Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (11 page)

He only winked. The waiter placed their meals in front of them, gaze lingering on Miranda before he whisked away with their salad plates.

“See that? The dude definitely recognized you.”

“Either that or I’ve got lettuce in my teeth.” The sweet smell
of apple-glazed pork made Miranda’s mouth water. She spread a linen napkin on her lap, gripped her fork, and then paused when she noticed Blaze’s stare. “What?”

“I’ve just figured out how we’re going to convince everyone we’re in love.”

“How?”

He pointed his butter knife at her plate. “The way you just looked at that pork chop, babe? That’s the look you need to give me when cameras point our way. Pure delight.”

“I can’t help it. I love me a good pork chop.”

“If I’d known all it took to get you relaxed was a hunk of meat, I’d have started grilling from day one.”

Miranda’s mouth closed around a bite, a sigh of satisfaction escaping. Tender meat and an explosion of flavor almost made the pressure of this night worth it. “How’s your steak?”

“Delectable.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of silverware and glass along with hushed conversation from surrounding tables keeping them company. Heat piped in from vents overhead mixed with the outdoor chill, and moonlight slanted in, highlighting the shiny surfaces of the terrace.

“Can I ask you a question?” Blaze said, something close to serious in his lowered voice. “How in the world have you been able to keep up this mystery-husband thing for three years? Shouldn’t someone have figured out the truth by now? How long were you planning to keep it up?”

Miranda swallowed, eyes darting to the surrounding tables. “Honestly, it hasn’t been that hard. I’m not a Hollywood star. I don’t have paparazzi following me around. I live in the mountains, Blaze. They probably couldn’t find me if they tried.” She rested her fork beside her plate. “It’s only been recently that interest has really picked up.”

“What if someone had asked to see a marriage certificate?”

She shook her head, voice soft as she leaned forward. “You’re forgetting the story. We met and married in Brazil. That international explanation has always sufficed. As for how long I planned to keep it up, well, I didn’t really. Have a plan, I mean. You have to understand, Blaze, it didn’t start out as a lie. I really thought . . .”

Miranda sucked her next words in before emotion could intrude. She picked up her fork once more. “Can I ask
you
something?”

Blaze’s head rose, the usual merriment that crinkled at the corners of his eyes replaced with consideration as he waited for her question.

“Why are you doing this? I have a vested interest, obviously, but what about you? I know you said something the other day about wanting a second chance to help someone, but this . . .” She gestured with both arms, voice lowering. “Isn’t it a little extreme? You could’ve volunteered at the Red Cross or something. Instead you’ve put your life on hold to . . . play a part.”

Blaze looked away. The thread of lights twinkling from the terrace roof cast a halo around his head. “Is it that hard to believe a guy like me might want to help someone?”

“It’s not the money or the fame?”

He let out a derisive laugh. “I can think of better ways to get famous. And yeah, the boost to my bank account is nice, but I come from family money, so if I was that desperate . . .” His voice trailed.

Miranda cut into her pork chop. “Family money, huh. Like, you’re from blue-blood stock? You don’t look it.”

His lips parted into a wry half smile. “Yes, well, my family would be in full agreement with you there.”

Another bite. “This pork chop is like something from heaven.” She waved her fork. “Vegetarians do not know what they’re missing. What did you mean your family would agree?”

He eyed her plate. “Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s not on the best terms with the parents.” He stretched his arm across the table, fork headed for her plate.

“What are you doing?”

“Taste testing.” He swiped a bite.

Through Blaze’s movement, she saw the flash of candlelight. “Blaze—”

“Married people do it all the time.”

“Careful of the candle—”

The crackle of burning fabric and a swirl of gray rose up as Blaze settled back into his seat. He sniffed. “Hey, do you smell—?”

“Your arm!”

He yanked his arm into the air, an orange flare threatening to flame. “No,” he moaned. “Not again.”

Panic jerked Miranda into action. Her fingers closed in on the stem of her water glass, and she pitched its contents toward Blaze. Steam sizzled as the fire died. She lowered her glass to the table and stared at Blaze, water dripping from his face, darkening the fabric of his already-blackened sleeve.

“Good save, hon.”

“Are you all right? And what did you mean, not again?”

He took one more glance at his singed shirt, then dropped his arm and shrugged. “Have you forgotten my nickname?”

Oh. Of course.

“Should I wave down a waiter and get you another glass of water?”

The man had just set his arm on fire and he was worried about her being thirsty? And speaking of waiters, shouldn’t someone have come running at the sight of Blaze, uh, ablaze? Miranda scoped the place. No one ogled their table. No laughter. Not a single sign anyone had witnessed the near catastrophe.

“I can’t believe it. It’s like there’s a dome of invisibility around our table. You started an actual fire and no one even noticed.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Oh, right, that publicity thing. Sorry it’s not working out.”

Stung by her own insensitivity, she swung her gaze back to Blaze. “No, I’m sorry. Worrying about publicity when you could’ve been hurt. Did you burn your arm?”

“Nope. But do you think we should tell someone at the restaurant they need better smoke detectors? I’m big on smoke detectors. Which reminds me, when did you last change the batteries in the ones in your house?”

That comment probably should have frightened her. But the only worry rolling through her, inconsiderate though it may be, was the complete failure of their evening out. What would Lincoln say? What had she done wrong?

She bit her lip, eyes traveling the room once more, then landing on a figure moving toward their table. “What’s he doing here?”

Blaze twisted in his seat to follow Miranda’s gaze. “Knox? Dude must be hungry.”

Matthew’s walk bordered on a swagger as he approached their table. He smoothed a forest green tie that brought out the subtle jade hues of his eyes. Had he seen the fire? Come to assess the damage? His confident stride stopped at their table. “Say, aren’t you Randi Woodruff, star of
From the Ground Up
? I love that show.”

The forceful volume of his voice carried over the terrace. Miranda felt the confusion take over her face. “Um, Matthew? Ever heard of an indoor voice?”

“I’d play along if I were you,” Matthew hissed through his teeth, cheesy smile still in place. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in person.”

Blaze’s “Ahh” reached over the table. Apparently he’d figured out Matthew’s game.
Am I dense?

“Yes, this is Randi Woodruff.” Blaze’s voice matched Matthew’s in pitch, and what was with the full name? “What can we do for you?”

“Wait, you’re her husband? I’ve always wondered about you!”

She felt the turning of eyes on their table, heard surrounding chatter quell to an interested buzz. Slowly, like the movement of feathery clouds filtering moonlight, Matthew’s purpose dawned on her. He was acting, helping.

Making sure she didn’t go unnoticed.

If he was helping her tonight, then he probably didn’t plan to expose their publicity scheme in his blog tomorrow, right?

She almost launched herself at him in gratitude. For one tempting moment she imagined the arms that had both strained to pull up old porch wood and cradled little Lola now closed around her.
But he’s the wrong man.
Miranda blinked, found words. “Why, yes, this is my husband, Blake.”

“Could I get your autograph?”

She nodded, swallowed, waited as he pulled out a narrow notebook and pen. His reporter’s notebook. She’d watched him fill the thing with notes ever since he arrived. Matthew placed it in front of her, opened to a blank page.

With Matthew’s pen, she scribbled her name, paused. And then an additional note:
Thank you.
When she handed the notebook back, Matthew acknowledged the note with a wink.

And then she felt a tap on her back. She turned in her seat.

“Excuse me, did I just hear—” The man at the adjacent table broke into a grin. “I did hear right. Randi Woodruff. I’m Bob Yankee from the Asheville
Citizen-Times
.”

Miranda heard Matthew’s footsteps as he walked away, his mission accomplished. Warmth blanketed her earlier worries at the realization he’d been watching out for her all along. Warmth and gratitude and . . .

And suddenly the concern in Liv’s eyes made sense.

If it was publicity Miranda and Blaze wanted, they were about to get it. Matthew slowed his Jeep to a crawl as he approached the photographers huddling outside the Pine Cove studio gate. The glaring morning sun glinted from the lenses of their cameras.

“You’re officially fish food for the paparazzi now, Miranda,” he said over his shoulder.

She jutted her head into the space between his seat and Blaze on the passenger side. “What?”

“Check it out, missus,” Blaze drawled. “Our Saturday night splash sealed the deal. Get ready to do a parade wave.”

Matthew heard scuffling in the back seat. “Not a chance.” Miranda’s voice was muffled. Was she hiding? Matthew stifled a laugh. “You’re a celebrity. I thought this was the kind of stuff you famous types craved?”

“Movie stars, maybe.”

The throng of photographers parted slowly as Matthew drove toward the gate. No cameras flashed, as sunlight provided all the light they needed, but the hollered questions made their way through his windows.

“Randi Woodruff, are you in there?”

“Is Mr. Woodruff available for interviews? Will he appear on the show?”

“How do you feel about the rumors?”

Matthew glanced over at Blaze. The man never flinched, his relaxed posture the complete opposite of the tension emanating from the back seat. How had Miranda ended up the star of
From the Ground Up
when her husband was the one with all the public panache?

When Matthew arrived at the gate, he opened his window and reached out to punch in the security code. But before his arm was even halfway out, a reporter stuffed his head through the window. “Ah, it
is
Randi Woodruff.”

Matthew stuck his palm on the man’s forehead and pushed him out. “Buddy, have some decency.”

“Bodyguard, eh?”

Today, apparently, yes. He jabbed his finger at the security box, then rolled up the window. “What a circus.”

“Nice move, though,” Blaze commented. “Bet you gave him whiplash.”

Matthew tapped the accelerator as the gate swung open. “Just hope he doesn’t sue me.”

Miranda’s head came into view in his rearview mirror. “What’d Matthew do? I didn’t see. By the way, do you know you’ve got quite the collection of soda cans on your floor back here?”

“Knox palmed the dude. And here I thought all our boy did was write. He’s flexing his physical skills today.”

While Blaze exaggerated, Matthew caught Miranda’s eye in the mirror. She raised an eyebrow. He winked. She glanced away. “Well, that’s three times you’ve come to the rescue now, Matthew. First you pushed my truck out of the river, then at the restaurant you brought the media to us, and today you got us away from them.”

The restaurant thing. He certainly hadn’t planned to butt in on Blaze and Miranda’s evening. Ever since she’d explained
why
they were going on the date, he’d had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, his usual journalist’s interest bordering on suspicion. She was using her own husband for publicity. And yet, Blaze was apparently okay with it—maybe even liked the idea.

But as he’d sat a few tables away Saturday night, watching Miranda’s forlorn expression and slumped shoulders, he couldn’t help himself. He’d pushed his chair back and wound his way through the tables dotting the terrace before he’d considered what he was doing.

Ever since, something had shifted between him and Miranda. An alliance of sorts. Yesterday, Sunday, they’d spent half the day on her porch—he dotting her with questions, Miranda answering with laid-back ease.

Why did she love building so much?

“I love wood. The way it feels under my fingertips. The way it doesn’t die once a tree is cut down, but instead re-creates itself into something new and beautiful. And useful, too. Wood has an identity, and I get to help shape that identity when I build a house or a piece of furniture.”

What was her favorite house she’d ever built?

Easy, the first home she ever completed in Brazil.

Not her own home?

“Well, I don’t think it counts since I haven’t finished it.”

“Why don’t you finish it?”

It was the only question she’d hesitated on. She’d mumbled something about it not being the right time, being busy. And then she’d gone inside.

As Matthew pulled into the parking lot, Blaze pounded him on the back. “Yup, Knox, you’ve been pretty handy to have around.”

“I wouldn’t speak too soon.” Matthew angled to check his side mirror. “Our paparazzi friends made it through the gate before it closed.”

Miranda groaned. “Swell.”

He braked and parked in a visitor space in the lot and twisted to watch out the back window. Thankfully, someone else must have seen the scuttling mess of reporters, because they’d brought out the big dogs: three men in uniform. “You have security officers?”

“I guess so.” Miranda’s voice contained surprise.

Matthew jerked at the sharp rap on his window and turned to see Brad Walsh beckoning him to open the door. He obliged. “Hey, Walsh.”

The man was beaming. “Good thinking having Knox drive today. While this may be the best thing that’s ever happened to us PR-wise, the last thing we need is someone getting Randi’s license-plate number.”

Matthew slid out of the Jeep. “Actually, I only drove because Miranda’s truck wouldn’t start this morning.”

But Brad had already moved to Miranda’s door. “Come on out, kid. I want you to turn, give one wave to the media, and then Knox, you’ll take her around to the back entrance.”

Miranda peeked her head out of her open door. “But shouldn’t Blaze—”

“Nope, Blaze here will be giving the media a statement.”

“I will?”

“He will?”

Blaze and Miranda spoke at the same moment.

Brad gave a curt nod. “Hurry up and go.”

Miranda was already moving toward the set, and Matthew hustled after her. The sharp bite of cold contradicted the bright colors of the day, sunshine streaking through the faintest trail of clouds, surrounding mountains ablaze in reds and oranges. As they reached the back of the house, Brad’s voice drifted from across the lot. “Everyone, if you’ll just shut up for a minute, Blake here will make a statement. Randi is on a tight schedule, so—”

Randi flung open the door. “Come on.”

He ducked inside. “So apparently Brad was prepared for all this.”

She folded her arms. “He could’ve called to let us know what was waiting here. Probably didn’t because he knew I’d want to turn around. Crazy reporters.” Her expression turned sheepish. “Sorry.”

He shook his head. “No offense taken. Just know we’re not all like that.” Right. Because he’d only broken into a zoo building. Chased after a senator.

The sarcastic mental reminders drilled a hole in the wall he’d thought separated him from the paparazzi.

Was he just like those jokers outside, after all? So desperate for a story he’d intrude on a person’s personal space and privacy?
You
are
living on her property. Hoping for a scoop to make January’s print cover.

But Miranda had willingly opened herself up to his presence. If anything, his blog was only helping her. And besides, every entry so far made the woman out in a positive light. No one could possibly accuse him of exploiting the opportunity.

“So what are you taping today?” he asked as he followed her down the narrow hallway at the back of the set house.

“No taping this morning, actually. I’ve got an interview about the award nomination. This afternoon we’re doing a few retakes from some of last week’s shoots.”

“Sometime I’d like a tour of this place.” It certainly wasn’t like any studio he’d ever imagined. From the outside, it was just a huge house. From the inside, depending on what part of the house you were in, it looked either like a home under construction or an office building.

“It’s a pretty cool studio,” she said. “Here, let me show you one of my favorite rooms.”

They ambled past the living and dining room sets, around a corner and down another hallway, a mix of scents trailing behind—coffee, cedar, and then the potent smell of paint.

Miranda stepped through an open doorway into a completely empty room. No furniture, no scaffolding or camera stands. Only four walls and three open windows, a few paint cans and rollers and what looked like a power painter. The mountain air cascading through the windows added a chill to the room but did nothing to dispel the pungent smell of paint.

“This room is solely for painting. Whenever we do a segment on proper painting techniques, mixing, choosing your colors, we do it here. But . . .” She used a mixing stick to pry open a can. “I also use it for stress relief.” She dipped a brush in the bright orange liquid. She flopped the brush onto the wall, writing her name in large orange letters across the blue wall. Then she handed the brush to him. “Your turn.”

He shrugged, slathering his own name across the opposite red wall. “So you do this whenever you want?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t take long to cover it up when I’m done. It’s almost as relaxing as working in the woodshop. And if I’m having a series of bad takes or things are going wrong on set, I just slip away, do a little painting, and
voilà
. It evens out my mental kinks.”

She picked up the power paint sprayer and attached a paint container. She fiddled with the nozzle. “Hmm, it’s stuck or something.”

He dropped his brush. “Here, let me. I used one of these when I was helping Jase and Izzy paint their basement.”

“No, I can do it.”

“Let me, Miranda.”

“Just because you displayed your oh-so-brute force with that peeping photographer outside—” She pulled the power sprayer
and at the jerking movement, a flood of paint streamed from the nozzle, slapping onto Matthew’s shirt, his face.

Miranda’s jaw lowered, surprised silence filling the gap between them. And then an eruption of laughter pushed past her lips. “Oh my goodness. I’m sorry. Really. But . . .”

“Oh yes, it’s so very funny.” He wiped his palm across his face, leaving a streak of red across his hand.

Miranda still held the sprayer, bubbling giggles shaking her shoulders. “Sorry. I’m trying not to laugh.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

But the amusement in her sparkling eyes, the way her finger still posed over the trigger, told him she wasn’t done. Why, she was actually thinking about doing it again!

Well, if it was a fight she wanted, he’d give it to her. “How
does
red look on me, Woodruff? Would you say it’s my color?” He stepped backward as he spoke, knelt down to reach for the paint can and brush behind him.

“What are you doing, Knox?”

“Red might look good on me, but I’d say . . .” He glanced at the can in his hands now. “Ahh, blue, like your eyes.”

Her nose crinkled as she backed away. “My eyes are gray.”

“Not in the sun. In the sun they’re as sky blue as this paint.” He plopped his brush into the paint.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You underestimate me.”

“I’m the one with the paint gun.”

He whipped his brush in the air, flinging spatters of paint at her. They landed in tiny drops on her shoulders, her cheeks, her silky black hair. “Take that, Miranda!”

“Why, you—” And just as he knew she would, she sent a stream of red at him. He struck with his brush, painting a streak down her arm.

Intoxicating, almost giddy energy took over as they splashed
and spewed paint at each other. The paint fumes and Miranda’s nearness conspired to bully his common sense into nothing. Another river of red paint hit his chest, and he dropped his weapons, circling an arm around Miranda to pry the spray gun from her hands. She twisted, bumping an elbow against his stomach, her hair sticking to the paint on his face.

“Brad is so going to kill me!” Miranda said through a fit of hysterics. But she’d stopped trying to get away from him, instead standing in place inside his hold, giving in to her laughter, her arms turning to noodles as she lowered the paint gun.

“You got that right, Rand.”

Matthew’s head jerked up at the same time as Miranda’s, and he got a mouthful of her hair. Uh-oh. Brad stood in the doorway, arms crossed, just like that day he’d found them in the flooded creek.

And behind Brad, a reporter, catching the whole thing on video.

“In the sun they’re as sky blue as this paint.”

Why couldn’t Miranda get Matthew’s voice out of her head and focus on the interview? They’d already gotten off to a terribly late start. She’d cleaned up as quickly as possible, leaving a rainbow of color streaking the tiled walls of the dressing-room shower.

Thankfully, she had a change of clothes, and Whitney was on hand to direct her makeup and hairstyle. Because, sure, that’s exactly what the reporter from the local NBC affiliate cared about after witnessing her paint fight with Matthew.

Miranda forced herself to maintain eye contact with the fortyish reporter with a poof of blond hair sitting on the couch opposite her. Long dimples creased his cheeks like parentheses,
and if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d half flirted his way through this interview. Maybe after what he’d seen of her and Matthew he’d figured . . .