Page 22 of Where She Belongs
But then he showed up at the airport with Kitty and suddenly I was claiming Gabe as my plus-one in front of everyone.
Gabe. Who stepped in without hesitation, like he always does when I need him.
Except now there are cameras documenting our every move, millions of my daughter’s followers dissecting each touch, each glance, and complete strangers deciding we’re “couple goals” based on how he held me during the hula lesson.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to make sense of it all.
This isn’t me.
Dr. Andrea Martin doesn’t do impulsive.
She would have proudly showed up alone. Defiant. Independent. Professional.
Only there’s nothing professional about the way Gabe looked at me last night. I caught that look, a look that just sent my ovaries in… what exactly? How did Tristy describe it when she first met Tyler? Explode?
But it sure felt like it, didn’t it? When Gabe looked at me that way last night while we dance the hula, and later in the elevator. I didn’t imagine it. And neither did my ovaries.
I groan and roll over, burying my face in the plush hotel pillow. What am I doing? This isn’t some rom-com where the uptight doctor lets loose on a tropical getaway. This is real life, with real consequences.
But then I remember the warmth of Gabe’s hands, the intensity in his eyes. The way my skin tingled at his touch. It felt so... right. Natural. Like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place after years of being jumbled.
I sit up abruptly, shaking my head to clear it. No. I can’t let myself get carried away. Four days of pretending. That was thearrangement and that’s how it’s going to be because the last thing I want is to ruin our friendship over some temporary lapse in judgment.
As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the ocean breeze drifting through the open windows carries the scent of plumeria and saltwater. It’s intoxicating, almost as intoxicating as the scent of his…
Nope. Not again.
We are not going there.
I pad over to the closet, rifling through the clothes Tristy helped me pack. What does one wear to a destination wedding brunch? I settle on a breezy sundress, its pale blue fabric swirling around my knees as I slip it on. It’s a reminder that I’m on vacation. No white lab coat or scrubs to wear, no consultations to prepare for.
Just me attending my daughter’s wedding with my plus-one who happens to be sleeping on the sofa bed outside my door because heaven help me, my ovaries probably couldn’t survive sleeping in the same bed with him.
The aroma of coffee greets me the moment I open the bedroom door and I see him on the balcony wearing a blue rash guard that clings to his broad shoulders, board shorts riding low on his hips.
My body’s immediate response catches me off guard—the quick intake of breath, the warmth spreading through my chest, the way my fingers itch to trace the line of his shoulders. After two years of Simon’s excuses and six months of self-imposed celibacy following our divorce, guess all it took was a hula dance to get me feeling something again.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, cocking his head toward the living room. “Coffee’s still hot. Grabbed it from the cafe downstairs.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” Such a normal moment—Gabe always making sure I have my caffeine at the ready even on vacation.
Coffee in hand, I join him on the balcony. “How did you sleep?”
“Great,” Gabe replies, grinning. “You?”
“It was… great, too.” Actually, it wasn’t. I’d been too preoccupied thinking about him sleeping on the sofa bed, letting my thoughts drift to inappropriate territory as I debated using the vibrator I’d taken along with me on this trip. After all, it was just supposed to be me in the suite.
His brow furrows. “You okay? You look worried.”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just thinking about breakfast. We’re supposed to be joining my parents.”
“You worried we can’t pull off our story?”
“I hate having you pretend to be something you’re not in front of them.”
He leans against the railing. “We can always come clean.”
I stare at him. “After going viral?” I pause, sighing. “I’m so sorry about all this, Gabe. If I’d known–”
