her tone makes it clear she disagrees. “But your annual physical is overdue anyway. I took the liberty of scheduling you with Dr. Reyes next week.”
“Norma—”
“Not my orders,” she says firmly, tapping the top file before heading to the door. “Dr. Reyes specifically said to tell you that if you can badger her about her cholesterol levels, she can badger you about skipping your check-ups.”
I sigh, knowing when I’m beaten. “Fine. But make it after clinic hours. I don’t want to disrupt the schedule.”
As she leaves, I press my hand against my abdomen where the pain had been, already cataloging possible causes with clinical detachment—stress, muscle strain from travel, perhaps something dietary. Nothing serious.
The doctor in me knows I should be more concerned, should practice what I preach about preventative care and early intervention. But the woman in me—the one who’s finally found something wonderful and unexpected with Gabe—doesn’t want anything to disrupt this fragile new happiness we’re building.
I push the discomfort from my mind as I open the first patient file. Whatever it is can wait. I have a clinic to run, patients who need me, and for the first time in years, a personal life that makes me eager to finish my workday.
Still, Norma’s right. Maybe it’s time I let someone else be the doctor for once.
But first, Friday…
Friday evening finds me uncharacteristically nervous as I change outfits for the third time.
The simple black dress is too formal, the jeans and sweater too casual, the sundress too reminiscent of Hawaii.
I finally settle on dark jeans and a silk blouse in deep teal—put-together but not trying too hard, or so I tell myself as I apply lipstick with slightly unsteady hands.
This is ridiculous, I think, studying my reflection critically.
It’s just Gabe. We’ve shared hundreds of meals over the years—takeout in my office during grant writing sessions, breakfast at Frontier after long shifts, dinner at conferences and community events.
One night in Hawaii doesn’t change the decade of history between us.
Except it does. It changes everything and nothing simultaneously, leaving us in this strange liminal space—more than friends but still defining what that means, still discovering how our established patterns adapt to this new dimension.
The doorbell rings precisely at seven, sending a flutter of butterflies through my stomach that would be appropriate for a teenager on a first date, not a forty-three-year-old physician hosting a longtime colleague for dinner.
When I open the door, Gabe stands on my porch holding a large paper bag that smells deliciously of saffron and grilled meat, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.
He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a recent shower, but something about seeing him here, in this context, steals my breath momentarily.
“Hi,” I say, stepping back to let him in, suddenly hyperaware of the domestic intimacy of the moment—Gabe in my home, not as a colleague or friend stopping by to discuss work, but as.
.. what, exactly? Boyfriend seems inadequate for our history, yet presumptuous given the newness of this aspect of our relationship.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his smile warming as he takes in my appearance. “You look beautiful.”
The compliment, delivered with such straightforward sincerity, brings heat to my cheeks. “Thank you. So do you. I mean, handsome. You look handsome.”
His smile widens at my uncharacteristic awkwardness. “I know what you meant. Where should I put dinner?”
“Kitchen,” I say, grateful for the practical question. “Plates are ready.”
As we move through the familiar routine of unpacking containers, opening wine, and serving food, some of my nervousness dissipates.
This is Gabe, after all—the man who’s seen me at my professional best and personal worst, who knows how I take my coffee and which reading glasses I prefer for grant applications, who can distinguish between my “politely listening” face and my “genuinely engaged” one during medical conferences.
“How was the rest of your week?” he asks as we settle at the dining table, wine glasses filled, fragrant dishes of koobideh kebab and fesenjān spread between us.
“Better after the first day,” I admit, serving myself rice. “The clinic gossip died down somewhat, though I still got several questions about ‘that handsome doctor from Taos.’”
He grins, clearly not bothered by this description. “Same in Taos, though I got ‘that brilliant doctor from Albuquerque.’ Seems our professional reputations remain intact despite our personal choices.”
“Were you worried they wouldn’t?” I ask, curious about his perspective.
He considers this, taking a sip of wine. “Not really. In smaller communities like Taos, there’s always talk, but it usually fades quickly. Though I did have one elderly patient suggest I was ‘robbing the cradle in reverse.’”
I choke slightly on my wine. “What did you say to that?”
“That age is irrelevant when you find the right person,” he says simply, his gaze steady on mine. “And that I’m lucky to have found someone who challenges and inspires me, regardless of birth certificates.”
The easy confidence of his response—his complete comfort with our age difference—both reassures and slightly unsettles me. “Has it really been that simple for you? Transitioning from friends to... this?”
Gabe sets down his fork, giving the question the consideration it deserves. “Not simple,” he corrects carefully. “But natural. Like recognizing something that was already there, just waiting for us to acknowledge it.”
His description resonates with my own experience—the sense that our Hawaii connection wasn’t so much new as newly admitted. “I’ve felt that too,” I confess. “Though I’m still trying to figure out how all the pieces fit now.”
“Which pieces specifically?” he asks, refilling my wine glass.
I struggle to articulate the nebulous concerns that have been circling in my mind since returning to Albuquerque. “Professional boundaries. Public perception. Practical logistics, like the three hours between us. And more personal things—our different life stages, your... reputation.”
His eyebrow quirks at the last item. “My reputation?”
Heat rises to my face, but I force myself to continue. Honesty seems crucial to navigating this transition. “You know what I mean, Gabe. You’re known for dating widely, not deeply. For keeping things casual.”
“Fair,” he acknowledges, no defensiveness in his tone.
“That was true. But Andrea, those relationships were casual because they weren’t with you.
” The simple declaration steals my breath.
“None of them ever came close to what I feel for you—what I’ve felt for years, if I’m being completely honest with myself. ”
“Years?” I echo, genuinely surprised.
“Years,” he confirms quietly. “Though I didn’t always recognize it for what it was.
You were married, you were my mentor, you were firmly in the ‘admire from afar’ category.
By the time you were single, I’d gotten so used to compartmentalizing those feelings that I didn’t even question why I kept showing up for you in ways I never did for anyone else. ”
The revelation—that Gabe’s feelings predate not just Hawaii but my divorce, perhaps extending back into my marriage—sends a complicated mix of emotions through me.
Wonder at the longevity of his unspoken attachment.
Guilt at my obliviousness. And a spark of something that feels dangerously like vindication, knowing he’d wanted me even when Simon no longer did.
“I had no idea,” I say softly.
“That was rather the point,” he says with a rueful smile. “I valued our friendship too much to risk it with unwelcome feelings. And then Hawaii happened, and suddenly there was no going back to pretending.”
No going back. The phrase echoes in my mind as we finish dinner, as conversation shifts to lighter topics—clinic stories, Tristy’s honeymoon updates, plans for the weekend.
No going back to the clear boundaries and comfortable patterns that defined our relationship for a decade.
No going back to pretending his touch doesn’t affect me, that I don’t track his movements with heightened awareness, that the thought of him leaving for DC next week doesn’t create a hollow sensation in my chest.
After dinner, we move to the living room with fresh glasses of wine, settling on the couch with a familiar ease that belies the new undercurrent between us. Gabe’s arm rests along the back cushions, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.