Page 10 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Look into melatonin

Add instant coffee to emergency kit

Refill vitamin C eye cream

Expense a brain focus app?

Ranney

“Did you buy the book?” a man near her was saying, part of the background noise. It wasn’t until she sensed someone standing on the other side of the metal railing next to her table that she looked up.

It was Standby Guy, and he was talking to her .

And he looked a bit rough. Sniffing, red-eyed, but smiling.

Hmmm .

How did he track her down? Was he going to berate her for showing up and claiming her own seat, smack her with the tube he was carrying for snatching it away from him at the last second?

She glanced around nervously, hoping in vain for a security guard.

It was broad daylight, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of witnesses, surely he wouldn’t…

“The book– The End of the Game ?” he clarified, then sniffed. “You were thinking of buying it at that shop in Boston? I had to leave because my, ah, I was with my…”

Worlds were colliding here. Ranney squinted at him. He was Standby Guy, but talking about Boston, not Miami. The dissonance was too much.

Of course she remembered the man in the shop.

Sort of. He'd been so urban, so polished and sophisticated with his Gucci girlfriend and his London dinner parties.

This guy had a two-day growth of beard, sniffed like he did a line of coke in the airport bathroom, and his nice jacket was lightly coated in strands of animal hair.

True, they both had British accents, but so did everyone lately. That man in the shop did not strike her as someone who would be standing in line at airports hoping to snipe a last-minute seat.

But how would he know about the book if it wasn’t him?

“I’m sorry about the, ah, my seat,” she stuttered. “Being late and all. The gates were really far apart and I couldn’t–”

“Don’t be silly, that was your seat! Normally, I’m not leaving things to chance that way, but my connection was canceled and the best they were offering me as a substitute wasn’t for another three hours, so I thought I’d try standby.

” He paused, smiling sheepishly. “I’m just upset that you don’t remember meeting me before. ”

Ignoring that, she said, “Obviously you found a flight. I mean, here you are.”

"Yes," he said with a chuckle, then he jolted, holding up one finger before turning his face away to sneeze. He sniffed, turned back, and said, "Funny, that. I booked on an unexpected -- "

Her phone buzzed–thank goodness, Nilly must have found something for her.

“Excuse me, I just need to–”

“Of course, no problem!" Sniff . "I can wait.”

Why? Why is he waiting? she thought, annoyed. Doesn’t he have, you know, a plane to catch?

But he didn’t move, so she opened her texts. The first was from Claire:

Arriving Boise tomorrow 7:15 p.m. Wondering about limo pickup? Or will the club send a car? Wish we could have flown out together but you left early.

There was a second text bubble: I use a Dyson Airwrap dryer. Does the club have anything like that in the rooms or do I need to bring mine? Also, we’ll have some free time, right? Should I pack a swimsuit?

As she was reading, a third bubble appeared: This is really fun! Maybe I’ll try to transfer to your area permanently. PR is nothing but fixing problems all day, every day.

Just you wait, Ranney thought grimly. You think cajoling editors and webmasters and the occasional bitter ex-spouse is harder than mitigating flood tides and unidentified shellfish allergies? Ha. A disaster in my area can’t be repaired by sending someone an Edible Arrangement with extra pineapple.

She tried to imagine Claire giving the mother of the groom's beloved pug the Heimlich maneuver and could not. Some people simply weren't cut out to work in the field.

Standby Guy still had not moved; he appeared to be checking his own messages. Keeping her head down, she opened Nilly’s text, praying for a simple re-booking on a different airline, even if the gate was two miles away.

Working it, Nilly had written . Nothing yet. Go get a glass of wine, I’ll let you know.

Damn! Switching back to Claire’s messages, she typed, Regular hairdryers. No limo. Go through Nilly for transportation. But after she pressed Send, she regretted her snippy tone.

See you when you arrive, she added. I’m still en route . Bring your suit just in case, it won’t take up much room. Her long exhale brought a look of concern from her new friend.

“Everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, fine,” was her automatic response, but something–exhaustion, maybe–made her amend it. “Well, not really. I don’t know. Not sure of my connection.”

“Where are you going? Business or pleasure?”

“Boise, Idaho. Business.”

A strange look came over his face. “Boise, Idaho,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of her words.

“You’ve probably never heard of it. Not exactly a global hotspot. I’m actually headed to a private fishing club in the southwest corner of the state.”

“Really. You’re not exactly dressed for a fishing trip,” he observed.

“Well, as I said, it’s business. It’s… an event that I’m overseeing. The timeframe changed at the last minute, so I had to leave right from the office.”

He peered at her. “That must be stressful.”

"Comes with the job."

“You’re very adaptable. It’s an excellent quality.”

Making a face, she responded, “It’s a professional requirement. Anyway, I’m not there to go fishing so there was no need for special clothing.” Politeness seemed to require that in return she show at least some interest in his plans. “And you? Where are you headed?”

Ignoring her question, he went on with his own. “How long do you have until your next flight? Running into an old friend on the road calls for a round of drinks, I always say.”

If their ages were closer, she would have taken this as a cheesy pickup line.

But he was too much younger than she was to intend it that way, and his self-deprecating smile was undeniably charming.

Laughing a little, she raised one eyebrow and said, “I would definitely be an old friend. But are we friends? I don’t even know your name. ”

“We’re friends if we say we are. I’m Tom Phillips. And you are..?”

“Ranney Martini.” Was that a mistake, telling him her name? As she spoke, part of her brain was searching her memory for stories of scams perpetrated on single women in airports. He looked respectable enough, even in his beat-up clothes, and they had actually met before, if only for ten minutes.

Tom Phillips, though, that was pretty generic. Was it his real name?

“May I sit down, then?”

“Yes, sure, but fair warning: I may have to run at any time. I’m waiting to hear about a flight. My connection was canceled, or permanently delayed, or something.”

“This would be your flight to Boise?” Tom Phillips–if that was in fact his real name–was now seated across from her, his bag and his green tube thing stowed beside his chair. Signaling the waitress, he added, “Because I might have a solution for you.”

“A solution? What kind of solution? Do you know someone with a helicopter?” she asked lightly, but a part of her brain flashed a warning.

This is where the innocent, trusting woman follows the mysterious handsome stranger and is never seen or heard from again , she thought. If he mentions Bitcoin, I'm calling security.

She eyed his tube. Perhaps it could double as a weapon in a pinch.

“I’ll have a Guinness,” he told the waitress, then looked questioningly at Ranney.

“Oh, um, a white wine spritzer?” It was the lightest thing she could think of that still passed for an adult beverage.

She definitely needed to keep her wits about her.

A familiar twinge told her that a trip to the ladies’ room was approaching, but this was no time to leave her drink unattended on the table.

“You need to get to Boise today, right?”

“Yes. I was trying to get there by six o’clock, so I would have time to settle in before our clients arrive, but that’s not looking good at this point.”

“What kind of event are you managing?”

“A private party. The company I work for protects events, mostly weddings, but also related occasions.”

“Protects them from..?”

“Unforeseen problems of all kinds. We have a security team, of course. Our clients tend to be either very high profile or very low profile, and the same for their guests, so obviously there are PR concerns. And just all the usual things that can go wrong, natural disasters, power outages, rodents, skunks, protesters–”

“Protesters?” Tom Phillips laughed.

“Oh, yes, that was one of mine. Plus we handle unusual destinations, like glaciers and coral reefs…”

“And trout streams?”

“No, there won’t be a wedding this weekend.” But that was all she was going to tell him, this mysterious, handsome almost-stranger/possible con man. “But enough about me. What brings you here? I assume you’re an architect?”

Astonishment crossed his face. “Very good! But how did you know? I’m not wearing all black and I don’t have hipster eyeglasses, so what was the giveaway?”

“That tube thing you’re carrying. Isn’t that what architects carry blueprints around in?”

“Ah! Very good indeed. Yes, I work for Pryce Partners in London, but we’re opening a Boston office on Lewis Wharf. Museum design, mostly. But I have a sort of hobby. Which is churches.”

“Churches! I never think about churches having architects! And heaven knows, I’m in them all the time. Professionally, that is.”

“Right. Well, a church can be anything. Especially in the States! I’ve been looking around. There are churches in shopping malls, churches in trailers, in–what do you call them, those metal half-circles?” He described an arc with his hand.

“Quonset huts?”

“Yes! Good guess. We'd make a fantastic charades team!” They both laughed, but then turned serious again.

“I guess,” Ranney ventured, “it has to do with faith, and with community?”

“Of course. That’s the starting point, spirituality, right? But a space can inspire spirituality. Sometimes in obvious ways, like the great cathedrals of the world, but sometimes it can be the opposite of that. It can be so absolutely simple.”

“I’d like to see your work.”

“I’d love to show it to you.”

They sat quietly, looking at each other, until Ranney glanced away.

“Excuse me,” she said, and turned her phone over, checking for the text that she knew wasn’t there. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long for my office to get back to me on this flight problem.”

Tom seemed to hesitate, but then: “I was starting to say before, I might possibly… I think I have a solution for you.”

“And what would that be?” Ranney smiled, but her tone made it clear that she highly doubted he could fix what Nilly could not.

“It’s kind of a crazy coincidence, but it so happens that I’m going to Boise, Idaho myself.”

I knew it! I knew it! There is a scam going on here, I just don’t understand what it is!

There are exactly zero coincidences where the handsome mysterious stranger, who presents himself as an accomplished and successful architect as well as charming, eloquent, and spiritual, happens to be traveling to the same small city as the unwitting, unaccompanied female, and he offers her… what?

“And it just so happens I’m flying there on a private plane, so–”

…he offers her a seat on a private plane!

“Look, I don’t know what this is all about or why you are following me, but I was obviously not born yesterday. Take your bag and your tube of nonexistent blueprints and walk away, buddy. Go. Now.”

The bartender looked over at them.

“Ranney. It’s Ranney, right? I promise you, you have my word of honor, I am completely respectable, you can google me right now–”

“I said go.”

“I can see why this might look dodgy to you–”

“Now!”

“–but the thing is, I think we’re going to the same event!”

“You’re paparazzi.” The look of alarm on her face morphed into disgust as her heartrate sped.

“No! I’m Charlie Sanderson’s cousin!”