Page 45 of Where She Belongs
“They look happy,” Gabe observes, his thumb absently tracing circles on my palm in a way that makes it difficult to focus.
“They are. I’m glad she found someone who sees her—really sees her,” I say, watching my daughter lean her head against Tyler’s shoulder, her eyes closed in perfect contentment. How they can act so natural around the cameras still everywhere I can only assume is their superpower—one I haven’t mastered despite my decades of experience presenting to medical conferencesand hospital boards. Some forms of public exposure, it seems, require a different kind of courage entirely.
“Everyone deserves that,” Gabe says softly.
Other couples begin joining the dance floor as the song shifts to something with a livelier tempo. Simon and Kitty emerge from the crowd, their movements perfectly coordinated. Despite everything, they make a striking pair—both tall and elegant, moving with the practiced ease of professional dancers.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care, not really. But there’s something about watching them—about remembering all the times Simon refused to dance with me, claiming he had two left feet, only to discover he’d been taking lessons with Kitty behind my back—that reopens old wounds.
“Dance with me,” Gabe says suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.
I blink, startled by the request. “What?”
“Dance with me,” he repeats, rising from his chair and extending his hand. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll step on your toes.”
The challenge in his eyes, playful and warm, makes something flutter in my chest. “I’ve seen you dance, Dr. Vasquez,” I remind him, thinking of our hula lesson. “You’re surprisingly light on your feet.”
“Only with the right partner,” he counters, his smile doing unreasonable things to my heart rate.
I shouldn’t. We’re already in dangerous territory after this morning’s kiss, already teetering on the edge of something that could shatter our decade of friendship. But I can’t sit here all night either watching everyone dance. I have my own date, for crying out loud.
“Lead the way,” I say, placing my hand in Gabe’s.
His smile widens as he guides me to the dance floor, finding space among the other couples. The band transitions to a slower song, a sultry Latin melody that has several guests whooping in appreciation. Gabe’s hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady, drawing me closer than strictly necessary.
“Bachata,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. “Follow my lead.”
Any nervousness I might have felt vanishes as we begin to move together. Gabe leads with the same natural confidence I’ve witnessed at hospital fundraisers and medical conference after-parties, where we’ve danced bachata and merengue among our colleagues. It’s familiar territory—his hand at the small of my back, the subtle pressure that telegraphs his next move, the way our bodies have always found an easy rhythm together on the dance floor.
Yet something feels different tonight. There’s an intimacy to his touch that wasn’t there during those casual professionalgatherings, a deliberate intentness in his gaze that sends heat coursing through me.
He executes a perfect turn, bringing me back against his chest with effortless precision—a move we’ve performed dozens of times before, but never with this electric awareness between us.
Around us, other couples give us appreciative glances—and a few outright stares. I catch snippets of whispered comments: “...look at them move...” and “...guess that answers the Instagram question...” and “...chemistry like that doesn’t lie...”
And it doesn’t, does it? Whatever is happening between us—real or pretend or something in the complicated space between—the way our bodies move together, anticipating each other’s shifts and turns, feels like the most natural thing in the world.
The song builds, growing more sensual with each measure. Gabe’s hand splays wider against my back, drawing me impossibly closer as we move as one entity across the floor. His eyes never leave mine, dark and intent in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Everyone’s watching us,” I murmur, suddenly self-conscious of the intimacy we’re displaying.
“Let them,” he replies, his voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver down my spine. Then his expression changes, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “Andie, I know we agreed to talk about ending this after the wedding. About going back to being just friends.”
My heart stutters at his words. We had agreed to that, hadn’t we? A clean break after Tristy’s wedding, a return to our comfortable friendship without the complications of romance.
“But what if we don’t?” he continues, his thumb tracing a small circle against my lower back. “What if this isn’t pretend anymore? What if it never really was?”
The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. This doesn’t sound like pretense. It doesn’t feel like acting. The suggestion that we might continue whatever this is between us—that we might explore it for real, without the shield of our charade—sends a tremor through me that has nothing to do with the dance.
“Gabe,” I begin, uncertainty making my voice waver. I want to remind him of all the reasons we should stick to our plan—our friendship, our professional relationship, the age difference that still makes me self-conscious. But looking into his eyes, feeling the solid warmth of him against me, those reasons suddenly seem flimsy, inconsequential.
Before I can gather my thoughts, he guides me through another turn, this one taking us to the edge of the dance floor where shadow provides a semblance of privacy. The music continues, the other dancers lost in their own worlds, but for a moment, it feels like we’re alone.
“What are we doing?” I whisper, the question encompassing far more than our dance.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb brushing softly across my skin. “What we should have done years ago,” he says simply, and then his lips are on mine.
Unlike this morning’s kiss—tentative, questioning—this one carries certainty. He kisses me like a man who knows exactly what he wants, his mouth moving against mine with deliberate intent.
