Page 35 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Tom

Morning sun burned away the last of the mountain mist, gilding the river with ribbons of gold.

The South Fork ran wide and clear here, the kind of water Tom had dreamed about ever since he was a boy learning to cast on the Avon.

The lodge had issued them all hip waders in muted olive and chest-high suspenders, felt-soled boots gripping the slick stones beneath them.

Charlie had refused the offered hat, of course, preferring his battered cricket cap from university, while Nico and Tonio sported brand-new Orvis trucker caps like they’d just stepped out of a catalog.

Nigel, predictably, had brought his own gear, immaculately pressed as though fishing required a valet.

Chap stood mid-stream ahead of them, rod tucked casually under one arm, hands moving with the unhurried confidence of a man who had read the river his entire life.

“Hold your wrist firm, let the rod do the work,” he called out, voice carrying easily over the water.

“Trout’ll see you thrashing about and bolt upriver if you're not firm..”

Tom flicked his line, watching the fly kiss the current before drifting downstream. Perfect. He’d never admit it out loud, but Chap’s easy rhythm and dry wit made him want to apprentice himself to the man immediately.

Behind him, Charlie groaned. “Bloody typical, isn’t it?

Jack’s off to Heathrow last night because Sophie’s gone into labor—first baby, can’t blame him—but honestly, the one time I need my brother at my side, he bolts.

” He jerked his rod up and sent the fly sailing ten feet behind him.

“I’m getting married and my best man is playing midwife. ”

“You’ve still got me,” Tom said mildly, eyes on the drifting fly. “And I’d wager I’m better at speeches than Jack ever was. He tends to go maudlin after his third pint.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Charlie shot back, but his grin betrayed him.

“Still, it feels wrong, doesn’t it? A stag party without family.

Except you lot, of course,” he added, waving at Nico, Tonio, and Nigel.

Nico was busy untangling his line from a willow branch, Tonio had hooked his own sleeve, and Nigel, damn him, already had a trout flashing silver on his line.

“Family takes different forms,” Chap said, sloshing closer to adjust Tonio’s grip on the rod. “River doesn’t care what surname you carry. She rewards patience and punishes ego. Same as marriage.”

Tonio laughed, shoulders relaxing as the line arced properly for the first time. “You sound like a priest.”

“Fish whisperer,” Nico muttered, still struggling with the willow.

Tom smiled despite himself. This—sunlight on water, the easy banter, the promise of fish rising to dry flies—felt like the perfect preamble to a wedding.

Architecture was about permanence, yes, but fishing reminded him of something just as enduring: flow, change, the delicate balance between control and surrender.

And as Charlie cursed his absent brother again, Tom thought of Ranney under that vast Idaho sky last night, her laughter mingling with his, and wondered whether surrender might not be the truest architecture of all.

Charlie shifted his rod to his left hand, wincing as the cast went wide.

“Damn this arm. Broken once playing rugby, never healed properly. What sort of man shows up to his own wedding unable to hold a champagne glass without shaking?” He tried to reel in, only to have the line knot itself instantly.

“You’re holding a fly rod, not a pint,” Nigel observed dryly, lifting another trout from the current with the smug precision of a surgeon.

Charlie ignored him. “At least Ani won’t mind. Ani,” he sighed, stretching her name like taffy. “The way she laughed at my proposal, like she’d known all along. The way she sneezes three times in a row, never two. The way she?—”

“Oh Christ,” Nico muttered, tugging futilely at his willow-entangled line. “He’s off again.”

Tom half-smiled. He didn’t mind hearing it, really. Charlie had been a reckless idiot for most of his adult life; watching him gush about Ani softened edges Tom hadn’t thought could be softened.

Charlie, oblivious to everyone else, continued, “And the way she’s agreed to live in London, even though she hates drizzle, tube delays, and my mother?—”

The rest was lost in a sudden electronic buzz overhead.

Tom looked up. A silver drone hovered above the river, its camera gimbal pointed squarely at them.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Tonio yelped. “We’re being live-streamed!”

Papparazzi were a desperate bunch, Tom knew. Charlie was a bit of a playboy, and good for a shot that would pay a photog five grand or so. Wedding Protectors had been hired to defend against this, but Jesus - who expected a drone on a river?

The drone dipped lower, startling a nearby heron, which flapped off in a panic.

Startle one bird, startle them all: a whole flock of mallards exploded into the air, wings beating furiously, water spraying every direction.

Nico, distracted by the chaos, tripped over a submerged boulder and went face-first into the current.

“Bloody paparazzi!” Charlie roared, flailing with his rod like a medieval knight warding off a dragon. “They’ve followed us here, haven’t they?”

“Keep your voice down, you’ll spook the trout,” Chap said calmly, though even he was squinting warily at the machine.

"Too late," Tom muttered, eyeing the birds.

The drone dipped again, too close. Tonio shrieked when it clipped his line, sending his rod spinning from his hands.

That was the breaking point.

In one clumsy, sloshing surge, all of the men stumbled out of the river, water slopping over their waders, rods tangled, cursing like sailors.

Charlie tripped on the bank and landed like an upended turtle, cast held high in a protective position.

Nico still dripped riverweed from his ears.

Nigel, somehow dry and unruffled, merely plucked his fly from the water and muttered, “Savages.”

The drone hovered innocently above them, whirring, before zipping off toward the lodge.

Tom bent double, laughing until his sides ached, as his cousin ranted from the mud. “First Jack abandons me, now I’m hunted by bloody robots!”

Charlie was still bellowing from the mud, Nico wringing out his cap like a drowned sailor, when the drone swooped back, buzzing menacingly.

“Right,” Chap muttered. He set down his rod, reached beneath his waterproof vest, and in one smooth, almost cinematic move, pulled out a revolver.

“Bloody Hell!” Charlie yelped. “Is that legal?”

“We're not in England. Welcome to Idaho,” Chap said mildly.

Before anyone could argue, the drone banked low, whirring toward them like an angry hornet. Chap squinted, thumbed back the hammer, and?—

BANG .

The drone jerked sideways midair, let out a pitiful electronic wheeze, and spiraled down in a sad imitation of a dying goose, splashing into the shallows. Sparks fizzed. The heron returned briefly to give it a disgusted look before flapping off again.

Silence.

Even the trout seemed to have paused.

“Bloody hell,” Nigel whispered. “You shot it out of the sky.”

Chap holstered the revolver as calmly as if he’d just swatted a fly. “Menace to wildlife. Against lodge policy. Management’ll thank me. Now I have to contact Ranney.”

Tom felt a thrill at the thought of her.

Charlie finally scrambled upright, dripping mud, hair plastered to his forehead. He pointed at Chap with his good arm, awe in his voice. “Ani is never going to believe this. I’m fishing with James bloody Bond.”

Tom barked a laugh, shoulders shaking. Nico and Tonio were still gaping like schoolboys at a fireworks show, and even Nigel, ever the picture of aristocratic restraint, looked faintly impressed.

Chap only shrugged, retrieving his rod. “Back in the water, lads. River’s running sweet.”

As if nothing had happened.

Tom sloshed after him, still grinning. Weddings, he decided, were supposed to have mayhem. This one just happened to start on the riverbank, with a revolver and a dead drone.

The men were still gawking at the fizzing wreckage when Chap knelt, tugged a waterproof radio from his vest, and pressed the button. “Martini, this is Chap. We’ve got a bogey down. Repeat—unauthorized drone, neutralized. Pieces in the river.”

Static crackled, then a clipped, incredulous voice answered: “You did what? ”

The current lapped around his waders but he barely noticed, every nerve ending alert.

He’d spent half the night staring at the lodge ceiling, replaying the feel of her mouth on his, the shocking, desperate press of her body against his.

The way she’d pulled back, cheeks flushed, insisting it had to end there.

He hadn’t slept more than an hour, hollow with disappointment and aching with want.

And now—her voice. Even flattened by radio static, it hit him like a live wire.

“Drone’s no longer an issue,” Chap replied evenly.

"DRONE? On the river? I knew I should have come with you all!" she gasped into the radio. Her outrage and indignation made Tom smile.

“Situation under control. Guests rattled, no injuries. Might want to check if lodge security’s got gaps," Chap replied.

Silence for a moment, then Ranney’s sigh came through, faint but unmistakable. “Copy that. Thanks, Chap. I’ll handle it.”

She sounded tired. Determined.

Tom’s throat tightened. He wanted to snatch the radio from Chap, to say her name, to bridge the cold professional distance she insisted on last night. Instead he stood ankle-deep in the current, rod slack in his hand, letting the ache wash through him.

She hadn’t come to his room. He’d waited, ridiculously hopeful, telling himself she’d knock at one, or two, or….

But she never had.

Duty, rules, appearances—she’d chosen all of them over what had flared between them in the hallway.

Yet even now, just hearing her voice made him feel twenty again, made every fishless cast and sleepless night worthwhile.