Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (13 page)

To make things worse, she hadn’t been able to stop worrying since yesterday about the possibility of a new show replacing
From the Ground Up.
Were all these publicity efforts for naught?

Brad had assured her he’d look into the reporter’s claims. But it was Lincoln’s expression that concerned her the most—a blend of unease and anxiety, yes, but not a hint of surprise. Had he already heard about another home show in the works?

“Are you all right, Randi? Aren’t you supposed to be used to this kind of thing? And when does this gig get off the ground?”

“I’m fine.” She forced herself not to squeeze her Styrofoam cup. “I’m sure they’ll come get us soon. Remember what we talked about?”

“Let you do the talking. Vague answers as much as possible. When in doubt, smile.”

“Good husband.”

“One thought.”

Miranda threw back the last of her coffee. “What’s that?”

“You’re going to have to get a little more lovey-dovey.”

Didn’t he wish. “I’d rather take a power nailer to my own foot.”

He pulled the coffee cup from her hands and chucked it at the garbage can. It bounced from the rim and landed on the floor. “Babe, I’m telling you, women pick up on stuff. You should know—you are one. They’ll see right through us if you don’t warm up a little.”

Her fists found her waist. “So what exactly do you propose?”

His grin reeked of devilish joy. “We hold hands when we walk in. We give each other a few adoring looks during the interview.” He paused, dramatic glint in his eyes. “And at least one kiss.”

A man sticking his head through the door halted her gasp. “You’re up in two minutes. Follow me.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Miranda whispered as they exited the room. Although, if she were to consider kissing the man on national television, at least Blaze had the Antonio Banderas thing going on. If not for the guilt she couldn’t seem to kick, it probably wouldn’t be all that unpleasant.

“You know I’m right,” he said into her ear, the minty scent of his shampoo lingering when he straightened. Did she actually just get goose bumps at his nearness? At a scolding look from the crewman, Miranda clamped down on her reply.

“I’m thrilled to the bone to welcome today’s guests.” Debbie Lane’s voice carried to where they waited offstage as the host segued into an introduction. The woman flipped her bleached-blond mane and waved a hand. “Please join me in welcoming Randi Woodruff and her mystery man!”

Blaze’s fingers closed around hers as the springy strains of the talk show theme song filled the set.

Here goes nothing.
Together they stepped into the spotlight.

Twenty minutes later, Miranda’s cheeks hurt from the grin she’d plastered in place. She crossed one jean-clad leg over the other and shifted in the purple leather chair. Blaze slouched in his own chair, a picture of relaxation with one hand resting over his stomach, the other covering her palm atop her own armrest.

It was like he breathed sedation. Did nothing faze him?

“Shameful, positively shameful, Randi Woodruff. I just can’t believe it took you this long to share your hubby with the rest of the world.” Debbi’s singsong accusation was accompanied by the pattering of her fire-engine-red nails on a glass end table.

“Well, what can I say? My privacy is—always has been—very important to me. My marriage, too.”

Blaze gave a consoling nod, squeezed her hand. There probably wasn’t an ounce of fake in his grin. He was loving
every cutesy moment. He’d beguiled the talk show host within two seconds of meeting her. And Miranda was pretty sure he’d caused every woman in the live audience to swoon before the first commercial break.

Ladies, if only you knew . . .
Just this morning Blaze had told her one of his life’s ambitions was to break the Guinness World Record for most bacon consumed in a twenty-four-hour period.

And yet, could she blame them all for buckling to his charm?

Debbie flipped her bleached-blond mane. “So tell us, why now? Why keep your handsome hottie under wraps for three years and then out of the blue let Jack out of the box, so to speak?”

Was that a ripple of suspicion in Debbie’s lilting voice? Might be she was a bit more perceptive than Miranda had given her credit for. Perceptive but without an ounce of tact.
Handsome hottie?

Miranda turned her smile on Blaze. She could almost hear his encouragement.
Work the camera, girl. That’s right.
She faced Debbie again. “Well, we’d heard about some of those rumors out there. Someone told me there’s even a www.wheresmirandasman.com.” Brad had shared that little tidbit a few months ago, and she’d laughed it off the same way she would a question about whether Craftsman tools beat Bosch.

But that was before Lincoln had dropped the bomb about season four’s uncertainty.

“I think all of us who live our lives in the public eye try to tell ourselves rumors and speculation about our personal lives don’t matter. But I guess sometimes the desire to set the record straight outweighs even our desire for privacy.”

Blaze’s fingers intertwined with hers as he leaned forward. “And if I could interject—”

Oh dear. God, please stop him.
There she went again, praying for divine intervention in a scheme that was anything but aboveboard. She squeezed Blaze’s hand. Hard.

Debbie’s eager nod set her hair bouncing, the flowery scent of her perfume wafting as she leaned forward. “Of course, Blake. We’ve heard far too little from you.”

Another squeeze. “What my TV-star wife and I have is special.” Blaze’s voice strained as Miranda’s fingernails poked his hand. But he kept going. “But working so hard to protect our privacy has meant we’ve spent a lot of time apart. That’s been hard on our marriage. We decided if we wanted to have a healthy relationship, we needed some balance—even if it meant being seen together.”

Before Miranda could stop it, a laugh pushed past her lips. No, a snort. A laugh-snort. A healthy relationship? In whose universe?

Debbie batted the impossibly long lashes that rimmed her wide blue eyes. Her forehead crinkled in question. “I’m not sure I understand your laughter, Randi. Your husband’s comments, so well put, truly spoke to me.”

Miranda released Blaze’s hand. “Oh, they spoke to me, too.”
Spoke a load of hooey.
“It’s what he said about me being a TV star. I don’t see myself that way.”

“Well, I assure you, that’s how we see you. You are a celebrity, honey, and a talented one, at that. But I have to tell you, it’s even more fun seeing the romantic side of you than, well, the hammer-and-nails side.”

Romantic, huh.

Blaze’s grin turned sly. “Yes, the wife and I are nothing if not romantic.”

“Oh, this is too cute.” Debbie clapped her hands.

“Just because she may keep that side of her hidden on set doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Blaze turned to her, eyes
twinkling and not so innocent just inches from her face. “Right, sweetheart?”

He’s my “husband.” He’s ridiculously handsome. He’s going to kiss me.

It’d been years since she’d been kissed. Might she actually be anticipating . . . ?

But the fact that Blaze was having the time of his life, playfully toying with her right in front of cameras, meant there was plenty of irritation mixed in with her heightened senses. Didn’t matter. She had to do what she had to do.

“Right, Blake.” She leaned forward, reluctance weighing her movement. Puckered.

The kiss was featherlight and soft. But it was enough for Debbie. She squealed as the audience cheered. Blaze winked.

“I’m just loving this,” Debbie gushed. “It’s time for another commercial break, but when we come back, it’s the segment of the show I’ve been waiting for. A surprise for our lovebirds here.”

Uh-oh, that didn’t sound good.

“Randi and Blake may not be newlyweds, but to viewers seeing them together for the first time, they might as well be. Which is why we’re going to play our own version of
The Newlywed Game
 . . . right after this!”

Miranda’s plastic smile stayed in place, but her confidence plummeted. Even Blaze’s eyes held a hint of worry. Heaven help her, they’d need a lot more than a kiss to get them out of this.

The whir of Miranda’s table saw in her workshop sang a soothing chorus after a day she’d love to forget. How anyone in America could believe her happily married after so many blunders on the
Debbie Lane Show
, she didn’t know.

Yet she and Blaze had left Debbie still cooing.

Blaze . . .
Ooh, if he ever tricked her into kissing him again, she’d go after him with a roll of duct tape. Tape those lips out of sight. His hands, too. Did he have to grip hers all the way through the show?

Actually, in all honesty, the kiss hadn’t been horrible. Not a lot of chemistry, but she hadn’t felt the need to scrub her lips clean or anything.

In a smooth motion, Miranda prodded a slab of wood under the saw blade. When she reached the end of the board, she straightened and flipped the switch.

Thing was, as worrisome as Debbie’s little newlywed game was, it hadn’t felt
all
bad. Clammy palms aside, for that one hour with Blaze at her side, she’d experienced a different kind of audience appreciation. For once, it wasn’t her skill with wood and tools earning her recognition . . . but rather her womanhood.

She’d
snagged the handsome husband.
She’d
scored the kind of wedded bliss others only dreamed of.
She
had the whole package: successful career, life mate, a happily-ever-after in the making.

If only it were real.

Miranda nudged her safety goggles up to her forehead as a knock sounded at the door. She glanced past the table saw to the workshop window—Matthew, smiling, waiting, as his breath produced puffs of white. She made her way through the maze of equipment and projects-in-progress and pulled open the door, greeted by a biting chill.

Matthew rubbed his hands together, nose red. “Hey. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She stepped aside, brushing off her shirt. She didn’t need a mirror to know sawdust powdered her dark hair, and she probably had a trail of pink outlining her face where her goggles had been.

Fleece ski jacket still zipped to his chin, Matthew sniffed the air. “Do I smell cinnamon?”

“Apple cider. From my favorite orchard outside Pine Cove. They always save me a couple gallons from the first batch. I’ll grab you a mug.”

He followed her to the far end of the workshop, where she’d plugged a hot pot into the wall. She poured a mug of the amber liquid as Matthew dropped his bulky messenger bag and perched on a stool. The low hum of her space heater filled the air. “So, nice job on the show today,” Matthew said. “I watched it on the old TV in the cabin.”

She rolled her eyes as she handed him the steaming mug, fingers brushing his. “Are you kidding? If that had been the real
Newlywed Game
, Bob Eubanks would’ve laughed himself silly.”

“Yeah, you did miss quite a few questions.”

Eight out of fifteen, to be specific. “I guess we had an off day. We were both surprised by the game and . . .” She topped off her own mug and hefted herself onto a countertop, legs dangling over the edge. “I guess it only makes sense Blaze and I might seem a bit disconnected. So much of the time, I’m busy with the show.”

And then there was the whole just-met-last-week thing. Hopefully Mr. Reporter bought her excuses.

“Well, either way, you still came off as a happy couple.” Matthew sipped his drink, eyes roaming the room over the rim of his mug. Quiet settled over the workshop, only the soles of Miranda’s shoes tapping against the under-counter cupboards filling in for conversation.

He’s here for a reason.

It was obvious, the way he kept rubbing one palm against his jeans, taking a breath and stopping before releasing whatever question he had for her. Finally, he set his mug on her metal tool cart and reached for his bag.

“So, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“Am I interrupting your work?”

“This is relaxation, not work.”

His eyes flitted to the saw where she’d been working. “What are you making?”

Surely that hadn’t been the question he wanted to ask. “A new crib for Audrey’s baby. Did you notice how old the one she has is? And it’s the kind with the spokes a baby’s head can get stuck in between. Of course, I’ll have to convince Jimmy to accept it.”

Matthew dropped his bag and stood, walked to the saw. “Looks like it’s going to be quite the creation.”

Miranda abandoned her mug and joined him at the saw. “I hope so.”

“It probably sounds incredibly unmanly to admit this, but I’ve never used a table saw. Never built much of anything, unless you count working with my dad on his motorcycle.”

“Are you calling
me
manly?” she teased.

And oh, the instant intensity in his eyes sent something swirling into her stomach so much warmer than her apple cider.

“Not in the least.” The timbre in Matthew’s voice was smooth as sanded wood. But in a blink and a moment, he broke the connection. “Show me how?”