Page 34 of Where She Belongs
“Being caught,” I supply, completing her thought as easily as breathing. “It makes sense.”
“Practical,” she agrees, a hint of color rising in her cheeks.
“Very practical.”
“You can keep using the bathroom outside while I use the one in the bedroom.”
I meet her gaze, not quite knowing what I’m looking for, yet the knowledge that she’d returned to the suite while I’d gotten busy in the bathroom earlier makes heat crawl up my neck. Had she heard me? Had she heard her name on my lips in that moment of weakness? The bathroom door had been ajar when I steppedout of the shower—a careless mistake I hadn’t given a second thought then.
But the way Andrea avoids my eyes, the slight deepening of the color in her cheeks, suggests she might have heard more than she’s letting on. The thought is both mortifying and strangely thrilling—like we’re balanced on a knife’s edge between our carefully maintained friendship and something far more dangerous.
“Right,” I manage, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. “Good thinking.”
We stand there, neither moving, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying. The practical solution is obvious. The implications of sharing a bed—even chastely—are something else entirely.
“I’ll just...” I gesture toward the bedroom we’ve already staged to look like I sleep there, unable to form a complete sentence.
“Right.” She follows me, her voice holding a note I can’t quite identify. “You can have the right side.”
“You sure?” I ask, suddenly concerned with her comfort in a way that seems disproportionate to the situation.
“Yeah, I always sleep on the left anyway.”
Another pause stretches between us, heavy with possibility, with questions neither of us seems ready to voice.
“Well,” I finally manage, “good night. Again.”
“Good night.”
As we slip under the covers on our respective sides, I’m acutely aware of her presence—the soft sound of her breathing, the subtle dip of the mattress toward her weight, the faint scent of her perfume that somehow makes this unfamiliar hotel room feel strangely like coming home.
“Andie?” I say before I can think better of it.
“Hmm?”
“For what it’s worth? You’re an amazing mom.” The words come from somewhere deep inside me—a truth that transcends whatever complicated dance we’re doing around each other.
“Thanks, Gabe.” The warmth in her voice wraps around me more effectively than the hotel’s expensive duvet.
We lie there in the dark, carefully maintaining the space between us, each pretending not to be hyperaware of the other’s every breath, every small shift of the mattress. Just another part of our elaborate charade, I tell myself.
Except nothing about this feels like pretending anymore.
ELEVEN
I wake slowly,consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the usual jarring snap to alertness that accompanies my alarm. Warmth envelops me—not just from the plush hotel bedding, but from the solid presence behind me, an arm draped across my waist, a chest rising and falling against my back in the steady rhythm of sleep.
Gabe.
The events of last night filter back into my awareness—Tristy’s tears, the “practical” decision to share the bed, the careful distance we’d maintained as we fell asleep on opposite sides. Clearly, our sleeping selves had other ideas. Somehow during the night, we’d gravitated toward each other like magnets finally freed from their restraints.
I should move. Should carefully extract myself from this intimate embrace before he wakes. But I remain still, allowingmyself the indulgence of this moment, of the sensation of being held by someone for the first time since Simon.
And not just someone. Gabe. My colleague, my friend for a decade, Taos’ most eligible bachelor who’s now serving as my fake boyfriend—a role he’s playing with surprising conviction.
The memories from last night’s return to the suite flood back—not just our awkward negotiations about sharing the bed, but the moment before. When I’d returned early from the girls’ night out and the sound that had stopped me outside the bathroom door—his low groan, barely audible but unmistakable. The way I’d frozen, knowing exactly what he was doing, knowing I should leave immediately.
But then I’d heard it. My name. Not spoken but almost sighed, escaping his lips in a moment of abandoned control.
