Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (10 page)

Livvy huffed. “So, fine, what about the other guy? The reporter. He’s cute. Like a young Captain von Trapp.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s married, so maybe if you sing a few bars of ‘Do-Re-Mi . . .’”

Liv rolled her eyes and pulled a deep purple dress from the pile. “Gorgeous color.”

Miranda shook her head. “Too flashy for tonight. We’re eating on the terrace at the Timberlane.” According to Brad it was a classy but laid-back restaurant where she and Blaze would get attention without looking as if they were, well, trying to get attention. Lincoln and Brad had planned the outing down to the last detail. She was surprised
they
hadn’t picked out her dress.

“As for Matthew, he’s . . .” Miranda searched for the word, conjuring the image of Matthew holding Lola during a lemonade break at Audrey’s, twinkle lighting his eyes and boyish grin stretching his cheeks. “He’s nice.”

Liv smirked. “Vaguest word in Webster’s dictionary.”

Miranda traced the circled pattern of Grandma Woodruff’s quilt atop her bed. “I thought he’d be a pain to have around, but he’s so easygoing. Just fits in with whatever’s going on around him. You should’ve seen the way he helped out at Audrey’s house today. And last night, we had ice cream out in the cabin, and—”

“You mean your and Robbie’s—”

“Yes. And somehow I ended up talking about South America and my parents, and he just . . . listened.”

Liv laughed. “What’s amazing to me isn’t that he listened, but that you actually talked about it. Either you’re turning over a new leaf or the man has some kind of superpower.” Liv held up a black dress with white polka dots. “Now, this is cute.”

“And probably four years old. I bought it right after we returned to the States. Thought it looked like something Audrey Hepburn would wear.”

“You’re right, it has
Roman Holiday
written all over it. Goes in the possibility pile.” She paused, pursing her lips as if weighing her next words. “Rand, have you considered that this reporter might be trying to butter you up? He is out for a story, after all.”

Miranda fingered the ruffled collar of the green dress atop the heap of dresses. “I don’t think he’s like that.”

“She says without knowing a thing about the man.”

“Not true. I know his dad left him when he was a teenager. And he has this niece, Celine, who he’s crazy about.”

In fact, he’d asked Audrey to take a photo of him posing with Miranda, which he’d texted to Celine. Apparently, she was a
From the Ground Up
fan.

Miranda also knew Matthew was a hard worker. He’d more than kept up today. He had a curiosity about him, too. Like on the way home from Audrey’s when he’d joked about not paying enough attention in his high school shop class.
“What’s a coping saw, anyway?”

He’d given such attention to her answer. Like it—maybe she—really mattered.

“Your grin makes me nervous.” Was that actually worry creasing Liv’s forehead?

“What do you mean?” Miranda rose, an onset of discomfort
crawling through her. It was probably the thought of parading her imitation marriage tonight in Asheville.

“Just that Gregory Peck should be so lucky to get a smile like you just flashed from Audrey. And it has me wondering.”

Miranda stood, reached for the polka-dot dress, held it up against herself. The straps of the sleeveless dress tied around the neck. The fabric pulled in at the waist, then flared to her knees. She’d need a wrap, considering the cool night.

Resolute, she nodded. “This one.”

“You know you don’t have to go through with this, don’t you?” Liv’s serious tone invited tension into the room.

“Dinner out? Lincoln insists. The sooner we give the public their first glimpse of my mysterious mister, the better.”

“I mean the whole thing. It’s a big part to play. Barbara Stanwyck might’ve made phony nuptials look cute in
Christmas in Connecticut
, but as you so assertively pointed out mere minutes ago, this is real life.”

“Exactly. And for my real life to continue to include
From the Ground Up
, this is what I need to do.” Miranda stepped into the dress as she spoke.

“After tonight, there’s no going back. Once your and Blaze’s picture is in a newspaper, on the front of a magazine, that’s it. Exit strategy or not, he’s your new Robbie, and the lie you’ve complained to me about all this time is cemented in place.”

Liv’s statement sent pinpricks needling through her. “How can you throw that in my face now?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Liv said softly, patiently, as if Miranda were one of her kids at Open Arms. She stepped up behind Miranda to tie the dress straps behind her neck. “But I’m worried you’re losing yourself in a tangle of lies.”

“Why didn’t you say something on Saturday, when you and Brad came over?” She felt the heat of irritation taking over her face. And her alarm clock, blaring the hour in red numbers
from her nightstand, nagged her. They needed to leave soon to make their restaurant reservation.

“Because at the time, I thought this thing might force you to stand up to your producer.” Liv huffed a sigh and flopped against the pillows on her bed. “Or who knows, finally contact Robbie, get some closure.”

Not possible. Because she didn’t know where Robbie was. Wouldn’t let herself care. And there was no such thing as closure anyway.

The rhythm of a branch hitting the windowpane pulled her back to the present. “What do you want me to say, Liv? That I’ll give up everything I’ve worked for, not to mention letting down the whole crew, everyone who’s invested in the show? Not happening.”

“That’s not—”

A knock at the door interrupted Liv’s strained reply. “Miranda?”

Matthew. Disconcerting as the conversation had become, she welcomed the intrusion. She inched the door open. “Hey.”

His eyes traveled the length of her in one admiring swoop. “And I thought you made overalls look good.”

No missing Liv’s whispered, “Oh, brother.”

Miranda opened the door another inch, motioning behind her. “This is Liv, the friend I told you about who runs Open Arms.”

He nodded. “Nice to meet you.” His scrutiny flitted from Liv to the room behind her. What did he make of the place? Honey-colored walls, the greens and blues of Grandma’s quilt on the bed, redwood furnishings. Did the room betray its single occupancy? What if the whole house did?

“So, did you need something?”

“I know tonight’s sort of a PR thing for you. Have you considered it could get a little crazy afterward?”

“Not sure I follow.”

“Follow . . . exactly. What if the paparazzi follow you home?”

“I’m not that big of a celebrity.”

“My blog had over 450,000 hits today.”

Shock slicked through her, pushing goose bumps to the surface of her bare arms. Behind her, Liv whistled.

“I was thinking, I might be able to help. Be your decoy. I’ll take your truck. You and Blaze can slip away in my Jeep. Leaving in a different vehicle than you came in couldn’t hurt.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Though it might be wishful thinking to assume she’d attract that much attention. Still, surprise warmth glided through her at Matthew’s thoughtfulness.

“We’ll just need to arrange a key swap. Outside the restaurant when you leave?”

“Sure. It’s a date. A plan, I mean. Not a date. ’Cause I don’t do dates ’cause I’m married. Not that I meant
date
that way anyway.” Oh, someone just stuff a sock in her mouth already.

The corner of Matthew’s mouth quirked and he turned.

Liv’s smirk greeted her when she reentered her bedroom. “Don’t do dates, huh. And what would you call tonight?”

“A publicity stunt.”

Liv stood, crossed the room, and placed her arm around Miranda’s shoulder, surveying her in the mirror. “You look fabulous. And remember I’m here for you no matter what.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I could think of another way to save the show. You know that, don’t you?”

Liv turned, retrieving a sheer black wrap from a hook on the closet door. “Just be careful, all right? In the span of a couple days you’ve gone from secluded celebrity to having two men roaming your house.”

“I can handle Blaze. As for Matthew, he’s only after human-interest stuff. I’m not worried.”

“Makes one of us.”

“Liv—”

“I know, you’ll be fine. Because you’re Randi Woodruff. You can take a few pieces of wood and a hammer and construct a house, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Your confidence is inspiring.”

Livvy handed off the wrap, then reached around Miranda’s head to pull out the tie holding her hair back. She fluffed Miranda’s hair. “There, it looks perfect down and loose. You need a cute purse, though. I’ve got my red one downstairs. I’ll go empty it.”

Miranda ran a brush through her hair, slipped on her shoes, and paused for a final glance in the mirror. She ran both palms over her bare arms, stilled, and remembered.

One more thing to do.

She pulled on the glass knob of her vanity drawer, and with an unsteady hand, felt her way to the back until her fingers recognized the softness of velvet. She removed the box from the drawer and held it up in front of her face.

How long since she’d shoved the ring box out of sight, vowed never to pull it out again? A year and a half, two years? She’d gotten away without wearing a ring due to the practicalities of her job.

She’d given Matthew the usual explanation just today when she’d caught him looking at her hand.

“Jewelry is a no-no at work sites. I only wear mine when I know I’m not going to be around power tools and wood—on special occasions.”

“So I suppose your date tonight counts as a special occasion.”

It was the third time he’d asked about the date since they’d started working. His reporter’s curiosity was obvious. Why—after years of not stepping out in public with her husband, when she was notorious for protecting her privacy—was she all of a sudden now okay with their being seen together? Not just okay but making an effort? That’s what he wondered, right?

After brushing him off twice, she’d finally decided to shoot straight. While they’d worked on the porch, she told him about
From the Ground Up
’s iffy ratings and Lincoln’s certainty that finally spotlighting her husband was the key to securing the show’s future. As soon as she’d finished explaining, doubt started chipping away at her. She’d so easily slipped into trusting Matthew Knox. But what if he took what she’d just said and published it in tomorrow’s blog? Made her out to be a publicity hound?

But he’d said little after her explanation.

“I suppose all that sounds fishy,” she prodded.

He laid down his hammer. “Not really. Just kind of . . . unromantic.”

Miranda blinked now, skimming her thumb over the ring box in her hands. She used to keep it on the nightstand, torture herself by creaking it open in weak moments.

Unromantic.

Matthew had no idea.

With her thumb, she popped open the case. The square-cut diamond inside glistened as keenly as the day Robbie had presented it to her. When he’d knelt, waited for her squeal, and pushed the ring into place.

Well, tonight she’d do the honors. Miranda plucked the ring from the case and slipped it over her finger.

“You look as uncomfortable as a snowman in the tropics.”

Miranda gritted her teeth. The whiny saxophone of the jazz band inside floated to the outdoor terrace of the Timberlane restaurant. “That’s hardly a complimentary thing to say to your wife.”

Across the table, Blaze flashed his pearly whites. His hair covered his ears and brushed the collar of his button-down
shirt, but he was freshly shaven. He even wore a tie—a lime green one, but still, it was the dressiest she’d seen him.

And the most mischievous. His eyes glimmered with playfulness as he reached across the table to pat her hand. Did he possess even a speck of understanding of the importance of this night?

“I’m just saying, you need to relax. Just because we’re at an uptight restaurant doesn’t mean you need to be.”

“To you, this may only be a free meal at a ritzy joint, but tonight could make or break this marriage, which could, in turn, make or break my career.” Her focus jumped from table to surrounding table. Were any of the journalists Brad mentioned here? Oh wow, was that Congressman Franklin a couple tables over? “What if nobody recognizes me, Blaze?”

Candlelight flickered in his dark eyes. “Then tomorrow we’ll go somewhere else where the people are more observant.” His dimples deepened with his goofy grin.

“Why do you keep smiling like that?”

“Because we’re supposed to look like we’re in love. Which is why you really should consider leaning forward a bit. Your posture might impress what’s-her-name, you know that old manners lady . . .”

“Emily Post?”

“But it sure doesn’t give the impression you’re thrilled to be here with me.”

A groan rumbled through her throat, but the man had a point. As their waiter approached, she forced her shoulders to relax and propped her elbows on the table, head tipped toward Blaze. “Better?” she whispered.