Page 27 of Where She Belongs
“I feel ridiculous,” she mutters, glancing around at the other pool-goers. “Tristy packed for me, and I think she’s forgotten I’m not twenty anymore.”
With that warning, she pulls the dress over her head in one smooth motion, and I forget how to breathe.
The two-piece swimsuit is nothing scandalous by resort standards—a halter-style top and matching bottoms in the same teal as her dress—but on Andrea, it’s devastating. The color accentuates curves I’ve spent a decade politely not noticing, curves usually hidden beneath lab coats and practical clothing. The smooth expanse of her midriff, the elegant line of her collarbones, the gentle swell of her breasts?—
I force my gaze away, suddenly very aware that I’m staring at my best friend like I’ve never seen a woman before.
“You look amazing,” Harlow says, saving me from having to formulate words with a brain that’s suddenly stopped functioning. “That color is perfect on you.”
“Tristy said the same thing,” Andrea sighs, adjusting the top self-consciously. “Apparently my wardrobe needs more color.”
Andrea settles onto the lounger beside mine, and I busy myself with applying sunscreen to avoid watching the way she arranges herself. It’s just Andie, I remind myself. The same Andie who cried on my shoulder when her clinic nearly lost its funding. The same Andie who lectured me about work-life balance in my hospital room after I fell asleep behing the wheel on my wayback to Taos after a twelve hour shift in Albuquerque three years ago.
The same Andie who now happens to be wearing a swimsuit that makes it impossible to remember all the reasons why crossing the carefully maintained boundaries of our friendship would be a catastrophically bad idea.
“Need help with your back?” Her question, innocent as it is, sends a jolt through me.
“I’m good,” I say, perhaps too quickly. The last thing I need right now is Andrea’s hands on me. “But I can do yours if you need.”
What the hell, Vasquez?I silently curse myself for the offer, but it’s too late to take it back.
“That would be great,” she says, turning to present her back to me and gathering her hair to one side. “I always miss spots.”
And just like that, I’m confronted with the smooth expanse of her back, the delicate knobs of her spine, the subtle tan lines from whatever more modest swimsuit she usually wears. I squeeze sunscreen into my palm, trying to approach this clinically. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. I’ve examined countless patients. This shouldn’t be different.
But the moment my hands touch her skin, I know this is nothing like a medical examination. Her sharp intake of breath mirrorsmy own as I work the lotion across her shoulders. Her skin is warm and impossibly soft under my fingers.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “Cold?”
“A little,” she responds, though the day is blazing hot and the sunscreen has been sitting in the sun.
I work methodically, keeping my touch as professional as possible while fighting the urge to trace the elegant curve where her neck meets her shoulder, to follow the path of her spine downward to?—
“I think that’s good,” I say, pulling my hands away before my thoughts can travel any further down that dangerous path. “All covered.”
She turns, a slight flush coloring her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun. “Thanks.”
“Anyone want a drink?” I ask, desperate for a reason to put some distance between Andrea and myself. “First round’s on me.”
“Piña colada,” Harlow requests immediately.
“Beer,” Dax adds. “Whatever local IPA they have.”
Andrea hesitates, then smiles. “Surprise me. Something tropical.”
I nod and practically bolt toward the pool bar, grateful for the reprieve. I need to get my head straight. This is Andrea—Andie—and we’re just pretending. In four days, we’ll go back to our normal lives, our comfortable friendship, and this weekend will become just another story we tell.
So why does that thought suddenly feel like a loss rather than a relief?
“Knees bent, back straight, eyes on the horizon!”
The surf instructor’s voice carries over the crash of waves as I watch Andrea attempt to stand on her board for what must be the tenth time. She wobbles precariously, arms windmilling, before pitching sideways into the water with a splash and a shriek that carries across the beach.
“She’s determined, I’ll give her that,” Dax says, paddling up beside me as we wait for the next set of waves. We abandoned the beginners’ section an hour ago, both of us having surfed before on various trips. The waves here aren’t challenging, but they’re enough to keep us entertained while still allowing us to keep an eye on the women.
Harlow seems to have a natural talent for it, already managing to stand and ride the smaller waves to shore. Andrea... well, what she lacks in natural ability, she makes up for in sheer stubbornness.
“She’ll get it,” I say, watching as she surfaces, pushing her wet hair back from her face with a laugh. Even from here, I can see the gleam of determination in her eyes as she hauls herself back onto the board. “She never gives up once she sets her mind to something.”
