Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (6 page)

Anything to help Celine. To do something, for once, that mattered.

Of course, he had to actually
find
Miss Homebuilding
Celebrity before he could get to work. Hope crept in at the sight of a vehicle up ahead. Maybe he’d find a local who could point him the right direction. But why was the truck stopped along the road?

He slowed his Jeep as he approached, and as he reached the vehicle ahead—an old Ford truck that looked like something off the set of
The Waltons
—the full situation registered. The river running parallel to the road had curved and spilled over up ahead, flooding the road. And the driver of the truck had driven right in.

He braked and shifted into Park. Was the driver still in the truck? He hopped out of his Jeep and walked up to the truck bed. The front end dipped into the water. As far as he could tell, no one sat in the driver’s seat.

“Oh well. So much for luck.”

A screech sounded from the truck bed as a head popped into view.

Matthew jerked, his own gasp jumping from his throat. “Whoa, you scared me!”

The woman in the truck bed sat up. “I scared you? I thought I was out here in the middle of nowhere, alone, and suddenly I hear this voice.”

Alluring gray eyes, wide with shock, connected with his. So familiar . . . “You didn’t hear me drive up?”

A shrug and half smile. “Guess I was in my own world. A nice feeling, actually . . .” Her voice trailed at the end.

“You look like you could use some help.”

She slid from the truck bed, bare feet landing on grass, her yellow dress wrinkled. “You mean ’cause of the river slurping on my truck?” She chuckled. “Just needs a little push. I was going to do it myself, but I don’t have to be back for another thirty minutes, so I was taking advantage of the opportunity. Plus, I don’t mind making my manager squirm over my absence.”

Her manager? She grinned as she spoke, sunlight casting a shine on her dark curls. Why did he feel like he’d met her before? Like he’d admired her smoky eyes . . .

His jaw dropped as it dawned on him. “You’re Randi Woodruff.”

Amusement played over her face as she rounded the truck. “At your service.”

He hadn’t expected the star-struck daze settling over him. Nor the sudden onset of nervousness. “You’re, uh, taller in person than you look on TV.”

Her laughter filled the mountain quiet. Her cheeks were rosy, probably from the autumn chill in the air. “You should see me in the heels they’re trying to make me wear. A regular Sasquatch.”

So not the word he’d have used to describe her.

She leaned against the truck. “Where you going taking the Ol’ Pass Road? Other than us locals, people quit using it years ago.”

“I’m lost. I’m trying to find Pine Cove . . . the set of your show, actually.”

She gave him a curious glance, then stumbled as the front of the truck sank farther in the sludge underneath. His arms shot out to catch her before she tripped into the water. And when she looked up at him, every self-conscious nerve in him stood at attention.
Oh boy . . .

Steady, Knox.
He practically pushed her away. “Careful. You’ll ruin your dress.”

There was that celebrity smile again. “Don’t I wish. Anyway, as long as you’re here, if you want to help me out with the truck, I can get you to the Cove. You missed the turnoff. It’s just a couple miles back.”

“Sure thing. We can push this out easy.”

“Since you’ve got some muscle on me, I’ll steer.” She plopped a bare foot into the mud surrounding the truck and climbed in.

“Just a sec, Miss, uh, Mrs. . . . Randi?” He knelt to untie his Converse shoes and roll up his pant legs.

“I’m Randi on set,” she said out the truck window. “But I prefer Miranda.”

He stood, met her eyes. “Miranda.”

Laughter rang from the driver’s seat as Miranda took in his rolled-up jeans. “Nice look, Huckleberry Finn.”

“Funny. Mock all you want, but I’m not the one who drove my truck into a flooded roadway.”

“I was daydreaming, all right?”

He stepped up to her open door. “About what?”

Her gaze shifted to the view outside her windshield. “Taking an entire month off work. Expanding my workshop. Buying a new cabinet saw with chrome-plated surfaces. Woodworking to my heart’s content.” She straightened in her seat, facing him once again. “Probably sounds silly.”

He shook his head. “Not silly. Just not much like an ordinary vacation.”

“Well, I’ve never been all that ordinary.” Her comment hovered between nonchalant and something more. “All right, let’s do this.”

He pushed her door shut, then dipped a toe into the river. The cold sent shivers up his leg. She started the engine. He forced his other foot into the water and, standing knee-deep in the river, braced himself against the hood of her truck.

“Ready?” she called out the window.

“Stick it in Reverse and go for it.”

He threw his weight into the vehicle, pushing until his back strained, mud squishing between his toes. The vehicle barely budged, and as soon as he let up, it settled back into its mud bed. He took a breath, pushed again, swallowing the taste of humiliation.

He felt the jerk of the truck as Miranda shifted into Park.
She jumped down from the truck. “New plan. Why don’t I put it in Neutral? I’ll help push and as soon as it’s out, one of us can hop in and steer.

He shrugged. “All right.”

She reached inside to shift into Neutral, then padded around to the front of the truck. She didn’t even flinch as she waded into the water. They stretched their arms beside each other, palms atop the hood. He slid her a glance. “Why do you drive such a beast anyway?”

“It was my grandpa’s. So sentiment or stubbornness, I don’t know, but I love this rusting heap.” She paused, eyes gazing past the truck to the winding stretch of tree-lined road, then shook her head. “Can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

As cold numbed his feet, sympathy heated his heart. He’d done his cursory research about Randi—enough to know she’d lived with her grandparents for most of her childhood years while her parents did some kind of missionary work in South America.

“Well, let’s save your truck before the murky river eats it.”

She nodded.

But instead of pushing the truck, he slid his hand over hers. “Hey, what you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.”
What are you doing, Knox?

Her eyes climbed from her covered hand to his face. “Um. Thanks?”

Celine. He’d said it because of Celine. Because she, too, lived with that sense of being unordinary. Because it’d become second nature to voice his reassurance. He pulled his hand back. “On the count of three?”

She nodded again. “One . . . two . . . three—”

“By the way, I’m Matthew, the reporter from
Today.
I hear you have a cabin—”

At his words, she whipped her head in surprise, slipped
while he pushed. And as mud sprayed up into the air and the truck inched backward, he heard the “Oomph” as she landed in the water.

Oh man.
Perhaps not the best timing for the introduction. “I’m sorry. I’m really—”

“My truck!” she sputtered through dripping hair.

The apology would have to wait. He hopped over Miranda—
So getting kicked off this story!
—jumped into the driver’s seat, and yanked the truck into Reverse. Backing up beside his Jeep, he parked . . .

And watched through the windshield as Miranda rose from the water, dress clinging to her body, hair a dripping frame around her face.

“I’m sorry,” he called again as he fumbled out of the car. “Sorry! Let me help—” He held out an arm.

She ignored it, lifting a hand instead to push the hair out of her face. “Oooh, Whitney’s going to kill me.”

He stood at the edge of the flooded portion of the road, creek water syruping over his toes. “Your dress—”

She waved off his worry with a fling of her hand. “I hated it the second I squeezed into it.” She hugged her arms to herself as she plodded from the water and came to stand in front of him. She poked a dripping finger at his chest. “But you . . . I don’t appreciate you waiting so long to tell me you’re the reporter.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You let me go on about Grandpa’s truck. You could’ve at least identified yourself before starting the interview. And you think you’re going to weasel your way into free lodging in my cabin?”

He’d laugh at her wrinkled nose if not for the fierce look in her eyes. “I’m not trying to weasel my way into anything. Your manager offered the cabin, and—”

She stomped her foot, water and mud spraying. “I know he did. Rat.”

“Would it make you feel better if I fell in the water, too?” Stupid thing to offer. Like he had any desire to go swimming in icy water.

But she smiled at his offer. Very possibly a bad sign. “It just might, at that.” She stepped forward, a gleam replacing the annoyance in her eyes.

“I was mostly kidding, you know.”

She reached out. “Oh, really?”

He inched backward. “Miranda, please. I’m a journalist, a professional. I’m on the job right now.” At least until she canned him.

“You did say you were here to shadow me. I was in the water, therefore—”

He ducked just as she lunged forward, but lost his footing in the process. Water splashed over his face as his backside settled into the flooded mud floor, Miranda’s laughter following him down. “You’re right. I do feel better!” She reached down and sent a wave of icy water toward him.

“Why, you . . .” He splashed her back and scrambled to his feet.

“Randi Woodruff, you get out of that water this instant!”

They froze in sync at the yell from the water’s edge. Busted. And by a guy who, if he were a cartoon, would have had steam coming out of his ears about then. Matthew leaned toward Miranda. “Uh, I think we’re in trouble.”

“We? I have a television interview to do, and between my dress and the water, I look like a jaundiced river rat.”

Angry Dude crossed his arms, eyes shooting darts at Matthew as he stalked forward to pull Miranda from the creek.

“Now, Brad, don’t freak out,” she consoled.

“In the truck.”

Miranda offered Matthew a shrug, then climbed into her truck. The guy named Brad dropped into his own car, glared once more at Matthew, and motored off behind Miranda.

Matthew lifted an arm in a frantic wave, creek water dripping from his shirt. “Wait, I need to know how to get to—”

But they were already gone, with only the sound of Miranda’s muffler trailing behind. Mud slicked around Matthew’s ankles as he trudged from the creek. “Well,” he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Welcome to North Carolina.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s all I had in the truck, Walsh. Didn’t have time to raid the dressing room.” Head high, Miranda strode past a slack-jawed Brad, away from the studio porch where moments ago she’d sacrificed her last vestige of freedom from public scrutiny. A foundation spokesperson had made the award nomination announcement on the national morning news show. After a commercial, the show went to a live-feed interview with Miranda, staged in front of the set house.

“It’s bad enough you decided to have a water fight before appearing on TV. Did you really have to make it worse with
that
?” Brad pointed to her long-sleeved T-shirt, the words
Harry’s Fingerlickin’ BBQ
splashed across the front.

“Hey, Harry’s a friend of mine. He’ll appreciate the publicity.” At least she’d kept her left arm tight to her side during the interview, hiding the barbeque sauce stain from her last tangle with Harry’s tangy ribs.

“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Come on, Lincoln’s waiting to introduce you to your new hubby.”

She groaned through clenched teeth. “I feel like a teenage bride being led to meet the groom my parents arranged. What kind of dowry did you and Linc offer him?”

“Couple cows and a hundred bushels of grain.”

Brad ushered her to the side door, but she stopped him with her hand on his arm. “This is crazy. How do we even know we can trust this guy? What would make him agree to do this?”

“Money? Fame? We’ll take care of all his living expenses, plus pay him a great wage—as well as a tidy bonus if he sees this thing through. Apparently, he needs it. Appears to be a regular prodigal son—spent five years traveling around the world until he emptied his bank account.”

“And that’s who we’re trusting?”

Brad pressed his lips together, pausing before answering. “Rand, we’ve interviewed him. We’ve done background research. We feel confident this is our guy. But at the end of the day, it’s your call. Just meet him, okay?”

The sound of tires on gravel cut her off from answering. She recognized that Jeep and the guy behind the wheel. “Hey, that’s the reporter.”

“You mean the Marco to your Polo? Sure knows how to start things off on the right foot.”

“The river incident wasn’t entirely his fault.” After all, Matthew Knox had only been trying to help. Kind of nice, actually. With her handy-girl skills, she hadn’t had a man offer to help her out with so much as a light-bulb replacement since . . . she didn’t even know when.