Page 29 of Where She Belongs
I should have a witty comeback. I always have a witty comeback. But standing here, with water streaming down her face and that smile—that real, unguarded smile I’ve missed seeing these past months—all I can think is that I would happily wipe out a thousand more times just to keep that expression on her face.
And that thought scares me more than any wave ever could.
NINE
“To the bride!”I raise my glass, joining the chorus of women’s voices as tequila sloshes precariously close to the rim. “May your marriage be as beautiful as you are.”
“And as hot as your husband,” adds Tyler’s cousin Maddie, drawing appreciative hoots from around the table.
Tristy beams, the flower crown on her head slightly askew after three rounds of drinks. “Thank you all for being here,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Especially you, Mom, because I know you were having second thoughts.”
I feel a pang of guilt at her emphasis. Did she think I wouldn’t come? Was she expecting me to find some excuse to avoid confronting Simon and Kitty? The thought sobers me more effectively than the artisanal coffee we’d sipped earlier at the seaside café.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.
The impromptu girls’ night had been Tristy’s idea—a last-minute gathering of the women in the wedding party while Tyler and “the boys” (her words, not mine) had their own celebration elsewhere at the resort. Initially, I’d been reluctant to leave the suite after Gabe and I ordered room service, especially after the surfing lesson.
The memory of him wiping out spectacularly after our eyes met across the water brings an involuntary smile to my lips. The renowned Dr. Gabriel Vasquez, who usually moved with the confidence and grace of an athlete, tumbling head-first into the surf because he was... distracted? By me?
It was probably just a coincidence. A rogue wave, a momentary lapse in concentration. It couldn’t have anything to do with the way we’d been looking at each other.
Could it?
“Earth to Mom,” Tristy says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Sorry,” I say, blinking away thoughts of Gabe’s expression as he’d surfaced, water streaming down his face and chest. “Just tired from all the sun today.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Tristy hums skeptically. “Nothing to do with thinking about your hot doctor boyfriend?”
Heat creeps up my neck as several pairs of eyes turn to me with interest. “I wasn’t?—”
“Oh, she totally was,” Harlow interjects, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I saw your face when Gabe wiped out today. You practically sprinted through the water to get to him.”
“I was concerned,” I protest weakly. “He hit the water pretty hard.”
“And then he hit the bar with Dax pretty hard,” Tristy laughs. “Tyler texted that they’re doing shots and playing poker.”
I laugh along, but something twists in my stomach at the thought of Gabe’s typical resort behavior reasserting itself. How many times had I listened to his stories of vacation conquests? How many gorgeous women had he charmed at hotel bars just like the one he’s sitting in right now?
Not that it should matter to me. This is all pretend, after all. A charade for Simon’s benefit, nothing more.
So why does the thought of Gabe flirting with someone else tonight make me feel slightly ill?
“Hey,” Harlow says, her voice low as the other women become engrossed in a debate about the merits of various boy band members. “You okay?”
I nod automatically, then catch myself. Harlow has always been able to see through my practiced “I’m fine” façade.
“It’s just...” I search for words that won’t reveal too much. “This is all happening so fast.”
Harlow’s eyes are knowing but kind. “That tends to happen when feelings that have been simmering for years finally come to a boil.”
“Years?” I nearly choke on my drink. “What are you talking about?”
She gives me a look that’s equal parts affection and exasperation. “Andrea, please. The way you two orbit each other? The way his eyes follow you around a room? How he drops everything when you need him?” She shakes her head. “We all saw it. We were just waiting for you two to catch up.”
“It’s not—“ I start, then stop myself. What’s the point of denying our relationship to Harlow when that’s precisely the fiction we’re trying to maintain? “It’s complicated.”
“The best ones usually are,” she says, raising her glass in a small toast before returning to the main conversation.
