Page 33 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Extra underwear in my purse

Backup travel toothbrush

Emergency cold packs

Liquid IV

Ranney

When they finally pulled up in front of the main lodge at Freestone, it was past midnight, but she nearly cheered.

The stone and timber building dated to the late nineteenth century, and although it included every modern amenity imaginable, the updates were invisible.

Power lines were buried, and even the lanterns lighting the entrance were fitted with flickering gas jets.

Tom switched off the ignition and they sat in silence, taking it all in.

Achilles had, unfortunately, been unable to make the drive after all, but had found a rental car franchise run by yet another member of his extended family.

The Toyota RAV4 the’d rented was a sedate blue color, and could be returned by Freestone staff, thank goodness.

“The stars! When you live in a city, you forget how extremely dark the sky can be,” Ranney finally ventured.

“It’s something I have to consider when I’m working on a concept,” Tom said. “Architecture isn’t experienced only in daylight. And I think it’s especially important–crucial, really–for a place of worship.”

“I see what you mean. The idea of vastness, infinity, and your place in it. Whether or not you are alone.”

He studied her, then said, “All that, but also more prosaic stuff. Like, can you find the entrance? Will someone fall down the stone steps or trip over a meditation bench and break a leg?”

"I was being philosophical and introspective, and you turned into the practical one."

"Is that a problem?"

"More like a refreshing change of pace!"

“Right. Perhaps our respective vocations have more in common than we first thought.”

They both chuckled, but then she said, “It must be wonderful to create something so enduring. You design this beautiful building, you get to watch it become real, and it could stand there for hundreds of years–for generations! Everything I do is ephemeral, at least if I do it right.”

“I think you have that backwards. A building is here today but could be gone tomorrow–all it takes is one tornado, or one governor who prefers a manufacturing plant. What you create is a memory, and that is indestructible."

She felt so seen .

"Also, you make people happy, guaranteed. My work is subjective.” She made a sound of protest, but he overrode it. “Trust me on this. What you or I see as aesthetically pleasing isn’t necessarily going to please everyone.”

“I suppose not.” If only she could stay in the car with him, talking like this. If only they could walk under the vast, dark sky, holding hands, letting silence speak.

If only...

But she had a job to do.

She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Shall we go in? I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to be reunited with my suitcase full of nice, clean clothes. If they have an outdoor fireplace here–and I’m fairly certain they do–I am going to burn this outfit at the earliest opportunity.”

“Have you no romance whatever in your soul?” He drew back in mock horror. “Let me remind you that you would be burning your wedding ensemble. Aren’t you supposed to feel tenderly sentimental about it? Preserve it in the attic and all that? We need a shadow box.”

“Thank God there are no photos.” Shuddering, she said vehemently, “I never want to see it again.”

“Well, for my part, I thought you looked breathtakingly beautiful in it.” A beat passed. “And out of it.”

Meeting his eyes felt dangerous, so she focused her attention on unclipping her seatbelt. Her two worlds were clashing and she needed to calibrate.

“No more of that kind of talk, please.” Even to her, this sounded like a scolding, and she softened momentarily. “I mean, thank you, that’s very sweet, but from here on, we have to be entirely professional. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lady. No fun of any kind.”

His tone was unreadable, forcing her to glance over at his face, but he was already standing on the gravel beside the car, stretching. The moment passed. She didn't know him well enough to gauge tone.

Because she didn't know him well at all.

Inside the lodge, the lights were dim but an employee was on duty at the desk. He looked mildly surprised but whether that was due to the late hour or their bedraggled appearance, Ranney could not say. And to be fair, she was the only one who looked the worse for wear. Tom was perfectly at ease.

Now that she thought about it, he’d been wearing the same clothes for as long as she had–his bag had stayed on the jet that first night, going on to Idaho without him.

Yet, even at the over-the-top-glitzy palace of a hotel in Vegas, he had somehow…

belonged. He didn’t blend with the crowd, not by a long shot, but no one raised an eyebrow.

That was a kind of confidence you had to be born with; it could not be acquired.

You either had it or you didn’t, and she didn’t.

Huh.

“Welcome,” the guy said. According to his shirt, his name was Walker. Of course it was. Walker managed to strike some impossible balance between folksy local fishing guide and polished White Lotus concierge.

“We have reservations,” Ranney began.

“No one gets here without them,” Walker chuckled.

“Right. Um, Ranney Martini.”

“And Tom Phillips.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Phillips, glad to have you back! We have your king room ready.” Apparently, Walker did not need to consult a computer to know who was expected.

And who wasn’t.

“Ms., ah, Martini,” he said uncomfortably, “your room was canceled. Ms. Gordon let us know that your plans had changed.”

“Claire? Why would she do that?” Ranney was nonplussed. “I mean, I was detained, but my company will of course cover the room charge.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Never mind, anything you have will be fine. Just a single. As long as there’s wifi and a shower, that’s all I need.”

“I’m really sorry.”

They stared at each other.

“Are you saying…?”

“As a private club, we have a limited number of rooms.” He shrugged apologetically.

“But I had a reservation! Oh, never mind. I’ll call Claire, I can just bunk with her. Not ideal, but–”

“We’ll work it out,” Tom interrupted. “Two keys, please.”

Walker, to his credit, did not turn a hair. He’d seen things.

Ranney was too tired to explain or argue. Tom finished registering and she followed him to the central staircase. He was three steps up when she stopped at the foot, and he turned questioningly.

“I’m calling Claire,” she said quietly, holding up a finger.

“Hello?” a giggling, slightly breathless voice answered. “Ranney?” There was music in the background.

“Is Claire there?” Ranney was startled. She couldn’t think who else would be answering her phone, but this could not be her. Claire did not giggle.

“This is Claire.” Ranney could hear a door click shut and the background noise ceased. “Ranney, where are you? It’s late.”

“I know. I’m here. I just tried to check in but they said you canceled my reservation. Not sure what’s going on with that, but I’m going to need to share your room tonight. You have my suitcase, right?”

Silence.

“Claire?”

“I–yes, it’s here, but…”

“But what?”

“But, well, I wasn’t expecting you!”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but things like this happen on the road, Claire. This is what the job is. What’s the room number? I’m so tired, I can barely stand up.”

The music could be heard again, then abruptly stopped.

“Right, of course. Just give me a minute here…” Claire’s breath was ragged, almost as if she were wrestling with something.

There were a couple of loud thumps and something that sounded like glass clinking.

Ranney was pretty sure she heard a faucet turn on and off.

“Okay!” Claire exhaled. “No problem. Room 312.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right up.”

Tom had come back down the stairs, close enough to hear her half of the conversation. He looked so disappointed, she couldn’t help but smile.

“I told you,” she chided gently. “This trip is pleasure for you but it’s business for me. There was no way I could stay in your room, Tom.”

“Right. I get that.” But he didn’t look any happier.

Muffled laughter from somewhere upstairs, followed by a door thumping closed, made them both look up.

Footsteps along a hall, then down the stairs above them, finally materialized into a blue jean-clad man who appeared to be dressing as he descended.

He was pulling a down vest across his shoulders and smiling to himself when he passed them.

“Chap?” Tom said suddenly, startling Ranney, who was on her very last nerve.

Shaken out of his own thoughts, the guy looked up. “Tom! You made it! Charlie got here around dinner time. Doesn’t look like he’s going to be spending much time on the stream, though.”

“I suppose not, but he’ll keep the bartenders on their game until we get back.”

They chuckled, then Tom said, “Chap, this is Ranney Martini. Her company is protecting the wedding and related events like this one. Ranney, Chap is one of the guides here. The man thinks like a trout, never seen anything like it.”

“Hello.” Chap shook her hand. “If you’re protecting the wedding, isn’t the groom Job One?” He looked amused.

Ranney tossed it back at him. “You’re a fishing guide, right?”

Chap nodded.

“If you take your client out to the river, hand him his rod, and tell him where to stand, but he slips on a rock and falls in, are you a bad guide?”

Laughing, Chap said, “You must work with Claire? She’s incredible. I’ll teach you both to flycast before you leave. It’s a life skill.”

“Take him up on it!” Tom urged, sounding impressed. “Then I’ll take you to Scotland and the salmon will leap into your arms.”

Once again, he talked about travel. Fun. Excitement. Taking her somewhere and just being together. She could get used to this.

“Thanks,” she replied, “but I’m not sure how much spare time we’re going to have. If you’ll excuse me, I am exhausted. I’m going to find my way to… damn, what was the room number?”