Page 44 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

He’s quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And it didn’t occur to you to discuss this with me? To ask whether having biological children was even something I wanted?”

“I panicked,” I say simply. “I saw those results late at night, tried to call you but couldn’t reach you because you were in DC for those crucial meetings.

And then my mind just... spiraled. Every insecurity about our age difference, about what I could offer you, about whether I was enough—it all crystallized around this medical diagnosis that I catastrophized based on incomplete information. ”

“But you’re a doctor,” he says, a hint of incredulity breaking through his careful neutrality. “You know preliminary results often change. You know medical terminology can sound more dire than the actual prognosis.”

“I do know that,” I acknowledge. “As a physician. But as a patient—as a woman confronting the reality of her aging body, of closing doors and narrowing options—I forgot everything I know professionally. I just... reacted from fear.”

He pushes away from the desk, moving to the window to look out at the plaza. His back to me, shoulders tense under his white coat. “What did the follow-up appointment reveal?”

“That I overreacted completely,” I admit, watching him carefully for any sign that my words are reaching him.

“I have mild adenomyosis—treatable with relatively simple procedures. My hormone levels suggest early perimenopause, which isn’t particularly surprising.

Neither condition prohibits pregnancy, though they might make it more challenging. ”

He turns back to face me, his expression softening slightly. “So there’s no actual medical crisis.”

“No,” I confirm. “Just my overactive imagination and deep-seated insecurities.”

A hint of the Gabe I know—the compassionate healer, the empathetic friend—breaks through his reserved facade. “Were you really so convinced I’d leave you over this? That children would be more important to me than you?”

The vulnerability in the question undoes me. “Not rationally,” I say, my voice barely steady. “But fear isn’t rational, Gabe. I… I convinced myself it was better to end things cleanly, before we were both more invested, than to watch love slowly curdle into resentment.”

“But that’s just it, Andie,” he says, and now there’s a hint of frustration breaking through.

“We were already invested. Ten years of friendship, of professional collaboration, of trust—that’s an investment deeper than many marriages.

Did you think none of that mattered? That I’d just walk away the moment things got complicated? ”

“No,” I whisper, tears finally threatening despite my determination to remain composed. “I thought I was protecting you from having to make an impossible choice later. I thought I was being selfless.”

“It wasn’t selfless,” he says quietly. “It was you making decisions for both of us, without giving me any voice in the matter.”

The observation lands with precision, exposing a pattern I’ve never fully acknowledged. How many times have I decided what’s best for others—for Tristy, for Simon, for patients, for Gabe—without actually consulting them? How often have I confused control for care?

“You’re right,” I admit, the realization painful but necessary.

“I’ve spent my whole life thinking I know what’s best for everyone around me.

That if I just make the right decisions, control all the variables, I can protect people from pain.

” I meet his gaze directly. “But I can’t, can I?

And trying to has only caused more hurt. ”

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a relaxing of the tight line of his mouth. “No, you can’t,” he agrees. “Pain is part of living, Andie. Part of loving. You can’t protect me from it, and I wouldn’t want you to try.”

Before he can say more, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at it, then answers with a professional, “Dr. Vasquez.”

I watch as he nods, his expression relaxing slightly as he listens. “Yes, I can still make it today.” He checks his watch. “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes if that still works for you.” Another pause. “Perfect. See you then.”

He ends the call, reaching for his medical bag. “That was Courtney,” he explains. “I need to head up to his ranch to administer travel vaccines. He’s leaving for a two-month film shoot in Southeast Asia next week and needs his boosters updated.”

“Oh,” I say, standing awkwardly, unsure where this leaves our conversation. “I should let you go then.”

Gabe hesitates, clearly torn between his professional obligation and our unfinished personal discussion.

“Come with me,” he suggests suddenly. “It’s just routine vaccinations, nothing urgent.

We could continue our conversation on the drive, and Gareth’s place is beautiful—great views of the mountains. ”

The invitation surprises me—an olive branch I hadn’t expected so soon. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your patient relationship.”

“Gareth won’t mind,” Gabe says with a small smile. “Besides, he’s always asking about the doctor who set up the nonprofit clinic model I based mine on.”

“You talk about me to your patients?” I ask, oddly touched.

“I didn’t have to. He was pretty invested in us after seeing the viral Instagram posts. He was actually rooting for us to work,” he says, chuckling. “So, will you come? The drive gives us time to talk without interruptions.”

“Let me grab my bag from the car,” I say, grateful for the chance to continue our conversation.

Ten minutes later, we’re in Gabe’s SUV heading north out of Taos, the personal tension between us somewhat eased by the shared purpose of the drive. He navigates the winding road with practiced familiarity while filling me in on the Roman family.

“Gareth moved here about a year ago, looking for privacy,” Gabe explains, turning onto a less-traveled road that winds up into the foothills.

“He splits his time between this place and his other homes, wherever they are. I can’t keep track.

But he seems to be spending more time here when he’s not on location filming. ”

“That’s how you met Courtney.”

He nods. “She’s… moved on, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” I lie. “But will it make things complicated, me going along with you?”

“She’s seeing someone new, so it shouldn’t be complicated,” Gabe says. “But she won’t be there. She was leaving the ranch when she called me.”

I glance at the darkening clouds gathering over the mountains ahead, a wall of gray steadily advancing over the peaks. “That storm looks serious.”

“Spring weather in northern New Mexico,” he says with a shrug, though I note him pressing slightly harder on the accelerator. “Unpredictable at best.”

We lapse into silence for a moment, before I gather the courage to continue our earlier conversation. “About what I did, Gabe. Breaking things off by email, ignoring your calls... I need you to know how sorry I am.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see his grip on the steering wheel relax slightly. “I understand the impulse, Andrea. Fear makes people react in ways they wouldn’t normally.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” I insist. “I’ve spent my whole life thinking I know best for everyone around me. It’s a pattern I need to break.”

“Nobody ever said Dr. Martin was perfect.”

I roll my eyes. “Except the aforementioned Dr. Martin.”

The road narrows as we climb higher, eventually turning onto a private drive marked only by an unobtrusive gate that swings open as we approach.

The Roman property unfolds before us—hundreds of acres of pinon and juniper forest surrounding a stunning contemporary home built into the hillside, its glass and stone structure blending harmoniously with the landscape.

As we pull up to the entrance, the first fat raindrops begin to fall, quickly intensifying to a steady downpour. We dash from the car to the covered entry, where a woman in her thirties—presumably another assistant—awaits.

“Dr. Vasquez, thank you for coming,” she says, leading us through a soaring entryway. “Mr. Roman is waiting in the study. He appreciates your fitting him in before his trip.”

“No problem at all,” Gabe replies easily, professional mode engaged. “This is Dr. Andrea Martin, a colleague who’s visiting from Albuquerque.”

The study proves to be a warm, wood-paneled room that would look at home in an English manor rather than a contemporary mountain home. Gareth Roman rises from behind a massive desk, looking every bit the action hero he portrays on screen—tall, fit, casually dressed but undeniably charismatic.

“Gabe!” he exclaims, then his eyes widen as they land on me. “And Dr. Martin! The famous girlfriend!” He crosses the room with an outstretched hand and a dazzling smile. “I was beginning to think he made you up. Been following your Hawaiian romance saga the moment it went viral.”

I freeze momentarily, caught off guard by his familiarity. Gabe clears his throat, looking slightly embarrassed. “Gareth?—”

“What? I’m just saying it’s nice to finally meet the woman who’s been all Gabe talks about since I met him.

” Gareth winks at me conspiratorially. “Seriously, every check-up, it’s ‘Dr. Martin’s clinic does this’ and ‘Dr. Martin’s approach is that.

’ Even before your relationship went public, I felt like I knew you. ”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Roman. I’ve heard a lot about your... privacy concerns.”

Gareth laughs. “Call me Gareth, please. And don’t worry—doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways. Your relationship secrets are safe with me.”

Gabe clears his throat. “Should we get started on the actual visit?”

“Oh, yes, the shots,” Gareth says. “Of course.”

As Gabe prepares the vaccines, Gareth leans toward me conspiratorially. “Between us, I’ve never seen him like this about anyone. When that Instagram post from the wedding went viral, he couldn’t stop smiling during my entire check-up last week. Had to practically pry details out of him.”

The revelation that Gabe has been openly proud of our relationship—even sharing it with his celebrity patient—touches something deep inside me. While I’ve been panicking and pushing him away, he’s been confidently embracing what’s between us, speaking of me with evident pride to people like Gareth.

The next hour passes in surprisingly easy conversation as Gabe administers the necessary vaccines and performs a quick check-up. Gareth proves to be thoughtful and well-informed about healthcare disparities, genuinely interested in our work.

Throughout it all, I observe Gabe’s easy rapport with his high-profile patients, the careful way he explains each vaccine and potential side effect.

It’s a side of him I’ve seen countless times before, yet somehow it feels new—as if I’m seeing him through different eyes now that I understand how openly he’s embraced what’s between us, even when I was keeping it carefully compartmentalized.

By the time the professional part of the visit concludes, the storm outside has intensified dramatically. Wind howls around the house’s corners, rain lashes against the windows, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the rapidly darkening landscape.

“You two aren’t driving back to town in this,” Gareth says decisively, peering out at the deluge. “The arroyo crossing will be flooded by now, and these mountain roads turn into rivers during storms like this.”

Gabe moves to the window, assessing the conditions with a frown. “He’s right,” he says, turning back to me. “That last section of road before the gate dips through a usually-dry creekbed. In this rain, it’s definitely underwater.”

The implications register slowly—we’re stranded here, together, for the night. After the emotional intensity of our interrupted conversation in his office, we now face an evening in forced proximity with our most critical discussion still unfinished.

“The guest house is ready for you both, if you want after dinner,” Gareth says. “Unless you’d rather stay in here. I’ve got three other bedrooms you can use. Four if you count the gaming room.”

“No, the guest house will be great,” Gabe says before turning to look at me. “Will that work for you?”

“You know this place better than I do, Gabe,” I say as he starts putting away the medical supplies.

“The guest house has a view of the plain and once the rain stops, maybe you could even see the wild horses,” Gareth says as I stare at him.

“Wild horses roam on your property?”

“All the time,” he replies. “I mean, not exactly on my property but close enough. It’s why I bought the place. Can’t ride them but I sure love looking at them.”