Page 26 of Where She Belongs
Either way, I have a few hours to prepare myself for seeing Gabe Vasquez in nothing but swim trunks at the infinity pool. Enough time to reinforce the mental boundaries between friendship and remember that everything between us—every touch, every look, every protective gesture—is just for show.
Even if it doesn’t always feel that way.
EIGHT
I scanthe resort’s infinity pool area, searching for an empty set of lounge chairs. The place is crowded but not packed—just enough people to create a pleasant background hum of conversation and laughter. Behind me, the endless blue of the Pacific stretches to the horizon, almost indistinguishable from the sky.
“Over there,” Dax points to a cluster of four chairs in a prime spot where the edge of the infinity pool seems to drop directly into the ocean beyond. “I’ll grab them before someone else does.”
As Dax jogs ahead, I adjust the towel slung over my shoulder and check my phone. It’s five minutes to noon. Andrea should be here soon.
The thought sends an unexpected wave of nervousness through me. Which is ridiculous. It’s not like I haven’t seen Andrea in casual clothes before. We’ve spent countless weekends workingon grant proposals at her kitchen table, grabbed impromptu dinners after late clinic hours, even hiked Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks that time she needed to clear her head during the divorce proceedings.
But something feels different today. Maybe it’s the way her aunts kept making suggestive comments at breakfast. Maybe it’s how naturally she leaned into me when Simon approached.
“Earth to Gabe.” Harlow’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s already setting up on one of the lounge chairs, arranging her towel with practiced precision. “You planning to stand there all day?”
“Just enjoying the view,” I reply automatically, though I haven’t actually been looking at anything.
Dax snorts as he applies sunscreen to his shoulders. “Yeah, and I’m sure it’s the ocean you’re scanning for.”
I ignore him, dropping my towel and bag on one of the empty chairs. “Andie should be here soon.”
“So,” Harlow says, her tone deliberately casual as she settles onto her lounger, “three months, huh?”
I knew this was coming. “Three months,” I confirm, keeping my voice neutral.
“Which means you started dating around...” Dax pretends to count on his fingers, though we both know exactly when it was. “Right after her divorce was finalized.”
“Three months after,” I correct, sticking to our story. “I didn’t want to rush her.”
Harlow’s eyebrows rise. “That’s... considerate. Especially for someone who usually moves at warp speed when it comes to relationships.”
“Andie’s different,” I say, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all weekend. Sheisdifferent—always has been. Different from the women whose names and faces blur together in my memory. Different from Courtney with her ultimatums. Different in ways I’ve never allowed myself to fully examine.
“Different how?” Dax presses, but I’m saved from answering by the sight of Andrea approaching from the pathway.
And suddenly, I can’t remember what we were talking about.
She’s wearing a sundress in a vibrant teal that makes her skin glow, so unlike the muted tones she typically favors. The color reminds me of the Caribbean waters I visited once during a medical conference—deep, inviting, slightly dangerous if you don’t know what lies beneath. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual practical bun, and large sunglasses shield her eyes.
But it’s her smile—tentative yet genuine—that catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget we’re pretending. I forget that this whole thing is just an elaborate charade. Because that smile? That’s real. That’s my Andie.
Whoa!
My Andie?
Where the hell did that come from?
“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she reaches us. “Tristy called with some last-minute wedding details.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, automatically reaching for her bag to set it on the empty lounger beside mine.
“Just typical bride stress.” She slips off her sandals, and I notice her toenails are painted a bright coral color that matches her fingernails—another departure from her usual unvarnished practicality. “She’s worried about everything, from the flower choices to the weather forecast.”
“I’m sure the resort has backup plans for that,” Harlow assures her. “Tyler’s planner walked us through everything yesterday.”
Andrea nods, then hesitates, her hands moving to the hem of her sundress. I realize she’s about to reveal whatever swimsuit she’s wearing underneath, and for some reason, my mouth goes dry.
