Page 37 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Ranney

Ranney and Claire walked side by side through the lodge’s long, timber-framed hallway, each with an earbud tucked in, each holding a phone like dueling conductors leading entirely different orchestras.

“Absolutely not ‘Clumsy Charlie,’” Claire said into her mic, voice crisp and businesslike, exactly as a director of public relations could be.

“We’ll pivot to resilience. Perseverance.

A broken arm doesn’t weaken the groom. No!

It makes him relatable. He’s gallant, he’s steadfast—yes, yes. Mmm. Okay. Run with it.”

Meanwhile, Ranney was fielding her own brand of chaos. Archie, chief of security back at Wedding Protectors, came through her line with machine-gun intensity.

“A firearm discharge during a fishing trip? A drone destroyed? Ranney, where was your oversight?”

“Archie,” she replied, prepared for his upset, “no one was harmed. The guide handled it swiftly, the guests are fine, and I have the incident logged for the risk report.”

“That’s not the point.” His voice was sharp, all steel and no nonsense. “You weren’t with them. You should have been eyes-on. What if it hadn’t been a drone? What if it had been a real threat?”

Ranney inhaled, held it, exhaled. “My role was coordination, not wading into the river with fly rods. And to be clear, it was resolved with minimal disruption.”

“Minimal disruption?” Archie huffed. “One more stunt like this, and Katie is going to have me onsite tomorrow. Future excursions, you hear me? I go. Nonnegotiable. This is outrageous. If it weren't for that smart-thinking, sharp-eyed scout - ”

“Who was provided by the lodge. A lodge with its own security team,” she said smoothly, letting a prolonged silence fill in the gaps.

Archie sputtered, worlds noise filling the phone.

“Well… but… ah. Um. They - I’m sure - but they don’t have the level of wedding expertise I possess!” He finally called out, victorious in figuring out why he was crucial.

“Understood,” Ranney said coolly. She adjusted her blazer and lengthened her stride, as if posture alone could shield her from Archie’s intensity.

Ahead, the heavy wooden door to the spa wing opened. Out sashayed Thea, wrapped in what looked like a towel only smaller, flanked by two friends. Their hair was damp, their laughter exaggerated, their perfume a cloying cloud that did not belong in the cedar-scented hallway.

“Ranney,” Archie barked in her ear, dragging her back. “Katie wants to speak with you. Immediately.”

Of course she did.

Thea brushed by in her towel, chin high, perfume trailing. Her two companions followed, smirking, whispering. Then, as they reached the spa locker room door, one of them, a dark-haired beauty with gleaming wet hair and legs for days, turned her head just enough to say, loud enough to carry:

“I thought you said Tom was for me. How could you, Thea?”

The words sliced through the hallway.

She couldn't hear the rest, the woman's voice dropping, followed by giggles.

Thea froze mid-step, but only for a fraction of a second.

Then she tossed her hair, pushed open the locker room door, and disappeared inside with her entourage.

More laughter floated back before the door swung shut, leaving Ranney and Claire rooted to the floor in horrified silence.

Ranney’s stomach dropped. Her ears buzzed.

“Ranney.” Archie’s voice thundered in her ear, still on the line, relentless. “Ranney? Are you listening? Katie wants you on the line now . Ranney? Hello?”

Her hands shook. She fumbled with the phone, muttering something unintelligible, and cut the call. The dangling earbuds brushed her collar, useless.

Claire turned slowly toward her, eyes wide. “What… was that?”

Ranney couldn’t form an answer. Tom’s name echoed, sharp and mocking, bound to Thea’s laugh.

Before she could gather words, a raucous sound carried down the hallway, muffled through the walls.

Boisterous male voices, shouting with delight, echoed from outside.

It was the unmistakable chorus of men in the middle of a cold plunge.

Splashes, hollers, Charlie’s booming laugh, Nico egging someone on, Tonio yelping dramatically, Chap barking orders, along with Tom’s laugh among them, deep and unguarded.

It should have been funny. Just boys being boys. But for Ranney, the overlapping noise only amplified the hollow in her chest.

Tom was out there, laughing freely. And she was in here, frozen, with nothing but Thea’s friend's words to keep her company.

Claire’s head whipped toward the muffled shouts coming from outside, her expression tightening. “Is that—was that Chap? Was he in the sauna when those women— oh .”

Her voice dropped an octave, dangerous now. She yanked out her earbud and stuffed it in her tote like she was holstering a weapon.

“This ends here. If Thea and her little towel brigade think they can waltz into a private sauna full of groomsmen and make passes at men who are clearly spoken for—oh, Ranney, I will salt the earth behind them.”

Ranney blinked. “Claire?—”

“I can wreck them six different ways without ever lifting a finger. First, I’ll slide a photo to the right gossip blogger—the one who still owes me for killing that politician’s yacht story—and suddenly everyone’s talking about how she stole her friend’s fiancé.

Doesn’t matter if it’s true. Perception is reality. ”

“Claire—” Ranney tried, but Claire’s words sharpened further.

“And if that doesn’t stick, I’ll whisper that her so-called beauty routine is nothing but rented genetics—extensions, injections, and invoices. Sponsors will scatter. Influencer deals gone. Every bit of her sad little astroturfed online ‘empire’ will collapse like a bad soufflé.”

Ranney felt her pulse quicken, part horror, part awe. “Claire.”

But Claire wasn’t finished. “Or I’ll go simpler. A single, well-placed remark to the right donor at the right charity gala: that she's responsible for the chlamydia outbreak in Monaco back in '23. That alone could finish her in three cities before sunrise.”

“Claire!” Ranney snapped, sharper than intended.

Her colleague stopped pacing, lips pressed thin, fury radiating off her in waves.

Ranney lowered her voice. “We can’t. Not like this. We’re professionals. If we even look like we’re letting personal lives spill into the job, Kari and Katie will end us. Remember that.”

Claire’s eyes glittered, but her breathing slowed. She nodded stiffly. “Fine. For now. But there's more to life than work.”

There is? Ranney thought, then reeled inside again.

Just then, muffled booms of laughter rolled through the wall from the outdoor plunge pool. Male voices echoed—the unrestrained chorus of men shocking themselves awake in ice water. Charlie’s booming call. Nico and Tonio yelling dares. Chap’s bark. And Tom, his laugh distinct and joyful.

The sound alone was enough to shake Ranney.

But then they heard women’s laughter blended in.

Claire’s arms crossed. “Tell me I’m imagining it.”

Ranney couldn’t.

They sank onto a narrow bench along the cedar-paneled wall, their silence pressing down heavier than the eucalyptus-scented air.

Ranney clasped her hands in her lap, staring at her knuckles as though the answers might be etched there.

What a fool she’d been. All that late-night laughter, the charged glances, the way his words had made her feel like she mattered—none of it meant anything.

Of course Tom would want some young, dark-haired beauty who could drape herself across a towel in a sauna and look like sin incarnate. Not her.

Her throat burned. She was supposed to be the professional here. She was supposed to have the discipline, the control, the composure. Instead, she was the one choking on jealousy in a spa hallway while the men she was meant to be monitoring plunged into ice baths and drank whisky.

Archie should be here. Not her. Archie with his relentless suspicion and steel-spine discipline, who wouldn’t have flinched at drones or flirty women or old flames. She was in over her head. Completely. And the knowledge hollowed her out until tears blurred her vision.

She blinked furiously, willing them back—but the hot sting only worsened, spilling over before she could stop it.

“Ranney?” Claire’s voice was soft, startled. She leaned closer, head tilted, her anger gone, her usual PR armor cracking. “Hey. Are you?—”

Ranney dabbed quickly at her eyes with the edge of a tissue she’d tugged from her bag, horrified at herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anyone see her cry, least of all at work.

“I don’t—” She tried to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “God, I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

Claire’s hand brushed her arm, firm and steady. “Love makes us do and feel weird things,” she said simply.

Ranney froze, tissue still pressed to her cheek, shocked at how much that one sentence soothed and embarrassed her at the same time.

Weird things. Like this, crying on a bench at a luxury Idaho resort with a PR director she barely knew, over a man who probably never saw her as anything more than a fun daliance. A story.

An amusement.

And yet—her chest cracked open at the kindness.

Ranney’s phone buzzed against the bench, vibrating like a rattlesnake. She flinched. The screen glowed with Katie’s name.

Claire gave her hand a quick squeeze, solidarity in one sharp gesture, then nodded toward the phone.

No escape.

Ranney inhaled, swiped, and lifted it to her ear. “Katie.”

“Ranney.” Katie’s tone was brisk, no-nonsense. “Give me the rundown. Gunshots? Really?”

She did. Everything. The drone, the gunshot, the bumpy fishing trip with Tom and the men, the resort’s oddities, the missing reservation snafu. She kept it concise but thorough, layering the facts like she always did, though this time her voice caught a little on the drone part.

There was a pause.