Page 45 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

TWENTY-THREE

The guest house feels like a carefully orchestrated seduction—from the flickering firelight casting shadows across Andrea’s face to the intimate space that seems designed for exactly this moment.

I watch her move toward the warmth of the flames, nervous energy radiating from her as she processes what Gareth just told us about the wild horses, about this sanctuary he’s created.

Dinner was surprisingly comfortable, but now that we’re alone in this romantic haven, the weight of everything unsaid between us settles like a physical presence in the room.

“Well,” I say after a moment, my voice slightly rougher than usual as I take in the wine already poured, the soft lighting, the king-sized bed visible down the hallway. “Gareth doesn’t do anything halfway, does he?”

Andrea laughs nervously, moving to warm her hands by the fire. “I guess not. Though I’m grateful for the fire. The rain was freezing.”

I approach slowly, carefully maintaining a respectful distance as I stand beside her.

The firelight plays across her features, softening them, and I’m struck again by how beautiful she is—not just physically, but the whole of her.

The brilliant mind, the compassionate heart, the stubborn streak that both infuriates and endears.

“Andie,” I say quietly, because we can’t keep dancing around this. “In the car, you started to apologize. But I need you to understand something.”

She turns to face me, vulnerability written across her features. “What?”

“I forgive you,” I say simply. “For the email, for shutting me out, for making decisions without me. I forgive all of it.”

Her eyes widen, as if she wasn’t expecting such immediate absolution. “Just like that?”

I reach for her hands, needing the physical connection.

“Not ‘just like that.’ It hurt, I’m not going to deny that.

Being dismissed, having my calls ignored, reading that email.

..” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “But when I got your text today saying you were coming to Taos, when I saw your face in my office—I knew I couldn’t stay angry.

Not when I’ve spent so long denying how I really feel about you. ”

“And how do you feel?” she asks, the question barely a whisper.

The answer comes without hesitation, rising from a place of certainty I didn’t know existed within me.

“I love you,” I say, watching her face for any sign of retreat.

“Have loved you for years, though I was too stubborn or too scared to admit it. And no medical diagnosis, no fear, no panic could change that.”

Tears spill over, and I reach up to brush them away with my thumbs. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” she whispers. “Or your love.”

“It’s not about deserving,” I tell her gently. “It’s about choosing, every day, to be with someone despite their flaws, their mistakes, their fears. I choose you, Andrea. I choose us. The question is—what do you choose?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When she speaks, her voice is so soft I almost miss it over the storm outside. “I choose you,” she says. “I choose us. If you’ll still have me after what I put you through.”

Relief floods through me so intensely it’s almost painful. “I’ll have you,” I confirm, pulling her closer. “But I need something from you.”

“Anything.”

“No more unilateral decisions,” I say, my expression turning serious. “No more shutting me out when you’re scared. No more assuming you know what’s best for me without asking. Whatever comes next—good or bad, simple or complicated—we face it together. As equals. As partners. Deal?”

“Deal,” she agrees without hesitation, then rises on her toes to press her lips to mine.

The kiss begins gentle, tentative, as if we’re both testing whether this is real.

But when she sighs against my mouth and her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, something breaks loose inside me.

All the fear of the past few days, all the desperate longing, all the love I’ve been holding back—it pours out in the way I hold her, kiss her, pull her against me like I never want to let her go.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads resting together.

“I’ve missed you,” I murmur, my hands cupping her face. “These past few days have been hell.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I promise I’ll never shut you out like that again.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” I say, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Because I’m all in, Andie. Whatever comes next—your health, my clinic, the logistics of living three hours apart—I’m all in.”

“Me too,” she says, the certainty in her voice surprising us both. “I love you, Gabe. Have for longer than I’ve been willing to admit, even to myself.”

I study her face in the firelight, this woman who’s been my friend, my colleague, my secret desire for so many years. “When did you know? That you loved me?”

She considers this, a small smile playing at her lips. “Remember my divorce finalization party? When you drove down from Taos just to take me to dinner at Frontier?”

I nod, remembering that night six months ago—how lost she’d looked despite the relief of finally being free from Simon, how I’d wanted nothing more than to hold her and tell her everything would be okay.

“I was so focused on being ‘fine’ and independent,” she continues.

“But you saw right through it. You ordered my favorite sopapillas without asking, you made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how, and when I started crying over the green chile, you didn’t try to fix it or tell me it would be okay. You just... stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

“That’s when I knew,” she says, her voice soft with memory.

“That’s when I realized what I felt for you wasn’t just friendship or gratitude.

It was love. But I was so scared—fresh off a divorce, trying to figure out who I was without Simon, and there you were, this gorgeous younger man who could have anyone. ..”

“But I didn’t want anyone,” I interrupt gently. “I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Her breath catches. “Always?”

“Remember when I was doing my community health rotation at your clinic? You were married, you were my mentor, you were completely off-limits. But there was something about you...” I pull her closer, my hands settling at her waist. “The way you’d light up when you talked about your patients, how you’d stay late to help residents with difficult cases, the way you made me want to be a better doctor just to earn your respect. ”

“You already had my respect,” she says. “From day one.”

“But I wanted more,” I admit. “I wanted to be the person you called when you had good news, when you had bad news, when you couldn’t sleep. I wanted to be your person.”

“You were,” she says, tears threatening again. “You’ve always been my person, Gabe. I was just too scared to admit it.”

Thunder crashes outside, making us both jump, then laugh at our reaction. The storm is reaching its peak, wind howling around the guest house, rain hammering against the windows. But here, in this intimate space, we’ve found our shelter.

“I want to ask you something,” I say, suddenly serious. “About children. About what you want.”

She tenses slightly. “Gabe?—”

“Not about your fertility,” I clarify quickly. “About what you actually want. If you could have anything—biological children, adoption, just us—what would make you happy?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, considering. “I used to think I was done,” she says finally. “Tristy was so young when I had her, and then medical school and residency and building the clinic... I told myself I’d had my chance at motherhood.”

“And now?”

“Now?” She looks up at me, vulnerability and hope warring in her expression. “Now I think about what it would be like to do it differently. To be present from the beginning, to raise a child with a partner who actually wants to be there. To have a baby who’s part of both of us.”

My heart swells at her words, at the picture she’s painting. “I want that too,” I tell her. “With you. However it happens—naturally, with help, through adoption. I want it all with you.”

Her smile is radiant. “Really?”

“Really.” I lean down to kiss her again, this time with all the love and certainty I’ve been holding back. “I want late-night feedings and first steps and soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. I want everything, Andrea. The whole messy, beautiful life.”

She melts against me, and I can feel the last of her walls crumbling. “I love you so much it scares me,” she whispers against my lips.

“Good,” I murmur, my hands sliding down to her hips. “Love should be a little scary. It means it matters.”

The kiss deepens, becoming hungrier, more urgent. My hands find the hem of her sweater, and she doesn’t protest when I pull it over her head, revealing the simple lace bra underneath. She’s beautiful—all soft curves and smooth skin, the body of a woman who’s lived and loved and survived.

“You’re perfect,” I tell her, my hands skimming reverently over her skin.

“I’m not,” she says, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m older now, I have stretch marks from Tristy?—“

I silence her with a kiss, my hands cupping her face.

“You’re perfect to me,” I insist. “Every line, every mark, every beautiful imperfection. You’re the woman who built a clinic from nothing, who raised an incredible daughter, who survived a painful divorce and came out stronger. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”

She reaches for my shirt then, her fingers working at the buttons with increasing urgency. “I need to feel you,” she says, her voice husky with want. “I need to know this is real.”

I help her with the buttons, shrugging out of the shirt before pulling her against me, skin to skin. She’s warm and soft and everything I’ve ever wanted, her hands exploring the planes of my chest like she’s memorizing every detail.

“This is real,” I assure her, my lips finding the sensitive spot below her ear. “We’re real. Finally.”