Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (32 page)

“Matthew?”

“Just open the document named after you.”

America has spent three seasons getting to know Randi Woodruff, host of
From the Ground Up
, through the glare of television screens.

I’ve spent three weeks getting to know her in person. No screen of separation.

So I thought.

Miranda closed her eyes against the pain Matthew’s words conjured. She sat cross-legged on her bed, hunched over her laptop, the flash drive plugged into her USB port. A lit candle on her bedside stand scented her room with vanilla.

Why had Brad given this to her? Hadn’t he known Matthew’s article would slice into her determination to put the past month behind her?

Forget the past month. How about the past three years?

Yes, that’s what she meant to do. Start over, with honesty as her focus. Oh, how good it felt to face the future in the arms of truth.

Which is why Miranda was tempted to clamp the laptop closed. Why relive the angst?

And yet, lingering questions jabbed at her. Why hadn’t Matthew published the article? Certainly she would have heard about it if he had. Was he saving it for future use? And perhaps the biggest question: Why send it to Brad?

Curiosity sent her eyes back to the screen. And despite her better logic, she continued reading. She read as Matthew revealed the truth about her marriage, as he delved into the truth
about why she left Brazil—both times—and how she fell into her role on
From the Ground Up.

How odd to read a story about herself containing more fact than she’d ever revealed in three years of public life. And by a man who’d known her only weeks.

She unfolded her legs, let one dangle over the side of the bed as she read. The candle crackled, its sweet aroma mirroring the feelings wiggling their way through her. Nonsensical feelings. Because she should have been infuriated at the way Matthew spilled her secrets in Times New Roman font. She should have felt betrayed.

But for once, rejection didn’t walk its usual path through her emotions. Instead, sour though the truth may be, Matthew’s honest portrayal honeyed into her heart. He wrote beautifully, insightfully. He’d
seen
her. All of her. Enough to capture her in vivid words.

Her gaze landed on his closing paragraphs.

If Randi Woodruff is so afraid of showing the viewing public the real woman beneath her fame, I have to ask myself, what else is she afraid of?

Is it fear that holds her back from finishing her own home?

Is it fear that sends her to church only when she’s certain she’ll find the sanctuary empty?

And is it fear that traps her in the comfort of a fake relationship rather than braving the possibility of true love?

Yes.
First she breathed the word, then spoke it out loud. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Miranda’s gaze swung to the doorway of her bedroom. Blaze. He wore his standard faded jeans and zippered hoodie. The cast covering his left arm was covered in signatures, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“It’s that time already?”

“’Fraid so, kiddo. Our wedded bliss is about to meet its demise.” He exaggerated a sad face. “I know you’ll miss me. If you like, I can snip a lock of hair for you to remember me by.”

She tossed a throw pillow at him. “Save your hair. But . . . I will miss you.” Yes, she could admit it.

He dropped his bag in the doorway and flopped onto her bed. “Me or my cooking?”

“Both.”

“Well, so you know, I packed your freezer with food. You’re set for two weeks, at least.”

Sunlight poured in from the window, highlighting the tan of his skin, the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Why’d you do it, Blaze?”

He cocked his head. “Do what?”

“All this. Spend a month living here, playing house, keeping secrets you had no obligation to keep?”

“You already asked me that, remember? That night at the restaurant.”

“Yeah, but instead of answering, you went and set your arm on fire.”

His chuckles bounced the mattress until finally he sighed and leveled her with sincerity. “I guess it was because I know what it’s like to feel trapped by a secret.”

“And yet you helped me keep mine.”

He shrugged, his back against her bedroom wall. “When a person goes to such crazy lengths to keep a secret, they can’t be far away from having the whole thing blow up. Maybe I just wanted to be around for the explosion.” His grin drew her laughter, but gradually quiet settled over the space. “Thing is, now that you’ve gone and faced your stuff, I’m pretty sure I can’t get out of facing mine any longer.”

“You’re going home? Michigan, right?” Why hadn’t she thought to ask him more about his past? His family?

He nodded with a long sigh. “Yup. I can already hear the hometown gossip chain: Prodigal son returns after disgracing himself in a fake marriage.”

Miranda hung her head. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. I jumped at the chance. Remember? Besides, anything they’re saying about me now can’t compare to . . .” His voice trailed off.

She felt the urge to pry, but he pointed to her laptop before she could. “What are you working on?”

“Way to change the subject. You get to know my secrets, but I don’t get to know yours?”

“Not yet. But I’ll stay in touch. Deal?”

“Deal. And I wasn’t working. Actually, I was reading Matthew’s article.”

Blaze’s eyebrows popped up. “No way. Dude, I thought he hadn’t published anything since the gala.”

“He hasn’t. I, uh, don’t think he’s going to.”

“May I?” He reached for the laptop. Minutes later, he whistled. “Wow.”

“I know. He’s a good writer.”

Blaze’s eyes danced over his crooked grin. “Not what I was wowing, Rand.”

She rose from the bed. “C’mon. Let’s get you to the airport.”

“Now who’s changing the subject?” Blaze closed the laptop. “He pegged you, honey.”

She stilled. “I know.”

“And that is one doozy of an article.”

She knew that, too.

“Now that you’ve read it, what’re you going to do?”

That, she didn’t know. Except . . .

An idea took root. “Blaze, what would it mean for you
if this article was published? I know what it’d mean for me, but—”

He stood. “Hey, don’t worry about me. If the worst people ever say about me is I spent a month pretending to be Randi Woodruff’s husband, I think I’ll be all right.”

She bit her lip. There was the crew to consider. The offer from the network. Even the people at the Giving Heart Foundation. How would they look if she did what she was considering?

But maybe the better question to ask was, what might the future look like if she did?

“Can’t believe it, Matthew. You actually accepted it.” Jase whistled. “She’s a beauty.”

A cold wind hit Matthew’s face as he lifted the helmet from his head and propped it under his arm. The motorcycle still shined—clean leather, gleaming chrome. It smelled of polish and memories.

“Not gonna lie, it felt like a kick in the gut to call Dad and tell him I’d changed my mind.”

Jase bent to run a hand along the side fairing. When he straightened, he turned a quizzical eye on Matthew. “What made you do it? And more importantly, can I take it for a spin?”

“’Course you can.” Matthew thrust the helmet toward Jase. “But you have to be careful. I’m not keeping it. Only reason I accepted it is so I could sell it.”

Jase scrunched his brow. “Really? Is that fair to Dad?”

“He knows my plan, didn’t argue. I think maybe he sees it as his way of helping, too.”

“Helping . . . ?” Jase shook his head as Matthew’s meaning dawned on him. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Yes way. This bike is worth over ten thousand dollars. The insurance company is going to make you pay, what, thirty thousand before they’ll cover the rest of Cee’s surgery? This gets us a third of the way there.”

“You’re amazing for offering, bro, but I don’t think I can accept it.”

“Fine, then I’ll give it to Cee. She’s not too proud to take it.”

Overhead clouds paled the sky. Bare trees leaned in the wind. Matthew tapped the seat of the bike. “So, you want to take a ride before I head over to the Ducati dealer?”

“First things first.” Jase threw an arm around Matthew, slapping his back in a brotherly hug. “You know I had to at least try to argue.”

“Of course.”

The rap of a screen door smacking shut in the wind sounded from the house. Matthew turned. “You are not letting my husband ride that bike!” Izzy called from the doorway.

But when Matthew glanced at Jase, his brother had already pulled the helmet on. “Sorry, honey, can’t hear you,” his muffled voice called back. He slung one leg over the bike, then leaned in. “Hey, try to talk Izzy down before I get back, all right? She’s giving me a death glare from the porch.”

Matthew chuckled as Jase motored off, then headed for the house. “Don’t worry, Iz, he’s going like forty-five miles an hour.”

She clucked her tongue. “Yeah, but you’re putting ideas in his head.” She sighed. “Come on in. I made brownies. You can tell me how the job search is going, what your plans are.”

“I don’t have much of a plan yet.” He stepped into the house, but before the door closed behind him, the sound of another engine drew a backward glance.

“Who’s that?” Izzy said, looking past Matthew. “I don’t recognize the car.”

Red convertible. Who . . . ? Matthew inhaled sharply as he recognized the figure behind the steering wheel. “Blaze.”

“What?”

“No, who.”

Blake Hunziker stepped out of the car, shaggy hair sticking
out from under his stocking cap. Blaze lifted one palm as he made for the house, but any friendliness was hidden beneath pressed lips and narrowed eyes.

“Oh my,” Izzy said from behind. “I recognize him from the photos on your blog. That’s Randi Woodruff’s husband . . . pretend husband.”

Matthew met Blaze at the top of the porch steps. “Hey, Hunziker. What are you doing here?”

Blaze jabbed a finger at his own chest. “I’ll ask the questions, dude.”

“Ooo-kay.” Blaze angry? This was a first. And it could get . . . interesting.

“And I’ll start with this: What is your problem?”

“Excuse me?”

A hand, Izzy’s, shot out from behind Matthew. “Hi, I’m Isabelle, Matthew’s sister-in-law.”

Blaze shook her hand, but his eyes never strayed from Matthew’s face. Matthew slid Izzy a glance. She gave a befuddled shrug. “Uh. Obviously you two need to talk, sooo . . .” She let the door close behind her, but then popped her head back out. “Come in for brownies whenever you work out whatever it is you need to work out.”

When the door creaked closed, Matthew faced Blaze again. “Shall we try again? What brings you to Minnesota? Did you drive all the way here?”

“Yes, because I couldn’t even make it to my flight from North Carolina—your media kin mobbed me. Now tell me, have you been living under a rock or are you just plain stupid? Man, she poured out her heart for you!”

“Miranda?”

“Of course Miranda. And you guys thought I was the dense one. Have you looked at your blog?”

“Why would I? I haven’t posted anything new.”

Blaze shook his head. “That explains it, I guess. Because if you’d read it and not done anything—”

“Read what?” Matthew spurted, exasperation pummeling his words.

“She let them publish it, man. Your article about her. Not just
let
them, she
asked
them to. They posted it on the blog like a week back, along with an introduction by Rand herself. I called her from the road a couple days ago, and when she told me she hadn’t heard from you, I decided to come up here and knock some sense into you.”

Matthew couldn’t keep up. He was still back on Blaze’s first headline:
Today
had published his article? Because . . .

Miranda asked them to. Why would she do it? He’d written it in a weary flurry of irritation and disappointment, outed every secret she worked so hard to protect.

“Blaze, I . . .”

Blaze jerked a thumb behind him. “Get in the car.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you to the airport, and you’re going to man up and tell that woman—”

Matthew broke into laughter. Unadulterated, bordering on giddy.
Miranda Woodruff, you are something else.
And Blaze . . . “Whoa, buddy, ease up. Give me a chance to digest this. I need to read that article.”

“And then you’ll do something? You swear? I didn’t drive all this way for nothing?”

“Wait a second . . . You drove all this way when you could have just called?”

Blaze rubbed his face. “Yah, well, maybe I was looking for an excuse to put off getting home . . . and I’ve never been to Minnesota—another checkmark on my bucket list.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then Blaze repeated, “So, promise me you’ll do something about Randi?”

The breeze set Izzy’s wind chimes jingling. From down the street, Matthew heard the rumble of the motorcycle. “Yes. I’ll do something.”

Blaze backed up. “All right, then. Well, I’ll be seeing ya.”

“Wait a sec, you come all this way, find me at my brother’s house, and . . . Wait a minute, how
did
you find me
here
?”

Blaze hopped down the porch steps. “You can find anything on the Internet.”

“But how did you know . . . ? Oh, never mind. Seriously, though, you drive this far out of your way and talk to me for five minutes, and now you’re just going to take off?”

“Well, originally I planned to throw a punch, so consider yourself lucky. Hey, I got places to be, man. So, yeah, I’m taking off.”

Matthew followed him to his car. “Where to?”

Blaze pulled his car door open. “Home. I’ve got my own manning up to do.”

There was mystery there. But it wasn’t enough to pull Matthew’s focus. He had an online article to read. A motorcycle to sell. A decision to make.

A plane ticket to buy?

“Oh, one more thing.” Blaze turned back to Matthew, leaving his door ajar. “Almost forgot.” He bounded back to the porch and held out an envelope. “For you.”

“What’s this?”

“You talked all the time about your niece. Rand told me about the surgery she needs.” He shrugged. “And I don’t feel right about keeping the money I got paid to play Randi’s housemate. Sooo . . .”

“Blaze—”

“I could still throw that punch, man, so don’t argue.”

Matthew stared at the envelope. So much emotion . . . all of it good. He clapped one hand on Blaze’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug. “You’re a good man, Blaze.”

Blaze leaned back, smirked. “I know.” He was halfway back to his car before he turned one last time. “Make sure to tell Rand her fake guy gives her real one his blessing.”

A November chill whipped through Miranda’s hair as she balanced on a beam twelve feet in the air. One hand gripped an overhead slanted plank of her would-be ceiling, the other rested on her waist. In the distance, the Smokies rose and fell in rolls of brown and green, a ready bed for the eventual white of winter. Soon.

Which was why she should get to work instead of perching like an eagle atop what would’ve been the roof of the unfinished half of her house. She took a breath—inhaling pine and cold, exhaling pure pleasure. A bird screeched as it cascaded by, and Miranda could almost taste its freedom. One more deep breath . . . and then she tapped the plank above and lowered to her knees, then her backside, legs dangling over the side of the beam.

“You must have really liked playing on monkey bars when you were a kid.”

Miranda’s gaze dove down at the sound of the voice, hand gripping her wooden seat.
Oh. Ohhh.
“W-what are you . . .”

“Doing here?” Matthew Knox tipped his head all the way back to look at her. “Ah, well, I came to talk. Was sort of hoping that could happen on the ground, though.”

She scooted to where she’d propped a ladder against the finished wall. Seconds later, her feet touched the ground. It shouldn’t be so hard to look at him, but it took every speck of resolve in her to meet Matthew’s hazel eyes. They danced with flecks of color, like always. And like always, his grin sent butterflies ramming into the sides of her stomach. Her heart did the flip-flopping thing, too. As for the air in her lungs . . .

Wow, love did violent things to one’s internal organs.

Wait, love?
After only a month?

He took a step closer.

Oh yeah.

“Hi,” he finally said.

“Hi.” A whisper. And then, “Hi. Um, so, really, what are you doing here?”

He looked good. Hair trimmed, perfect five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin, as usual, and a dark fleece zip-up. Oh great, and she was wearing an old flannel shirt and her holey-est jeans. Lovely.

“Like I said, I hoped we could talk.”

“All right.” His eyes scanned their surroundings. Was he looking for Blaze? Robbie? “I’ve got my place back to myself,” she offered.

His gaze returned to her. “How’s it feel?”

“Strangely quiet.”

He moved away, took a few steps around the open-air room, like a surveyor assessing the property. “Decided to get to work on the master suite?”

She stuffed her hands in her back pockets. “Yes and no. I’m actually tearing it out.”

That froze him in place. “Say again?”

She shrugged, running a hand along a stud she’d pull down before the day was over. “I realized I like the house just the way it is. It really doesn’t need . . . more. And if I do ever decide to add on, I think I’d like to start fresh, with a new floor plan.”

His eyes lit up as if she’d handed him a Pulitzer. “But what will you do about the foundation? It’s cement.”

“You ever used a jackhammer, Knox?” She flashed a sly grin.

“You and your power tools.”

Silence draped over them like a canopy. At once, both weighty and light. She’d told herself she wouldn’t see Matthew again.
That it was best that way. That she’d done what she could to set things right, and that was enough.

Yet the curiosity had refused to stay buried. Did he know she’d called the magazine? Had he read the blog? She gulped. The whole blog?

“I can’t stand it anymore. Please tell me what you’re doing here.” The words burst from her, impatient puffs of white air erupting from her lips.

Another step closer, his voice low and husky. “It’s come to my attention, Ms. Woodruff, that you’re not actually married. See, I read this blog . . .”

Her heart lurched.

“Actually, I printed it out.” He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and cleared his throat. “This part in italics is a note from Randi Woodruff herself. And I quote . . .”

But he didn’t have to read it out loud for her to know what it said. She’d labored over those few short sentences for hours, truth and emotion spilled like twin waterfalls, before sending the article to Greg Dooley.

A girl can learn a lot from a reporter like Matthew Knox: how to ask all the right questions, for instance. How to be a true friend. Even, yes, how to dance. But most of all, she can learn that truth paves the way for love.

“‘And it’s because I love you,’” Matthew finished, “‘my viewers, as well as my crew, my show, and quite possibly a certain reporter, that I’ve asked
Today
to publish this final article. It’s written by Matthew Knox. And it’s the truth.’”

Did he see the unstoppable blush taking over her face when his eyes connected with hers? Did he know she’d meant every single word? Should she tell him Lincoln Nash had gone ballistic? That suddenly it looked as if the network was ready to
release her from her contract, the chances of a fourth season less likely than ever?

And that she was honestly okay with it?

“You got one thing wrong, Miranda.”

She bit her lip. Hadn’t expected that.

“You’re not just a girl. Nor are you just a tomboy or a television star or a promising dance student—”