Page 59 of Where She Belongs
It’s the question that’s been hovering in the back of my mind since the moment his lips first touched mine. What does this mean for our friendship? For our professional relationship? For our lives that exist three hours apart on the interstate?
“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits, his honesty both refreshing and slightly alarming. But then he continues, “But I know I want to find out. With you.”
His simple declaration settles something in me. Whatever this is, wherever it leads, we’ll navigate it together—the way we’ve approached every challenge over the last decade.
“Me too,” I say softly, squeezing his hand. “But for now, I should probably get ready for breakfast. Mom doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
As much as I’d like to stay in this bed all day, exploring this new dimension between us, I have responsibilities—to my family, to my daughter, to the life waiting for me back in Albuquerque. I slip out of bed, gathering the sheet around me in a gesture that feels strangely modest given what we shared last night.
“Will you be gone long?” Gabe asks, watching me gather clothes for my shower.
“An hour or two, probably,” I reply, trying to calculate how quickly I can politely extract myself from family breakfast. “What about you? Any plans for the morning?”
His expression shifts subtly. “I need to pack,” he says, sitting up against the headboard. The sheet pools around his waist, and I force myself to focus on his words rather than the expanse of his chest. “And deal with some clinic paperwork Daniel sent over. The IRS application has a few issues that need addressing before the deadline next week.”
Reality intrudes on our perfect bubble—Gabe’s flight home tomorrow, the ongoing demands of our separate clinics, the professional obligations that won’t pause for our personal revelations.
“Right,” I say, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “The application. Is it serious?”
“Potentially,” he admits. “If we miss this window for 501(c)(3) status, it pushes everything back by months. The community health wing needs that nonprofit designation to qualify for certain grants, and without those funds...” He trails off, but I understand the implications. At the core of it all, every business still needs to make money.
I pause at the bathroom door, turning back to face him. “Send me the documentation,” I say, my mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. “I’ll look it over when I get back.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he protests. “This is your family time, your vacation.”
His consideration warms me, but I shake my head. “Gabe, I want to help. Besides, I’ve been through this process before with Salud Integrada. I might spot something you and Daniel missed.”
Before he can argue further, I disappear into the bathroom, turning on the shower to give myself a moment to process everything. As the warm water washes over me, I find myself smiling at how naturally we’ve slipped into our old patterns—working together, supporting each other’s projects, sharing expertise. Only now, there’s this new layer beneath it all, this awareness of each other that transforms even the most routine interactions.
By the time I emerge, dressed in a casual sundress that seems appropriate for both family breakfast and tropical weather, Gabe has pulled on shorts and a t-shirt. His hair is still mussed from sleep and my fingers, and it takes considerable willpower not to cross the room and run my hands through it again.
“I shouldn’t be too long,” I say, gathering my phone and room key. “Text me if you need anything?”
“I will.” He moves toward me, his hands settling on my waist with a new possessiveness that sends a shiver through me. “Have a good breakfast.”
I look up at him, struck once again by how right this feels, despite all the complications that await us. “I’ll try. But I’d rather be here with you.”
The admission—so honest, so unlike my usual careful restraint—surprises even me. But Gabe’s answering smile is worth the vulnerability.
He leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. My hands slide up his chest to curl around his neck, and for a moment I consider canceling breakfast altogether, responsibilities be damned.
With visible reluctance, I pull away. “I really should go,” I murmur, though I make no move to step back from his embrace.
“You should,” he agrees, sounding equally reluctant. “Your parents are waiting.”
“Right.” Another moment passes before I finally manage to step away, smoothing my dress with slightly shaky hands. “I’ll see you soon.”
The resort corridors feel strangely dreamlike as I make my way to the restaurant, my mind still half-back in the suite with Gabe. I’ve never experienced this before—this inability to fully focus on the present because another person occupies so much space in my thoughts. Not with Simon, not even in the early days of our marriage. Certainly not with Tristy’s father, a teenage mistake that resulted in my greatest blessing.
This feeling—this constant awareness, this magnetic pull toward another person—is entirely new. And at forty-three, that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
Breakfast with my parents passes in a blur of conversation about their retirement plans for the Philippines, their thoughts on the wedding, and endless questions about Tristy and Tyler’s future that I answer on autopilot. I contribute enough to avoid suspicion, but my mind keeps drifting back to Gabe, to last night, to what awaits when I return to the suite.
“Andrea? Andrea, are you listening?” My mother’s voice breaks through my distraction.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “What were you saying?”
She gives me a knowing look. “I was asking if you and Gabe have plans for when you return to New Mexico. You seem... distracted this morning.”
