Page 38 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

I shoot him a warning look, which he returns with innocent bewilderment.

He doesn’t know the full story—no one does.

That what began as pretense in Hawaii became something real, something neither Andrea nor I had anticipated despite our years of friendship.

And that’s how it will stay. Some things belong only to us.

“Well?” Nana prompts, drawing my attention back to her. “Do you love her?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “I do.”

A chorus of reactions follows—Harlow’s knowing “I told you so,” Dax’s muttered “About damn time,” Sarah’s delighted squeal, and most importantly, Nana’s satisfied nod.

“Good,” she says firmly. “Dr. Martin is a smart woman. Too smart for most men, but maybe just smart enough for you.”

“High praise,” I observe, warmth spreading through me at the acceptance in her voice.

“The highest,” agrees Sawyer, rising to clap me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club of men who somehow convinced extraordinary women to love them back.”

“Don’t scare him off before they’ve even had a real date,” Alma chides, but her smile is warm as she approaches to give me a hug. “Congratulations, Gabe. Andrea is wonderful.”

“She is,” I agree, still somewhat bemused by this enthusiastic reception. “Though we’re still figuring things out. She’s still in Hawaii until next week.”

“Long distance already,” Sarah observes, adjusting Atsa on her hip. “That’s a challenge.”

“Temporary,” I say, accepting the beer Benny silently offers. “Though we’ll still be dealing with the Taos-Albuquerque distance once she’s back.”

“Three hours is nothing,” Benny says with the quiet certainty that characterizes most of his pronouncements. “When I was on the reservation and Sarah was in Santa Fe, we made it work.”

“With a lot of gas money and determination,” Sarah adds, leaning against her husband affectionately.

“Daniel mentioned the IRS meeting,” Dax says, changing the subject with the intuitive sense of when I’ve had enough relationship focus. “DC on Monday?”

I nod, taking a welcome sip of beer. “Final review for the nonprofit status. Face-to-face meeting with the committee.”

“That’s huge,” Harlow says, genuine pleasure in her voice. “Your community health wing deserves that designation.”

“Let’s hope the IRS agrees,” I say, though the reminder of the meeting brings a fresh wave of disappointment that I’ll be further delaying seeing Andrea.

“They will,” Dax says with confidence. “You’ve put too much work into it for them to say no.”

“And now,” Nana announces, “we eat. No more business talk at my table. Only celebration.”

The next hour passes in a comfortable blur of delicious food, overlapping conversations, and the particular warmth unique to this found family.

Despite not sharing blood with most of the people around this table, they’ve become essential to my life in Taos—supporting me through clinic openings and medical emergencies, sharing holidays and milestones, creating a network of connection that grounds me in this small mountain town.

As dinner winds down and the kids scatter to play, Daniel arrives, declining food but accepting coffee as he takes a seat beside me.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, nodding greetings around the table. “Calls with the East Coast always run long.”

“You’re just in time for dessert,” Nana tells him, already placing a slice of her famous apricot pie before him despite his protests.

“The IRS meeting,” he says, turning to me after dutifully taking a bite of pie. “I’ve arranged for the plane to leave Sunday at six. We’ll stay at The Jefferson—they had a last-minute cancellation.”

“We?” I question, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?” Daniel asks. “Besides, having the financial backer there adds credibility. Shows we’re serious about long-term sustainability.”

He’s right, of course. Daniel’s presence, with his impeccable business credentials and connections, can only help our case.

“I appreciate it,” I say sincerely.

“Have you told Andrea about the trip?” Harlow asks, her perceptiveness as sharp as always.

“Not yet,” I admit. “I’ll call her tonight.”

“Make it video,” Sarah advises. “Trust me—seeing your face makes difficult conversations easier.”

“It’s not a difficult conversation,” I protest. “Just a scheduling complication.”

“First separation after getting together for real?” Alma says with a knowing smile. “It’s always harder than you expect.”

I want to argue, to point out that Andrea and I have maintained a friendship across this same distance for a decade.

But there’s a knowing look being exchanged around the table that suggests they understand something I’m only beginning to grasp—that the shift from friendship to relationship fundamentally changes the equation.

“I’ll video call her,” I concede, earning approving nods from the women at the table.

“Now,” Nana says, leaning forward with glittering eyes, “tell us more. Have you two been dancing around each other all these years while the rest of us watched?”

I choke slightly on my coffee. “I wouldn’t say?—“

“Please,” Dax interrupts, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been half in love with Andrea since your residency. We all saw it.”

“All of you?” I ask, looking around the table in disbelief.

“It was pretty obvious,” Sawyer confirms with a shrug.

“To everyone except you two, apparently,” Harlow adds.

“The way you looked at her,” Sarah sighs dreamily. “Like she hung the moon and stars.”

I sit back, momentarily speechless. Has it really been that apparent to everyone but us? Have I been carrying these feelings, unacknowledged, for all these years?

“Sometimes we need to step outside our normal lives to see clearly,” Nana says with satisfaction. “An island wedding, away from all the everyday distractions, was just what you both needed.”

“I suppose it was,” I acknowledge, the truth of her words resonating deeply. The island setting, the wedding atmosphere—all of it created the space for us to finally recognize what had been developing between us for years.

“So?” Nana prompts, eyes sparkling with interest. “When do we get to welcome her properly? Sunday dinner?”

I consider deflecting, maintaining the privacy of those precious moments in Hawaii. But looking around at these faces—people who have celebrated every success and supported me through every setback—I find myself wanting to share at least some of the story.

“It was the most natural thing in the world,” I begin, a smile tugging at my lips as I remember. “After all these years as friends and colleagues, something just... shifted. Like seeing a familiar landscape in an entirely new light.”

“The best love stories always start with friendship,” Nana declares with the confidence of someone who’s seen countless relationships unfold over her eighty-plus years.

“Well, I for one am thrilled,” Harlow says, raising her wine glass. “To Gabe and Andrea—may you have fewer misunderstandings and more happiness than the rest of us put together.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dax agrees, lifting his beer.

The others join in the impromptu toast, their genuine happiness for us washing over me in a wave that’s both comforting and slightly overwhelming.

It strikes me suddenly that this is what has been missing from my previous relationships—this sense of rightness, of community approval, of fitting into the larger tapestry of connections that make up a life well-lived.

Later, as the gathering begins to disperse and goodbyes are exchanged, Nana pulls me aside in the kitchen, her weathered hands clasping mine with surprising strength.

“You know why I always liked Dr. Martin?” she asks, her dark eyes searching mine.

“Because she’s a brilliant physician?” I suggest.

Nana shakes her head. “Because she sees you—the real you, not just the handsome doctor with the easy smile. She always has.” She pats my cheek gently. “Don’t mess this up, mijo. Some chances only come once in a lifetime.”

“I won’t,” I promise, the weight of her wisdom settling on me. “I’m all in, Nana.”

“Good.” She nods in satisfaction. “Now go call your woman and tell her about your trip. And tell her when you get back, I expect her at Sunday dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead before heading out into the cool Taos night.

The drive home passes in contemplative silence, my mind still processing the evening—the unconditional support from friends who’ve become family, the genuine happiness they expressed for Andrea and me, the strange sense of having finally found my place in a pattern I didn’t even know I was seeking.

At home, I pour a finger of whiskey and step out onto my back portal, where the expansive night sky stretches above, stars brilliant in the thin mountain air. The beauty of it catches in my throat—this same sky that’s spreading over Andrea in Albuquerque, connecting us despite the miles between.

I pull out my phone and dial her number, switching to video just before she answers. Her face appears on my screen, hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, more beautiful to me than all the stars above.

“Hey,” she says, her smile warming me more effectively than the whiskey in my hand. “You’re still up. How was dinner at Nana’s?”

“Enlightening,” I say with a soft laugh. “Apparently, everyone knew we were meant for each other before we did.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly, but her smile only deepens. “Tristy said the same thing. Apparently, we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”

“Not even close,” I confirm. “How are things there?”

“Good. Just wading through patient files I neglected during my absence. Oh, and my mother called earlier. She’s already planning to host a proper dinner for us when Tita Linda and Tito Joey visit next month.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say truthfully. “Though speaking of visits, there’s something I need to tell you.” I take a breath, then explain about the IRS meeting in DC, watching her face carefully for her reaction.

To my relief, disappointment flickers across her features but is quickly replaced by understanding. “That’s important, Gabe. The community health wing needs that designation.”

“I know,” I say. “But I was hoping to see you sooner rather than later.”

“We’ve managed ten years of friendship with this distance between us,” she reminds me gently. “A few more days won’t kill us.”

“Speak for yourself,” I murmur, earning a laugh that makes my heart trip over itself.

“When do you leave?” she asks.

“Sunday evening. Daniel’s arranged his private jet.” I hesitate, then add, “I should be back by Thursday at the latest.”

She nods, calculating. “I have a light clinic schedule that day.” A pause, then, “You could come straight to Albuquerque from the airport if you wanted. If you’re not too tired.”

The simple suggestion carries more weight than its words might suggest—an invitation, a step forward, a bridge across the distance between us.

“I will,” I promise. “The moment I land.”

We talk for another hour, moving from practical matters of schedules and plans to deeper reflections on the day, on our friends’ reactions, on the strange new territory we’re navigating together.

Throughout it all, I’m struck by how natural it feels—this evolution from friendship to something more intimate, more vulnerable, more complete.

When we finally say goodnight, the whiskey long finished and the mountain air turning crisp with approaching midnight, I’m filled with a certainty I’ve rarely felt before.

Whatever challenges lie ahead—the distance between our cities, the complications of integrating our professional lives, the adjustments required of any new relationship—they pale in comparison to the rightness of being with her.

As I head inside, my phone buzzes with one final text from Andrea: I miss you. Like I’ve never missed anyone before.

Counting minutes until I see you again, I reply. Dream of me.

I fall asleep with my phone still in hand, her last message the last thing I see before dreams claim me—dreams of tropical beaches and hospital corridors, of family dinners and quiet evenings, all of them featuring the woman who’s been beside me all along, waiting for me to finally recognize what everyone else already knew.

That sometimes, the love we’re looking for has been right in front of us the whole time.