Page 12 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)
The weak joke was lost on Nilly. Ranney could tell from the clicking of a keyboard that the photo was finally coming her way, and not a moment too soon. She’d been in the bathroom for ten minutes now.
And ding! There it was.
“Thank you, Nill! Let me just…” Tapping the photo, she enlarged it with her fingers, holding her breath.
Bingo–it was him, definitely. She released her breath in a rush. Tom Phillips, or Martyn, or… Ducky? Had she heard that right? A good but fairly standard business headshot, coat and tie, perfectly clear.
Three bouncing dots, then another photo appeared, Tom apparently on a ski slope, windblown hair, color in his cheeks.
Three more dots… Tom giving some kind of presentation, not as close up as the other shots but still clearly him, clearly his tall, athletic body, even to her unfamiliar eyes.
This was followed immediately by a link to a TED Talk: Raise High the Roofbeams, Tom Phillips on Spirituality in Architecture .
That was good enough for her.
“That’s good, it’s him! Thank you, Nilly, that was what I needed. I’ll keep you posted!” Ending the call with a tap, she burst out of the stall and made straight for the exit. Then she realized she still needed to pee.
Back into the stall.
Necessities completed, she raced out of the stall again. Except… out of the corner of her eye, she caught her reflection in the giant mirror.
Stopping in her tracks, she changed direction and edged her way into the line of women at the sinks. She vaguely remembered brushing her hair in an airplane restroom, but that was several hours and maybe a thousand miles ago. As for the lipstick, she’d put that on in a cab in Boston.
Might as well have been another lifetime.
Opening her bag, she did what could be done while leaning across a wet counter under fluorescent lights. Maybe she’d schedule an facial when she got home. Even if she had a free hour on this trip, she doubted that the Freestone Club had an esthetician on staff.
When she emerged, Tom was standing outside the BarFly railing with his bags and her tote.
“All good?” he asked, concern on his face.
“All good.” It was a relief to talk to him without picturing him in an orange jumpsuit. “It was just, ah, very crowded in there.”
“Right, then, we should get going. I texted Charlie and told him you’d be joining us. Said I knew you from Boston.”
“I just feel like I’m intruding,” she answered uncomfortably. “It’s his bachelor weekend and this should be the kickoff.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait a little while longer before we start guzzling whisky and getting lap dances from expensive strippers. That’s what we’re supposed to do, I think? Charlie’s quite a bit younger than me, so I’m not entirely sure, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this in movies.”
“It varies widely,” she said, laughing at his stoic expression. “Is that what you told your girlfriend you’d be doing?”
“My what?”
“Your girlfriend. You were with her when I met you at Meet Cute. She, ah, wasn’t interested in the merchandise there, as I recall.”
“Oh, Thea! She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my stepsister!” In the middle of a hearty laugh, he stopped. “Wait–you thought I would date someone that young? Seriously?”
Her eyebrows couldn't help but raise. “It’s not unheard of.”
“It is for me.”
“I’ll make a note in your file,” Ranney said lightly. His comment certainly wasn’t directed at her–it wasn’t personal–but she felt somehow uplifted, like when a stranger compliments you in the checkout line. She stood up a little straighter.
“I have a file?” He looked pleased.
“It’s very hard to protect people if you know nothing about them.” She smiled, but her tone said, Duh.
“Right.”
They were walking through the concourse now, following signs for the exit. They navigated in silence for a while, focused on dodging other travelers, then emerged onto the sidewalk in the late-afternoon California sunshine.
By the time Ranney’s eyes had adjusted to the brightness, Tom had identified an unclaimed taxi, loaded his bag into the trunk, and was holding the door open for her. It was like traveling with a handsome, charming personal assistant.
It was like being one of her own clients.
Things were being smoothed out for her, through no effort of her own. It’s important not to get used to this, she thought.
“The PS terminal, please,” Tom said to the driver, and the guy turned briefly to look at them before pulling out into traffic.
“We’re the last ones,” Tom told her. “AnaMaria’s brothers got an earlier flight from Texas, so we’ll leave right away and get there at a reasonable hour.” He paused. “What if we skip the food they serve on the plane and I’ll take you to a late dinner at Freestone?”
There was a brief pause while she tried to interpret this surprising offer.
Why would he ask her this? It sounded almost date-like, but obviously it couldn’t be that.
It wasn’t professional. She didn’t need an architect and he wasn’t planning a wedding, that she knew of.
This was a bachelor weekend. He was there to hang out with the groom and the other ushers.
That was the whole purpose of the event.
And she was there to make sure everything went as planned.
“Ah, thank you, but I’ll be on duty. Technically, I’m on duty now, in fact.”
“But we were having a drink together a little while ago! If that was okay, why wouldn’t this be?” His ingratiating smile reminded her of a little boy’s, and that thought reminded her that, in relation to her, he practically was a little boy.
“Because…” She knew perfectly well what the answer was, so why were words failing her? “Because we happened to be having a drink at the same place at the same time, that’s all. It was a coincidence, not a plan.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to me.” Case closed. He sighed.
“But thank you,” she added, then relented. “I would like to hear more about your work. Maybe we can get coffee sometime in Boston.”
“Coffee in Boston it is.” He sounded resigned but not unfriendly.
The Uber, with remarkably good timing, pulled up under the covered portico of the private terminal.
In short order, the driver was paid, Tom’s bags were collected, and they were being ushered inside and down a wide hallway.
Double mahogany doors were flung open to reveal what appeared to be a small but very luxurious apartment.
The living area, which featured a well-stocked wet bar and a floor-to-ceiling wine refrigerator, was furnished in classic modern style mixed with the warmth of antiques.
Carefully curated art hung on the walls; a long, thin flame flickered in the gas fireplace.
There were two long sofas and numerous upholstered armchairs, all occupied by handsome thirty-something men wearing some version of Tom’s very broken-in trousers and layers of shirts.
Not coordinated, intentional layers–more like random layers, meant to be added or stripped off depending on the temperature.
All of them looked up at Ranney and Tom’s arrival, and all looked mildly confused.
Ranney was clearly a surprise, and she didn’t fit into any identifiable role.
No uniform, so not an airport employee; professionally dressed in skirt and heels, so not connected in any way to the Freestone Club; obviously not a girlfriend or companion, and they weren’t invited anyway.
A few of the group sat up and began to struggle to their feet.
“Tom!” Charlie Sanderson strode across the room toward them. “And you must be–” He hesitated slightly.
“Ranney Martini, from Wedding Protectors,” she supplied, relieved to fall back into some recognized set of behaviors.
“Right, our minder!”
He made her feel like Mary Poppins.
“No, no, not at all–I’m just here to be sure all goes well.
” Everyone in the room was now watching, and her normally calm demeanor began to fray a little.
“I’m not supposed to be here at all, really.
I mean, I’m supposed to be onsite in Idaho, but not on this flight. Not with you all. Tom insisted…”
All the eyes that had been on her shifted to Tom.
Charlie’s manners were impeccable. “And rightly so! I should have insisted on it myself–welcome!”
“Thank you.” A wave of gratitude washed over her. “I promise, you won’t even know I’m here.”
“Nonsense–we want you here!” Charlie turned to his male audience. “Shall we go, gentlemen? Those trout aren’t going to catch themselves.”
At this point in her career, Ranney had flown on many a small plane, but this was her first private jet. While she and Carmine had been well off, they hadn't been private jet well off.
It was, if anything, better than she had imagined. The interior was all tan leather and creamy upholstery, with different seating areas and a dining table. She wished Nessa were here. Everything is more fun when you can lift an eyebrow to telegraph a message to a like-minded companion.
Even better when that person is a permanent fixture in your life, so in ten years, or twenty, you can say, “Remember the time we took that Lear jet to Idaho?” That was one of the things that Ranney envied about her friends in life-long marriages.
It would have been nice to still be able to turn to Carmine and say, “Remember that time at the diner in New Haven when we looked over and Stevie Nicks was sitting in the next booth?” For years, whenever a Fleetwood Mac song came on the radio, they would just catch each other’s eye and smile.
The life not lived. She sighed a little sigh.
This flight was an experience she’d have to remember all by herself, but of course that was still better than no Lear jet at all. For a moment, she considered trying to take a photo or two without anyone noticing, but it wasn’t worth getting caught doing something so totally uncool.
And at what age, exactly, would she stop caring about being uncool? No time soon, apparently.