Page 47 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Tom

“Beautiful apartment,” Tom said approvingly. “How long have you lived here?”

“Oh, a long time. Since my divorce. Nessa remembers the house where we lived before that, but this is really her home.”

He walked slowly around the living room, lightly touching the mantel, admiring the painting of seabirds hanging above it. Arriving at the sofa, he smiled when he saw the copy of The End of the Game on the cocktail table.

“Oh, it’s like seeing an old friend. This book is how we met!”

Smiling, she set two dessert plates of galette, each topped with a dollop of crème fra?che, on the table and turned back to the kitchen for the coffee.

“Yes, I’m so glad you talked me into it.”

“Did I? Talk you into it? I thought that was impossible.”

“What do you mean?” Handing him his mug, she took a sip from her own and they settled on the sofa.

“I didn’t think you could be talked into anything. You know your own mind.” His tone was gently teasing, but there was something more underneath.

“I wish that were true. The older I get, the less sure I am about everything. Especially lately.” Her tone was rueful. “The book was more like gentle persuasion. I already wanted it, but I wanted it more after you told me something special about it.”

“That night in Vegas,” he said softly, “didn’t that tell you anything special? And Idaho?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and he immediately realized he’d made a tactical error, gotten too intense, too quickly.

He should have stuck to light banter, superficial stuff, tell-me-about-this-painting and aren’t-the-city-lights-beautiful.

It had already been a stressful evening for her, fraught with family friction.

The better choice would have been laughter, comfort, relaxation. Shifting his tone of voice, he tried a u-turn:

“Because it told me that we’re a pretty good team in an awkward spot. Just like tonight.”

“Oh, yes, thank you again, everyone loved you. I wouldn’t have put you in that situation, though, if I’d known how it was going to turn out. It’s a lot to expect people to understand–our relationship, I mean.”

“I’m not sure we understand it.” Damn, he did it again– Just let her talk! Smile, respond with supportive sounds and words of one syllable!

“What don’t you understand?” Definitely chillier.

“I don’t understand…” he hesitated, then filled in the blank with “...uh, how you can look so beautiful right now?”

“I don’t think that’s what you wanted to say.”

“Okay.” He looked down at the floor, then back up to meet her eyes. Now or never. He decided to go for it. “I don’t understand why you don’t believe me, no matter how I try to tell you what I’m feeling. You just will not hear me. Why?”

Ranney looked away. “Because our age difference is too much! If you were two or maybe five–or even seven–years younger, that would be unusual but not out of the realm of possibility. But we’re practically different generations!

Nessa’s right, you have more in common with her and her friends than you do with me.

And they have nice firm rear ends and the energy to go to a club after dinner, or whatever it is you all do.

I like to maybe watch a little BritBox and get into bed with a book. ”

“There, you see? Already something we share.”

“A streaming subscription is not enough, Tom.”

“I don’t go to clubs and I can tell you from experience that your rear end is as firm as any, if it’s not indelicate to remind you.

And speaking of experience, I love that you have it.

I’m not that guy who wants to teach you everything in life and tell you what to think about it.

I never have been. I like a woman to bring her own ideas and opinions and perspective on things.

That’s sexy. You are at your peak of perfection but you make it sound as if you’re a hundred years old.

Why? Are you not attracted to me? If that’s what this is all about, just tell me and I will disappear.

” He paused. “Because that is definitely not something that I can talk you into, nor would I want to.”

“You can’t disappear. We’re legally married,” she whispered.

At her evasive answer, Tom’s whole existence seemed to shift like tectonic plates.

All of his relationships, his entire romantic history until now, had led him to believe that deep mutual attraction was evident to both parties.

Not a foregone conclusion, of course; he’d felt plenty of initial sparks with women who failed to feel anything in return, and he knew the opposite was true as well.

That was life–it was natural and unavoidable, and the important thing was neither to hurt anyone’s feelings nor create false hope.

But he’d been so sure with Ranney. He wasn’t a kid, surely he could discern the difference between a friendly one-night encounter and a connection between two souls? How could he have been so wrong?

As for their Vegas wedding… his rational brain recognized that as an altruistic impulse on her part.

A calculated risk, to be sure, but now he wondered if perhaps it was also an unconscious desire to spice up an otherwise predictable personal life?

A secret yearning for rebellion in an otherwise responsible mother/daughter/sister? Those were likely factors.

Had he been hoping for some fairytale revelation? A confession that she had somehow sensed from the very beginning that they were meant for each other, that not to marry without delay was just a waste of their too-short time together?

If that was what he was expecting, he’d been wrong. Adolescent.

Ignorant.

“It’s not that I’m not attracted to you,” she began hesitantly, but it was too little, too late. The spell was broken. Bread crumbs. Ouch.

What was he doing? Persuading her to try this relationship with him was folly. That's not how love worked. You didn't have to convince someone to explore loving you.

They just... did.

And it was clear Ranney just... didn't. And didn't want to try.

“Never mind, my darling,” he said in what he hoped was a light tone.

Standing, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Obviously I don’t see the difference in our ages as any impediment, but if you do, then it is.

Thank you for sharing Charlene’s dessert with me.

Let’s say I’ll call you when I hear from the citizenship people and we’ll figure things out from there–unless you change your mind, of course.

You can certainly opt out of this marriage at any time. ”

He headed for the door as she struggled to her feet.

“Wait, Tom!” She’d finally found her voice. “Please stay–let me try to explain–”

“I think there’s been far too much explaining going on tonight, don’t you? Some things just have to be accepted.”

His hand turned the doorknob but he didn’t feel it; his finger pressed the elevator button without realizing he’d done it. He recognized this distant feeling from other breakups, other disappointments.

It was much like slicing your finger with a kitchen knife; there’s a brief pause while the nerves register what just happened, so you stand there for a second assessing the damage while you wait for the real pain to kick in.

This cut was going to hurt.

The night air slapped him in the face the moment he stepped out of Ranney’s building. It wasn’t cold, just sharp enough to sting, to make the tightness in his chest feel more real. Shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets, he started walking.

Fast.

He didn’t have a destination, only the pounding need to move, to keep the ache inside from swallowing him whole.

Breakup. They'd just broken up. Was that even what this was? Could you break up with someone who’d never really admitted they wanted you in the first place?

Christ, stop thinking like a poet.

He was being ridiculous. A bloody fool.

But even as he tried to muscle through the thoughts, memories kept hitting him like blows to the ribs.

Ranney’s laugh, low and rich, curling around him like a ribbon.

The first time they kissed, when her fingers curled in his shirt and she made that tiny sound of surprise, as if she’d just realized how badly she wanted him too.

The Vegas night, her hair spilling over the pillow, her lips flushed and swollen from his kisses.

The way her eyes would light up when he said something that truly got her—when he understood her faster than anyone else, maybe ever.

Those moments hadn’t felt one-sided. They’d felt alive. Real.

But he'd been wrong.

He gritted his teeth and walked harder, crossing the street without looking, barely aware of the honking horn behind him.

Idiot.

Of course this would hurt. He wasn’t seventeen, this wasn’t some casual fling.

He’d let her in—he’d wanted her in—and now, hearing her talk about age like it was some impenetrable wall, it was as if she’d erased all of it.

Every kiss, every whisper in the dark, all the heat and softness they’d shared, all wiped away with a single “we’re practically different generations. ”

Boomer, GenX, Millennial, GenZ - who cared about that? Bollocks. It was all bollocks.

His breath came faster, not just from walking but from the sharp twist of anger under the hurt. Anger at her?

No.

Mostly at himself.

For thinking that he could talk her into believing in them. For thinking that just because he could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet when he touched her, she must feel it too.

He stopped at the corner, chest heaving, and stared up at the blurred city lights.

You bloody fool. You let yourself care. You fell in love. All the way, Tom. All the damn way.

And now it was costing him more than he’d expected.

Tom’s pace slowed as his thoughts sharpened, like broken glass under bare feet.

It wasn’t just that Ranney had doubts. It was that she didn’t see him as he really was.

Didn’t respect him as a man. Not fully. She talked about him as if he were some overgrown boy, closer in spirit to Nessa and her friends than to her.

Immature. A different generation. Impossible for him to understand her. To be her equal.

A man doesn’t fight to hold on to someone who doesn’t even see him as one.

The anger came quick and hot, a counterstrike to the hollow ache in his chest. He clenched his fists inside his coat pockets, wishing he could crush the feeling, erase it.

But beneath the anger was hurt—deep, cutting hurt—because for a little while, he’d let himself believe he was different in her eyes.

Special.

Necessary.

Bonded.

He stopped walking, boots scuffing to a halt at the edge of the sidewalk. Tilting his head back, he stared at the washed-out glow of the city sky. His breath came hard, steaming in the cool night air, but he forced a deep inhale, filling his lungs as if he could pull in strength with the oxygen.

Then he let it all out. Slowly. Bitterly.

It’s over.

The truth was merciless. It didn’t matter what he said, what he did, or how many times he tried to prove he was more than just some impulsive, younger man caught in a Vegas fever dream. She didn’t want to believe in him.

That was the end of it.

His fingers found the wedding band without conscious thought.

He twisted it once, twice, feeling the faint groove it had already left on his skin.

Then he slid it off. The metal was cold and light in his palm, nothing like the weight of the night they’d shared in Vegas, or the heat of her body under his.

He shoved it into his pocket like it burned.

“Fine,” he muttered under his breath, though no one was there to hear. “If this is over, it’s over.”

His jaw set, Tom kept walking, and his mind flashed to the ridiculous pink RAV4 parked back near Ranney’s building.

The car that screamed her name more than his.

He’d sell the damn thing. First thing tomorrow.

No—tonight, if he could find a buyer with cash and no questions.

Anything to sever the thread that still bound him to her.

Because holding on now felt like tearing himself apart.

In time, he'd be able to breathe without the searing pain.

But tonight was not that time.