Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (12 page)

What? That she might be married but still enjoyed innocent dallying with whatever man happened to be around. False. Both halves of the sentence.

I was
not
flirting with Matthew.

The reporter, who’d introduced himself as Sam Toliver, leaned forward. “So, tell me about this husband who’s made a sudden public appearance.”

Miranda sucked in a breath. Why couldn’t they have stuck to the easy questions? How did she feel about being nominated for the Giving Heart? What was her favorite charity?

“Well, his name is Blaze—Blake, actually. Blaze is an affectionate nickname.” At least the reporter hadn’t insisted on Blaze joining her for the interview. They hadn’t had enough time to prepare for that yet. “Oh, and to set the record straight, I heard someone call him Mr. Woodruff earlier. His last name is Hunziker. I kept my maiden name for professional purposes. Anyway, he’s a great guy and . . . a great blessing in my life.”

The reporter winked. And unlike Matthew’s wink earlier in the morning, Sam’s felt slimy. “That’s an awfully nebulous answer, Randi.”

“I’m an unapologetically private person, Sam. Always have been.”

“Yet you talk about your husband on your show. And you sure weren’t in discreet mode the other night when you were spotted at the restaurant.” The man’s voice had altered from flirtatious to hard in a matter of a moment.

Miranda’s oversized leather chair threatened to eat her up. What did Sam want her to say? Her gaze flitted to Lincoln, watching from behind the NBC camera. They should’ve
coached her more for this. She was used to answering questions about wood density and brackets and blueprints. Not this.

“I talk about my husband because he helped shape who I am.” The lie that had bothered her for years gutted her once again. Because it now had a face. “As for Saturday night, is it really such standout news for a husband and wife to go to dinner together?”

Sam’s slow smirk spread as he straightened. “Well played, Randi.”

Compliment or accusation? This reporter was nothing like Matthew, had none of Matthew’s tact or kindness or . . . attractiveness. Her stomach tightened.

“Let’s move on. There’s been talk that
From the Ground Up
may not be renewed. Can you shed some light on the accuracy of the rumors?”

Oh, lovely. Can we go back to the questions about Blaze?
“I prefer not to acknowledge rumors.”

“So your public appearance with your husband had nothing to do with the rumors he didn’t exist?”

Her fingers itched to squeeze into her palms, but she forced them to remain laced around her knee. Sam was jumping topics like a frog on lily pads, eager to snatch her up like a bug. Why didn’t Lincoln step in, stop the subtle assault? She wished she could see if Brad was watching. And Matthew.

Most disconcerting of all was the realization of how close to the truth Sam crept.

“I’ll level with you, Sam. People can think whatever they want about my marriage, my husband, and my reasons for dining out. All I have to say is, if I were the owner of the Timberlane, I’d be pretty happy about all the free publicity.”

She caught Brad’s eye, saw his proud nod of approval. Relief surged through her.

“And the rumors about the next season of
From the Ground Up
?” Sam prompted.

“We’re currently taping season four. I’m confident of our future.” Had she kept the doubt out of her voice?

“Then tell me this: What are we to make of the news that your network has heard a pitch from a new homebuilding show? I have the network president quoted as saying that he has, and I quote, ‘a variety of well-crafted, entertaining options on the table for the spring schedule, including a potential home show.’ What do you say to that?”

Miranda’s pulse quickened as Sam read the quote. Her hands turned icy.

Nothing. She had nothing to say to that.

Only a blank stare. And a brand-new worry.

Matthew emerged from the bathroom attached to Miranda’s dressing room, rubbing a towel against his hair. He jerked in surprise when he saw Brad sitting atop Miranda’s vanity, his feet propped on the chair.

“Walsh, I didn’t know you were going to wait for me.”

“Yeah, I waited,” Brad said.

Matthew draped his towel over a hook on the back of the bathroom door. “Did you think I was going to steal something?”

Brad had begrudgingly let Matthew into the room twenty minutes ago at Miranda’s order. It had felt oddly intimate walking through her dressing room, making use of her private bathroom while she gave her interview.

Was it childish to feel the need to defend himself all over again to Walsh?
“I told you, she started it.”

He spotted her color-splotched dark jeans and light-green shirt with the ruffled sleeves abandoned on the floor. She’d
actually dressed up for her interview today. And Matthew had ruined the look by turning her into an abstract painting.

Brad pressed his lips together in a stoic line. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Miranda.”

“What are you insinuating, Walsh?”

Brad’s feet clunked to the floor, and he rose to stand eye level with Matthew. “Just that since the day you got here, you’ve been toying with her. It’s the opposite of classy, flirting with someone who’s unavailable. Unprofessional, too.”

“We weren’t—”

Matthew caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror behind Brad. Tousled hair, stubble covering his cheeks. Izzy would’ve ordered him to shave by now. Stupid as it might sound, he sort of liked the rugged look. Give him a flannel shirt and he just might fit in here in the mountains.

But why did his eyes look so . . . energetic? Why the circles of red on his cheek?

He yanked his focus back to Brad. The man’s expression hovered between smug and infuriated.

Matthew attempted a lame excuse. “We were just . . .” But he came up empty.

She’s married.

And he’d known exactly what he was doing.

Brad’s glare bored into Matthew’s conscience. Miranda’s manager stepped around him. “Let’s go.” But he stopped in the doorway. “She’s off limits, Knox.”

“I know that.” He did.

But he also knew she was the first woman he’d felt drawn to in years.

He pulled the dressing room door closed behind him and followed Brad.

She’s married.

And he was getting pretty sick of the reminder. Maybe
because it only spotlighted his own aloneness. Sheesh, Matthew hadn’t made it past a third or fourth date since his mid-twenties. The couple times he’d been tempted to think he might’ve discovered “the” girl, he’d found himself breaking things off before he could mess them up.

“Hey, I just realized I left my phone in Miranda’s bathroom,” he called to Brad. “Be right back.”

The man would probably follow him back.
Fine. Let him.

He hurried toward the bathroom and located his phone on the counter, pushing aside his grating annoyance at Brad. The man was only watching out for Randi, right?

He pocketed his phone, then paused in the middle of the bathroom, the foamy scent of soap wafting. The temptation to linger in Miranda’s dressing room tugged at him. What might he find here to aid his blog series? And how severely would Walsh punish him if he caught him snooping?

Before he could decide whether to act on the urge, the sound of the dressing room door opening filtered in. Walsh, most likely, coming to check up on him.

“Randi, you in here?”

That wasn’t Brad’s voice.

“Some guy was asking me about installing floorboards. Pretty sure I know more about the periodic table than that.”

Matthew poked out of the bathroom. “Blaze?”

“Whoa, dude, you’re not Randi.”

Matthew’s gait thudded to a stop in front of Blaze. “
You
don’t know how to install floorboards?” Mr. Husband-who-taught-Randi-all-she-knew?

As if realizing a gaffe, Blaze sputtered out his defense. “I mean, sure, I know
how
to do it. Just don’t have any desire to stick around for the fun. Know what I mean?” Blaze clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “That’s all Randi’s thing now. I chased the woodworking bug out of my system a long time ago.”

The woodworking
bug
? Hadn’t the guy spent years building homes with Randi in Brazil? That didn’t sound like a bug.

Blaze gave a nonchalant whistle, then shrugged. “Well, guess I’ll go find Rand. Maybe she’s still being interviewed.”

Matthew followed Blaze from the room, no longer interested about what secrets Miranda’s dressing room might hide . . . and instead all sorts of curious about Blaze.

Miranda’s house told a story Matthew couldn’t follow.

He stood in the center of the unfinished portion of the house, its raised foundation and wood beams weathered yet sturdy. Studs and joists hinted at the outline of what would’ve been a master suite, according to Miranda. One she’d never gotten around to finishing.

Do you have a tale to tell, house?
A heavy wind carried curled leaves in tiny waves across the grass.

Something felt off about this place. Melancholy hummed through the open space, hung from the rafters. Or maybe that was simply the clouds rumbling overhead in tones of disapproval.

Except that he’d done nothing wrong. Hadn’t actually entered the house.

Though, with Miranda and Blaze off on another interview, if ever he wanted an opportunity to snoop, now was the time. And he couldn’t deny the temptation.

Then there’d been Delia Jones’s irritating e-mail.

Nice to see you’ve finally found your niche. When can I expect to see you hosting Entertainment Tonight?

Her sarcasm jumped off the screen, and his finger had slammed into the Delete button before he could fire off a nasty reply. Would the woman never forgive him?

You ruined her rep, Knox. Her byline on that article branded her.
Although, she
had
bounced back with a fervor Matthew coveted, eventually landing a job at the St. Paul
Pioneer Press
.

With a heavy exhale, he made one more slow turn in the silent shell of a room.
Nothing to see here
. No breakthrough discovery to turn his gig into hard news or answer the questions that had gnawed at him since yesterday. Of course, he could just ask Randi.

Right, and ruin the trust that had developed between them.

Like the trust that had him considering poking through her house while she wasn’t home? He dropped to the ground and circled to the front of the house, climbed the porch steps, each creak a scold.

Really shouldn’t.

It’s called
investigative
reporting.

It’s called trespassing.

Matthew faced the front door, feet rooted in place. Delia’s condescension gonged through his thoughts. He balled his fingers around the doorknob.

“Beat it! Just beat it!”

Matthew jumped as his cell phone ring tone squawked into the quiet. He plucked his phone from his pocket and, heart still hopscotching, snapped it open. “You just gave me a heart attack.”

Jase’s chuckle rang over the phone. “What’re you doing that a phone call would freak you out?”

Matthew grasped the doorknob again, this time pulling the door open and stepping into the house before he could change his mind. “Hel-lo, I’m in the mountains. It’s peaceful up here. So Michael Jackson’s screeching is slightly off-putting. Please tell Izzy to stop messing with my ring tone, by the way.”

“Right,” Jase said flatly. “Because Izzy will listen so well. My wife delights in picking on you, little brother.”

Inside Miranda’s house, the smell of breakfast’s bacon and eggs lingered.
“Always start off the day with a hearty breakfast,”
Blaze had admonished. Matthew had been joining Miranda and Blaze for meals in the past couple days.

See, Miranda
had
welcomed him into the house. Yet the hush of the empty interior draped him in guilt. Fine, so maybe she hadn’t meant when she wasn’t home.

“So, how’s the blogging?” Jase asked.

Miranda’s living room could have won some kind of architectural award with its high beams and angled ceiling, towering windows and redwood floorboards. Sparsely decorated, the room offered little in the way of hints about Miranda’s personal life, though. Just one photo propped atop an end table—Miranda flanked by, he guessed, her grandparents.

“Today’s post got the highest number of hits yet within the first hour.” He ambled over to the bookcase lining one wall, fighting the feeling of being intrusive. The woman liked her classics: Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Mark Twain. Quite a few travel books, too. And a worn copy of
Gone with the Wind.
He’d expected at least a row of DIY home project volumes. “It’s crazy how much people care about celebrities
and
their relationships.”

“Not just any celebrity,” Jase corrected. “This one’s been intriguing the public about her husband for three seasons. It’s about time she dished.”

“But it’s not like she owes anyone anything.”

“All I’m saying is, she had to know what she was getting when she got into the TV thing. People were bound to wonder. Besides, you more than anyone should want all the details.”

Matthew eyed the staircase, the taste of tantalizing curiosity
overpowering his conscience. “I know details about her personal life are what make the blog, but I can’t help wishing for something meatier.”

He paused at the top of the stairs, Miranda’s open bedroom door beckoning. His conscience screamed at him now. He flinched at the squeak of his shoes against the shiny wood floor. What if Miranda and Blaze returned early? What if she had a hidden security system?

“Meatier, like how?” Jase’s voice intruded.

“Like . . . if I found out she built shoddy homes. Or if she couldn’t build at all.” Now, that would make a story.

But not a truthful one. Miranda’s signature, the evidence of her talent was all over her home, from the carving of the woodwork along the base of the walls to the wood furnishings filling the place—he stopped outside her door—to the rocking chair in the corner of her bedroom. “An antique. I bet Miranda refurbished it,” he mused.

“What? Where are you?”

His search moved from the rocking chair to the rest of her room. Pale gold walls wrapped around a space that sang feminine. And he couldn’t have been more surprised. Lacy curtains matched the light blues and greens in the quilt on her bed, the hill of pillows.

“I’m standing outside Miranda Woodruff’s bedroom. Trying to decide whether to cross the threshold.”

“You’re in her
house
? And she’s not home?”

Matthew’s silence answered the question.

“Don’t do it, bro. A woman’s bedroom is sacred territory. Once, I moved around the furniture in our bedroom while Izzy was still at work. She was so mad, I swear she purposely washed my wallet.”

A painting of a seascape spanned one wall of Miranda’s bedroom, and white sheer fabric wisped from the posts of her
canopy bed. Girlish. Telling. The room even smelled like her, lavender and vanilla with a hint of wood.

Matthew about-faced. Jase was right. He had to draw a line somewhere.
Yeah, because sneaking around the woman’s house isn’t borderline illegal territory. Right.
“Why’d you rearrange the bedroom anyway?”

“Had a dentist appointment earlier in the day and read this article about fêng shui while I was in the waiting room.”

“A bunch of baloney.”

“Says the kid who always used to believe the toys in the cereal box would be as big as they looked on TV.”

Yeah, well he’d lost his gullibility somewhere between Dad’s last “Good night, son,” and Mom’s “He’s not coming back.”

Matthew moved to the next doorway. It opened into an office space, an antique rolltop desk edged up to one wall. Beside it, a trunk. Wait, he’d seen that before. Where?

“Listen, Matthew, I need to tell you something.”

Matthew paused in the middle of the room. Had the trunk been downstairs before? Or . . .

In the cabin! Yes, in the bedroom, up against the wall. When had Miranda moved the trunk? And why? Suspicion poked holes in any lingering guilt over his unauthorized presence in Miranda’s home. She wouldn’t move the trunk unless . . .

She was hiding something.

“Matt, you even listening? I called for a reason. It’s about Dad.”

Matthew stiffened, a chill icing over his curiosity about the trunk. His thoughts skidded into each other. “What about him?” Something about his health? Was he back in the Twin Cities?

“He called. Wanted to talk to you. Said it was important.”

“Important like he’s finally decided to acknowledge Mom’s
death?” Matthew sunk into the swivel chair at Miranda’s desk. Three years since Mom’s third bout with cancer stole her life. Gordon Knox hadn’t responded to any of Jase’s phone calls, not after the initial diagnosis, not in the days before the funeral. “Or maybe he’d like to rub my face in my ruined career?”

“Matt—”

Now that the floodgates opened, he couldn’t stop the words. “No, I know. Turns out Mom had another bank account he forgot to empty, and he’d like to finish where he left off.”

Acrid, the taste of resentment. But he could never quite swallow it.

Jase trekked on. “He gave me his phone number, e-mail, even a mailing address. He’d really like to hear from you.”

“And I’d like to call him almost as much as I’d enjoy a frolic through a poison ivy patch.”

Jase sighed. “You could e-mail.”

“Or maybe walk barefoot through a field of thistles.” It was time for this conversation to end. Jase had a gift for forgiving that Matthew could never understand. Look at how many times his brother had excused Matthew’s screw-ups. But Matthew wasn’t like that.

He couldn’t forgive his dad.

Couldn’t forgive himself.

Much as he might verbally accost his father for everything wrong in his life, deep down Matthew knew he had only himself to blame for his career failures.

But no more. He had purpose now. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let a random phone call from his father intrude on his opportunity to turn things around, help his family at the same time. Something Dad knew nothing about.

The sparse décor of Miranda’s office sharpened into focus.
Cream walls, dark wood desk . . . and that trunk. Matthew shuffled his feet, rolling the desk chair over to the trunk.

“Geographically, he’s just a hop away from you,” Jase tried once more.

Matthew leaned forward to fiddle with the brass clasp on the trunk’s lid. “I’m here on a job. No time for side trips, even if I wanted to.” He lifted the lid, hinges creaking. Inside lay piles of photo albums, loose photographs scattered and tucked between books, some yellowed with age. And the shiny white of fabric . . . a wedding dress?

“So, what do I tell Dad if he calls again?”

“Tell him I’m busy.” Matthew fingered through the trunk, closing in on a framed photo shoved down the side. He pulled it out.

“Come on, Matt, can’t you even—”

Matthew slammed the trunk shut, a plume of dust rising and fading. “No, I can’t, all right? I’m not you, Jase. I’m not . . . I’m just not interested. So let it go.”

He could hear Jase’s frustration before his brother even spoke again. And then, “I know you think you’re on the brink of success. I know you think you’re going to make some fast money and help us with the surgery.”

“Izzy wasn’t supposed to—”

“But you are never going to be the man you want to be until you face the man you’re on the way to becoming.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A harsh tenor took over Jase’s voice. “Figure it out yourself. And I’m e-mailing you his contact info whether you want it or not.”

The phone clicked into silence.

Matthew took an angry breath and shoved his phone into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Jase could play psychiatrist all he wanted up in Minnesota, but down in North Carolina Matthew
had work to do. He looked down at the framed photo staring up at him from his lap. Work that had just turned interesting . . .

Because the man pictured with his arms around Miranda definitely wasn’t Blaze.

Hands wrapped around the Styrofoam cup she’d filled at the buffet table, Miranda forced her eyes to blink. The man strolling into the backstage waiting room could not be Blaze Hunziker. Not her Blaze.

The crew of the
Debbie Lane Show
hustled outside the doorway as he stopped in front of her. “How do I look?”

More like Robbie than he ever had before. She swallowed a burning gulp, bitter coffee prompting a wince. “Really . . . good.” Nowhere to be seen were his usual flip-flops and ripped jeans. Instead, he wore black pants and a fitted black shirt. He’d slicked his dark hair back, even shaved, baby-smooth cheeks taking years off his face. She knew from the time they’d spent memorizing each other’s back stories that he was twenty-nine, but today he looked barely twenty-one.

A man in headphones buzzed past the doorway.

“By the way, you don’t look too shabby yourself.”

She should say not, after an hour of Whitney’s primping. Though the jeans Whitney had insisted she wear hugged her legs like a second skin, and her heeled boots, pulled on over her jeans, were about as practical for a homebuilder as a toddler’s Playskool tool set. “I feel like Raggedy Ann trying to play Barbie.”

“You’ve got Barbie beat by a long shot.”

This “gig” was the first of a slew of talk-show appearances Brad had arranged for the next couple weeks. Though Miranda catered to the camera for her day job, publicity junkets were
a different beast altogether. Uncertainty clawed at her nerves. Had she chewed a permanent mark into her bottom lip?