Page 15 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Tom

Well, this had been quite a day.

A day to remember, forever.

The Saltzman Prize.

Even to be considered for it was the greatest honor he could possibly imagine. It put him in the company of visionary American architects, men and women who had changed the way people experience their lives, the way people comprehend space, changed the very face of the Earth.

Maybe, just maybe, it meant he had changed, in some small, barely significant way, the way humans understand spirituality. The way we worship our God.

It was profoundly humbling.

And the work he was being honored for was a sideline, a personal passion, not a commercial endeavor.

The first little chapel he’d designed had been a freelance project, completed during late nights in the office and weekends at his kitchen table.

When that commission had led to another, he approached the partners in the Boston office to see if he could bring it in-house.

Initially, they were hesitant, but after reviewing the brief and all the information on his completed chapel, including a nice feature in Architect Magazine, they agreed.

Presumably, they’d been notified about the short-listing for the prize, and their leap of faith–no pun intended–was rewarded.

Turning to Ranney, sitting next to him in the back seat, he asked, “Do they sell lottery tickets in Nevada?”

“I have no idea, but probably. They’re not exactly opposed to gambling here. Why?”

“I need to buy one. This is the luckiest day of my life, without question.”

“Oh, that’s right! The architecture prize! But that’s not luck, is it? It’s talent and hard work.”

“It’s not just the prize–or at least, being considered for it.

It’s unbelievable luck that I ran into you at the airport, that we were trying to get on the same flight!

I had no idea how to get in touch with you after we met in the shop.

I was furious with Thea.” He chuckled. “Stupid girl. Anyway, not only did I run into you in Miami, I found you a second time at that bar at LAX! You could easily have disappeared onto another flight.”

“We would have ended up in the same place, though, the Freestone Club.”

“Ah, but would we? Anything can happen. Look at poor Chunk.”

“You have a point there. Anything can happen.” She met his eyes, and the look she gave him was speculative, as if she were weighing outcomes. Then she glanced away. “It’s actually something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I have a college reunion this year.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. You think about your life in a different way when you know people are going to be looking at it from the outside, judging it. One day your neighbor says they’ve hired an au pair, and the next thing you know, your husband comes home and says he’s leaving you.

For the au pair. One day someone in your support group says her friend started a wedding protection company and they’re doing well, they’re hiring, do you know anyone who might be interested.

You say, ‘What’s a wedding protection company?

’ but you think, What do I have to lose?

I’ll interview. And the next thing you know, you’re sitting in the back of an Uber in Las Vegas with a famous British architect. You’re right, anything can happen. ”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, the universal sign for Why on God’s green earth did I say all that? but Tom just laughed.

“ American architect, please!” A little prickle of discomfort started in the back of his mind.

His nationality–he used to be a British architect, but now he was an American architect, right?

He resided full time in Boston, Massachusetts.

His office and his projects were in the United States.

He owned a car that he drove on the right-hand side of the road, although he still had to concentrate at roundabouts–no, rotaries .

Certainly he would be considered an American architect now, even if he traveled on a British passport?

Surely that would be just a technicality.

Because the phrase that was resounding in his head right now was: The Saltzman Prize for AMERICAN Architects.

As his brain processed the rest of Ranney’s words, the question of his citizenship status faded and her story took precedence. The part about the husband–was that a theoretical example, or was that what happened to her? Her husband left her for an au pair? Weren’t au pairs teenagers?

Obviously, he had heard this kind of story before.

It was a modern cliché. But… it had happened to Ranney?

That made no sense to him. She was beautiful and intelligent and witty, sparkling with life and interest. Also, anyone who had her job was highly competent; he’d seen for himself that whatever was thrown at her today, she had taken in stride.

What kind of moron would prefer the blank slate of inexperienced youth–other than another teenager, of course?

And speaking of inexperience, who would want to go to bed with a young girl when they could be with a woman in full bloom?

A woman who understood her own desires, who knew what she wanted and how to get it, but also wanted to give as much pleasure as she took.

He had spent enough time in Ranney’s presence to be quite sure that her natural warmth ignited easily into a sensual blaze.

Indignation boiled up in him, and he twisted toward her, wrenching the seatbelt sideways. But as he opened his mouth to speak–outrage, tenderness, and vengeance vying for first place–he saw that she was gazing out her window at the astonishing lights of the city.

“This must be visible from Mars,” she said, sounding caught somewhere between amusement and mild horror.

“Oh, I should think so.” If she’d forgotten what she’d just mentioned, then he wasn’t going to be the one to dwell on it. “Beyond that, probably. Maybe I should design a Neon Chapel, since we’re already visible from heaven.”

“Isn’t everyplace visible from heaven? Besides, I’m pretty sure there’s no shortage of chapels in Las Vegas.”

“Very true. Let’s take a look at my competition, then.” Leaning forward, he said to the driver, “Excuse me. We’d like to drive by as many chapels as possible. Can you do that?”

“Yes, of course!” was the instant reply.

“My brother, he owns one, the best one in town! Ecumenical service, reasonable prices, very clean. Full service, too, flowers, photos! Are you…” The driver, who was eyeing them in his rearview mirror, trailed off uncertainly.

“Or, no, maybe you want place for a memorial? Or to pray for something, luck maybe? You are here on business, right? I can wait outside, take you to casino after.”

“We just want to drive by them,” Tom replied frostily. “If we see one we like, we’ll let you know.”

This guy thought they couldn’t possibly be a couple, looking for a no-fuss wedding?

Tom was tempted to kiss her, long and deep and hot, show this guy what was what, but he would run the risk of Ranney jumping out of the Uber at the next stoplight, shocked and appalled.

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to pick up on the subtext of their exchange.

“Pull in up there,” Tom instructed him. “Is a Daiquiri Driving Range what it sounds like?”

“Yes. They give you a helmet. Wear it,” was the guy’s advice.

“We’ve got to see this. Please wait here, ah… Achilles,” Tom said, checking the app for the name.

“I’m not wearing golf shoes!” Ranney protested. She held up one foot, still in the heels she had put on that morning for a day in the office. It seemed like months ago.

“It’s Las Vegas. You can go barefoot.”