Page 42 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Tom

“It’s me. I mean, it’s Ranney. Martini. Well, obviously–duh.

” The message was so awkward to listen to, Tom winced sympathetically.

His phone had been set on mute, screen down, while he sat in a Zoom meeting with the other partners, discussing a potential project in Chile.

It was an exciting possibility, a small hotel sited on a cliff overlooking wild surf below, but he was nowhere near as interested in that as he was in her call.

Since they’d returned to Boston, he had resisted the urge to contact her. A flirty text the first night had resulted in a polite reply, and while he'd taken the hint, he'd also had his own "back to normal" dizzying comedown.

Married?

He'd bloody gotten married ? To an extraordinary woman he barely knew?

Tom wasn't the stuffed shirt Thea claimed he was, but he also wasn't on the other end of the continuum, scooping up random women in Vegas and wedding (and bedding) them.

And oh, the bedding...

Ranney was so present. Real and rooted, grounded and excited. Being naked with her was a journey, one he relished, unhurried and explorative. He appreciated her responsiveness, how she communicated during sex, how it was a partnership and not a performance.

Damn it. He was getting hard thinking about her.

She made him want it all - a real marriage - but to his surprise, she'd left Idaho quickly, the news reaching Tom second-hand through Claire.

"She said I have everything under control," she'd said with a shrug. "And Katie and Kari wanted her back in Boston."

Now he resisted contacting her, because she likely needed time. Time to freak out. Time to think. Time to catch up on work.

He was becoming a master at resistance.

Resisted calling her when he woke up in the morning, resisted it when he was pouring his coffee, when he arrived in the office, when he went out for a sandwich, and so on until he turned out the light at night.

It was like a part-time job, resisting.

Now she’d called him and he’d missed it. The universe was a cruel place.

“I was wondering, I know this sounds crazy, but would you by any chance be free for dinner on Thursday? My, uh, my–”

Without waiting to hear the rest of the message, Tom flipped over to Recents and pressed the red letters of her name. Five long rings and he was listening to her recorded voice again: Please leave your number and I’ll call you back.

When it was his turn to speak, he wasn’t any smoother than she’d been.

“Hello, it’s Tom, I’m returning your call.

I am free on Thursday, as it happens. But if I weren’t free, I would get free, so whatever you have in mind is fine, better than fine–great, in fact.

But I’m just realizing that I didn’t actually listen to your whole message, so I’m not sure of the dress code–black tie or white tie, or maybe you wanted my professional opinion on moving a wall or something?

Or you’re thinking of building a vacation house?

Or, I don’t know, you need advice on picking out a retriever puppy?

That’s about the range of my expertise but whatever you need, I’m absolutely available to help but please call me back and let me know.

Also the time. And the place. I'll be there regardless. Thank you. Cheers!”

Mortified, he double checked that the call was ended, then howled insults at himself loudly enough for Miranda, the office manager to call, “Tom? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, lovely, thanks!”

He could call Ranney back and leave a followup message apologizing for being such a bloody fool, but why underscore what he had just made incredibly obvious?

He could go home, pack his belongings, leave tonight for London, and never return, but that probably constituted some type of marital desertion and for all he knew, was punishable by law.

Then again, she'd done nearly that to him in Idaho, so...

Since the whole reason for getting married in the first place had been to help him with his Saltzman nomination and on the right side of the legal system, that seemed counterproductive.

There might be some tech-savvy way to erase his message from her voicemail, but damned if he knew what it was, and that was probably illegal, too.

Or he could open his lower desk drawer, have a bracing shot of Laphroaig, go back to work, and wait for her to call (or not call) back.

Please call back.

As long as he didn’t attempt any engineering specifications for the next hour or so, that seemed like the logical choice.

He pulled open the drawer. No bottle.

“Miranda!”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Standing, he went to his door and looked around for her. “Aren’t you supposed to come immediately and respectfully to my door and say, ‘Yes, sir?’”

"Would you prefer, "My Lord?"

Tom had no response for that. Not an office-appropriate one.

Miranda snorted. “Maybe in your generation but not in mine. I’m trying to concentrate here–I’m rewriting my job description to be a remote position. What do you think?” She angled her screen so he could read it.

“Remote… you’re the office manager! How can you work from home?”

“Everybody works from home, Tom. But I’m willing to come in one day a week if management pays for my T pass. What do we even need this expensive office space for, anyway?”

“Because we work in a creative field and creative types need other creative types around for maximum… creativity! It’s energizing.”

“Coffee is energizing. You’ve heard of Zoom, right?

” she said, incredulity, or sarcasm, or both, in her voice.

“Slack? Most of the company is in London, anyway. Our work hours barely even overlap. Wouldn’t you rather be at home right now instead of making cringey personal phone calls where we can all hear them?

You could get your own whisky and no one would ever know. ”

“ How did you..? ”

“But if you were home, you’d have no one to yell at. And if I were home, you wouldn’t have me to yell at, so…”

“I am not yelling at you,” he began but then, beneath the normal workplace buzz, a faint ringing could be heard in his office.

Architects, as a rule, keep rigorously organized spaces, and Tom was no exception. The iPhone did not require searching for; it glowed from the surface of his otherwise immaculately clean and clear desk.

“Hello?”

“Tom? It’s Ranney.”

“Right, of course, how are you?” Retracing his steps, he closed the door firmly. “It’s been–what? Well, feels like eternity. So good to hear your voice."

“Oh, you know, busy.” Her laugh was nervous.

“I wasn’t gone for long but there’s always catching up to do.

I imagine you’ve had a chance to listen to the rest of my message by now–are you still available on Thursday or did you suddenly remember a previous engagement?

I completely understand if you’re not up for this. ”

“I’m absolutely up for it, I’d be delighted, I…” He trailed off, defeated. “I didn’t actually listen to it. There was a little situation here that I needed to resolve. Could you fill me in on the details?”

“It’s my mother. She’d like to meet you. We’re kind of a close family and she knows about our, you know, our…”

“Wedding?”

“That’s one way of putting it. She knows the circumstances, but still, she’s asked us to come for dinner. It will be just the three of us, and Charlene will be there, of course.”

“Is that your sister?”

“No, no, Charlene is Mame’s companion and housekeeper. She’s unofficial family.”

“Oh, very good, so are we. Your Charlene will understand. Mame is your mother, right?”

“Yes, that’s what we call her. She’s, um, a little hard to describe? But I think you’ll like her. I know this isn’t the most exciting invitation you’ve ever had, but I would consider it a great favor.”

“I’d be delighted, truly. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do. What time shall I pick you up?”

“Really? Thank you, Tom, and no picking up required, I’ll meet you there. I’ll text you the address.”

“Certainly not. I insist. Condition of my acceptance, in fact. I’m not going to turn up on my new mother-in-law’s doorstep like a red-headed stepchild. That’s no way to start off.”

“She’s not your–like a what? ” In spite of herself, Ranney laughed.

“Just an expression. I want to do this properly so she doesn’t get the wrong impression.”

“Okay. Six o’clock, then, they like to eat early. Do you know where I live?”

She was his wife and he had no idea. Something inside his chest tore a bit at the thought.

“Text me. Six o’clock. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

“And Ranney? I'm really looking forward to this. I've missed you.”

A few beats of silence made him wonder not if he'd overstepped, but by how much, until she said, "I've missed you, too."

When the call ended, he noticed the time on the screen, 11:48. Seventy-eight hours, give or take, until he could see her again. Seventy-eight hours until he could try again to prove his worth to her, his growing sincerity about this insincere marriage.

Seventy-eight hours to pull himself together.

Tom leaned back in his chair, glaring at the mound of USCIS paperwork.

Immigration wanted everything short of his dental record.

Possibly those too, in triplicate. He’d rather draft the blueprints for a cathedral with his own blood and a toothpick than fill out another form demanding every address he’d ever lived at since infancy.

A whisky would help. A large one. Preferably straight from the bottle. Except Miranda had nicked his Laphroaig again, “for office morale.” He should fire her. He wouldn’t, of course. She was too bloody good at her job.

Then there was Ranney. Her voice from that call—hearing it again was like being wrapped in velvet and set on fire all at once. Every cell in his body was vibrating with the need to hear her again.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Tom?” Miranda’s tone was dry enough to strip paint. “The Saltzman folks have follow-up questions.”

"Of course they do."

Miranda arched a brow. “Also, your mother called.”

“I’ll ring her back later.”

“She called again,” Miranda continued, “and left a message that you’d better answer because it’s urgent. Now, I know you told me to block all calls from Thea?—”

Tom groaned. “You didn’t?—”

“I didn’t. But I can’t block your mum. That’s cruel. Except...” Miranda grinned wickedly. “She called my personal number.”

Miranda held her mobile in her right hand like it was poisonous.

“She did not!”

“I’m 90% sure it’s not your mother on the line. I think your stepsister hijacked her phone.”

Tom swore under his breath. “Hand it over.”

Miranda passed the phone with a flourish.

“Darling boy!” Thea’s voice erupted from the speaker the moment he said hello. He could practically hear her smirk. "How is my sweet snookums? I labored for thirty-three hours to give birth to you and -- "

“Thea.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re calling me on Mother’s phone? And on my assistant’s personal line? Where the hell are you?”

"Visiting her." Tom knew damn well some shallow social event must have dragged Thea to London, and a visit with his mother was part of a larger plan.

“Well, you told that little pit bull of yours not to put me through anymore,” she replied breezily.

Aha. There it was.

“I had to get creative. You can’t ignore family forever, Tommy.”

“I can try,” he muttered.

“Rude. Anyway, I need something from you.”

“Of course you do. What is it this time? Did your favorite Hermès scarf get eaten by one of your toy dogs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No, this is about Charlie’s wedding . ”

Tom rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What about it?”

“I need the guest list , ” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “With full fashion intel. I absolutely refuse to show up wearing something even remotely similar to Ani, or God forbid, one of the bridesmaids. You know how cruel the society pages can be.”

“I am not your personal fashion spy,” Tom said flatly. “And I don’t have the bloody list. Wedding Protectors have that locked down tighter than Fort Knox. You’ll have to ask Nilly, or Kari, or whoever is wrangling this circus.”

Thea sniffed. “Don’t be lazy. You’re family.

Charlie listens to you. Well, he listens to you more than he listens to me, which, frankly, I resent.

But that’s irrelevant. Just… get the list. Or ask that American woman—what’s her name?

The old one. You know. The one organizing all this.

She was in Idaho. She seems nice enough. She’ll give you details.”

His jaw tightened. Old one.

“Ranney isn’t—she’s not involved like that,” he said, a little too sharply.

“Ooooh,” Thea teased, her voice sing-song. “You’re awfully defensive about her for someone who claims not to care. Anyway, just handle it. I want my dress to outshine every other woman there, and I refuse to compete with Charlie’s Spanish goddess of a fiancée without sufficient warning.”

Tom glared at the phone, even though she couldn’t see it. “Goodbye, Thea.”

“Don’t be cranky, bro,” she said sweetly. “I’ll text you a list of designers I’m considering. Just weigh in, won’t you? You’ve got decent taste. For a man. A straight one, at least.”

And with that, the line went dead.

“Bloody Thea!” He exclaimed as Miranda walked into his office carrying his bottle of Laphoraig and a highball glass. She poured him a finger, neat, then exited.

With the bottle in hand.

Tom set the phone down with a muttered curse. He’d rather deal with USCIS than Thea’s couture crises.

Velvet and fire, he thought again, Ranney’s voice replaying in his head like an antidote to his stepsister's madness.

Seventy-eight hours.

He drank the shot.

Just seventy-eight more hours.