Page 29 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Tom

The shower ran, then stopped. The hairdryer ran, then stopped. Silence ensued.

There was plenty of food in the refrigerator and the pantry, and Tom busied himself in arranging a buffet of sorts.

Their early dinner from the Cowgirl Café had been pretty substantial, but hours had passed since then.

Would she be hungry? What did she even like in the way of late-night snacks?

Having this basic set of tasks kept him from having to focus on what was next, when she emerged from the bathroom and he would come face to face with… his wife.

Pouring a can of cashews into a bowl, he put it in the microwave to warm–that was a safe choice.

What else looked good? There was a wedge of Camembert, nice and soft, and some crostini crackers.

Now he had a platter of white food. Were there some grapes, anything that was green or some shade of red or–?

It had been a long time since he felt this nervous with a woman.

Ridiculous. They were two adults who obviously liked each other very much, had fun together. There was a spark, maybe it was mutual. And if it wasn’t, well, no harm done. They would go on as friendly acquaintances. Why did it matter so much?

“That was wonderful,” she said behind him, and he jumped as if a firecracker had exploded.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s fine, there’s probably a defibrillator around here somewhere.” Turning, his immediate thoughts were: 1) she’s more beautiful than I remembered; 2) she is a very, very beautiful woman; and 3) damn it, I haven't showered yet.

“Remind me how you got that Irish Wolfhounds shirt? I mean, it’s extremely flattering, I compliment you on your excellent taste in nightgowns, but… did you date someone on the team, or..?”

She looked down at herself and shrugged. “The airport. I knew my suitcase wasn’t going to arrive in time, and this was all they had at the kiosk. I just couldn’t put yesterday’s clothes back on.”

“Right, I remember now. When we get home, I’ll buy you one in your size. That one might fit me, actually. We can wear them to the games.”

“Look, Tom, you don’t have to…”

“Don’t have to what?”

“Don’t have to keep pretending. We’re not really together and we both know it. We’re not going to go to rugby games in Boston, or some awards ceremony in November. It’s okay.”

There was a short silence. “Why not?”

“Because! Because we don’t even know each other and because I am too old for you," she said gently, though her eyes told a different story. "You can’t possibly be interested in me in that way. You could date anyone, a twenty-five-year-old!”

“Why would I want to do that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because it’s normal!”

“Is normal important to you?”

It was her turn to pause, and she did, with a little gasp, and eyes that widened with shock. “No, not at all, but that’s not the point I was making.”

“Let’s go sit down,” he suggested. “This is an important conversation, let’s not have it standing up in the kitchen.”

He went about refilling their glasses, then picked up the plate of white food. The fine points of gastronomic presentation no longer seemed so important. Then he headed for the door next to the fireplace.

“In there?” she asked in a surprised tone.

“There’s a sofa,” he said. “This living room is just very… big. Do you mind? It’s your bedroom, not mine.”

“It’s not like I have any clothes spread around,” she answered with a smile, though it was a crooked. Nervous. Her words rang through his mind, and he realized she wasn't rejecting him. She didn't not want him.

The age gap worried her.

The age difference pushed her out of the range of "normal."

Feelings were inherently irrational, he knew all too well. If emotions could be plotted and planned like blueprints, the world would be far easier to navigate, but too sterile for Tom's liking. Ranney was the perfect blend between strategic and sharp and passionate and warm.

More than anything right now, he wanted her. Badly. Deeply. Intensely. She could tell. Her words of protest were all aimed straight at him.

Surely he didn't want her.

Surely she was too old for him .

Surely he wanted a twentysomething.

“My darling," he began as they sat across from each other. “I want to talk about two things."

"Yes?"

"First, let's order some new clothes from a nearby boutique. Goodness knows, we both need them."

"I - that's a wonderful idea, though I'll have to clear it through Kari or Katie as a company expense."

Surprise hit him, shockingly hard. "No, no, darling. I'm your husband. Buy whatever you want. We can charge it to the room, or I - of course, I'm buying it for you."

"No, Tom, I -- "

"I insist." his tone was harder-edged than he meant, and yet the feeling of authority, of insistence, of dammit, let me do this came through loud and clear. Ranney's face changed, a small, happy smile on her features.

"Thank you."

"And I want to talk about normal."

Ranney's beautiful, soulful eyes met his over the rim of her Champagne flute and their gaze deepened.

He wanted her to see him. Really see him.

To be felt and witnessed and understood by someone who craved the same.

Tom wanted relationship shorthand, the kind where two glances spoke thousands of words, where shared memories were evoked by an eyebrow raise, where she made him his favorite tea before bed and he bought tickets to her favorite Broadway series in Boston and they just were, entwined and interwoven, growing old together.

So what if she was a bit ahead of him in the age game? Men died on average five years before women. He regretted that he'd live for a decade after her demise, all alone, but oh, the memories....

As if she read his mind, her eyes glistened with something close to tears, the flute tipped up higher, her elegant throat moving with grace as she swallowed.

"More?" he asked, but it wasn't just about the bubbly.

She nodded. He reached for the bottle and caught a whiff of --

Oh, dear.

Of him .

"Oh, dear," Tom muttered, catching another whiff of himself. "I need to… um…" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. "Shower."

Ranney’s brows rose, but her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts amused and sympathetic.

"Go ahead," she said, reaching for the champagne bottle.

"I’ll, uh… stay here and drink my way through your snack platter.

Just me and your plate of white food. A blank canvas for late-night culinary art. "

"You’re mocking me," he said with mock gravity.

"Just a little," she admitted, pouring herself another glass. "Hurry, or I’ll start talking to the Camembert about my feelings."

He chuckled as he grabbed a towel and disappeared down the hall, shaking his head at her nervous rambling.

The bathroom he stepped into was a temple to all things self-indulgent and unreasonably excessive.

The space was bigger than his London flat.

The marble tiles were veined with threads of real gold, or a damn fine fake.

There were two claw-foot soaking tubs, side by side, as if designed for couples who wanted to submerge like synchronized swimmers.

A chandelier, not a light fixture, a full-on crystal chandelier, hung over the tubs, glittering like the crown jewels.

The shower was its own enclosed room, a glass cube lined with sleek stone, boasting no fewer than eight showerheads arranged at different heights and angles.

Overhead, a rainfall fixture promised to drown him in liquid bliss.

The whole thing looked like the kind of setup used in music videos where people seduce each other under cascading streams of water.

"Eight showerheads?" he muttered, toeing off his shoes. "Who needs eight? Other than an orgy…”

He eyed the tile again and put that thought out of his mind. Good thing hotels bleached their bathrooms.

As he peeled off his shirt, the reason for his hasty retreat became painfully clear.

"Oh, bloody hell," he groaned, catching a whiff of himself again.

The Cowgirl Café dinner, a dash of nervous perspiration, and several hours of nonstop broken car syndrome in Nevada heat had fermented into a bouquet that could strip paint.

"Good God, I smell like a rugby locker room wrapped in a burrito. "

His undershirt clung damply to his back. His hair, usually soft and perfectly tousled with only minimal assistance from an expensive styling paste he never admitted using, now had the tragic, wilted look of a scarecrow after a storm.

He yanked off his socks and trousers, horrified at the state of his own body odor. "She probably smelled me across the suite,” he muttered, stepping into the shower stall. “No wonder she has doubts.”

The moment he turned the water on, heaven descended.

The eight jets roared to life like obedient gladiators, pelting him with streams of warm water from every angle.

A rainfall cascade poured from above, drenching him in a silky torrent that turned his skin to liquid fire.

He groaned, a sound that was half relief, half something far filthier, as his tense muscles loosened.

Ranney’s face swam into his mind, unbidden. That crooked smile. The way she had looked at him, torn between denial and desire. Her graceful throat tipping back as she swallowed champagne. Her bare legs tucked under her as she sat across from him, nerves making her glow.

God, he wanted her. Not in some casual, let's have a laugh way, but in a bone-deep, skin-tingling, every-cell-screaming way. He wanted to taste her lips. Hear that sharp intake of breath when his hands slid over her curves.

Make her forget the word normal even existed.

His hand trailed over his own chest, slick with water, and his gaze fell to his left hand. The gold band glinted, catching the light as the water flowed over it.

Wife.

The word felt foreign in his mind, like a term he wasn’t quite qualified to use.

He was English, reserved, understated, and marriage, even in name only, wasn’t something you wore like a rented tux.

But here it was, shining against his skin, a reminder that whatever they were doing wasn’t casual anymore.

He rubbed his thumb over the ring, staring at it. "Strange thing, isn’t it?" he murmured to no one. "Feels like I borrowed it off someone’s dad."

But then he thought of her again. Ranney.

And the oddness faded, replaced by a sharp ache of wanting—wanting her laugh, her kiss, her body pressed against his under this ridiculous rainfall of luxury. She’d just bathed herself, and as he soaped up and washed the two days of filth away, his body responded to her.

Hard.

Eager.

Did he mention hard ?

“You’ll have your turn,” he muttered as he finished the shower quickly, for Ranney awaited him. A long, slow, wet wash was nice, but they could do that later. After making love. After hours in bed, tousling the sheets, his face between her legs, her cries of his name —

He groaned. Good grief, he’d pop off like a schoolboy if he didn’t stop this instant.

Water turned off, towel in hand, he stepped out of the glass cage and dried off, instantly realizing his error.

No fresh clothes. And he wasn’t about to dress himself in clothing that doubled as sheets of old fruit leather.

Fortunately The Merengue came to the rescue, a very soft, thick white bathrobe in the closet, with slippers neatly waiting below. The robe was polite enough to cover everything, but convenient should she finally let herself believe he wanted her.

That much had become obvious. Her fear of rejection.

He looked down at the tent pole poking the robe open.

"No worries, darling. No worries about that."