Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (15 page)

A leaf drifted in from the open ceiling, landing between their feet. “It was a perfectly fine tree house, but the first time Grandpa climbed up with me, he took one look around and said, ‘We can do better than this, Miranda.’ And he did, customized that thing ’til it was the envy of the neighborhood. And that’s when I first got bit by the carpentry bug.”

“So you’re giving the kids here at Open Arms the same fun your grandpa gave you.” Tomorrow’s blog post had just written itself. “This place—not just the tree house, but the whole facility—completely surprised me. I expected something a lot more institutional looking.”

Instead, the shelter for orphans with special needs run by Miranda’s friend Liv made its home in a Victorian house. The structure stood three stories high, painted canary yellow with crisp white shutters. A wraparound porch hugged its front and sides, and a balcony extended from French doors on the third level. Mums lined the path from the street to the entrance.

Thinking back to a couple hours ago, though, Matthew remembered it wasn’t only the facility that surprised him, but also Blaze’s reaction. Miranda’s husband had gaped at the winding staircase that jutted into the mahogany-floored entryway, the curled carvings of the banister, the sight of the mammoth dining room table through an open doorway.

He’d stared as if he’d never seen the place before.

“Matthew, could you close the skylight?”

Miranda’s voice pecked unheeded at his continued musing. Did Blaze never come along with Miranda to volunteer at Open Arms? Blaze joined Miranda for photo shoots and publicity junkets, but other than that, they seemed to live different lives. On Sunday, she’d spent half the day in her workshop and he’d
taken off for town. While Miranda disappeared for several hours last night, Blaze went running.

“Earth to Knox.” Miranda brushed past him to the floor opening where the ladder poked in. “Let’s go help Blaze bag up the leaves and then hit the road. I’m dog tired.”

Matthew turned, blurted the question pounding him like a gong. “Are you and Blaze for real?”

The paint can dangling from her hand squeaked as she turned slowly. “What?”

“I mean, is it a true relationship? Do you really . . . love each other?” A warning bell somewhere in the distant corners of his mind cautioned against anything more. Still, he pressed on. “Did you only marry Blaze for the show?”

Miranda’s pause stretched, flexing the silence into something heavy and awkward. He knew he should wish the question back. But even more than he needed a story, Matthew wanted truth.

And her trust. Not so he could mine for blog fodder, but so he could discover . . . her. The fascinating woman with calloused hands and a bruised heart who built homes by day and played Good Samaritan at night.

“I can’t believe you’d ask me that after what I told you last night.”

If only the lighting weren’t so dim inside the tree house, he might have read her eyes and discerned whether anger or hurt shadowed her words.

“But can you see why I wonder? How it might look?”

She turned her back to him, spoke slowly. “No. I didn’t marry him for the show.” She dropped to the floor, lowered herself to the ladder, and disappeared.

Leaving Matthew alone with the distrust he was coming to hate.

She hadn’t lied. Not technically.

So why did Matthew’s question bother her so? Half an hour later, it still pricked against the tender flesh of her emotions.

Miranda yanked the pull strings of a heavy-duty garbage bag ballooning with leaves. The last one in the box. Matthew had gone inside looking for more several minutes ago. She knotted the garbage bag handles, chucked it over with the others, and surveyed the yard. Only a few scattered piles left.

“No. I didn’t marry him for the show.”

That’s right. Only pretended to.

The sun dipped low behind the Appalachian ridges, a streak of orange bold against a darkening sky. At her side, Blaze shook an errant tuft of hair from his face and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. “Brr. The weather’s so shifty around here.”

Halfway through the day, temps had reached the mid-fifties. Now they were headed for an overnight frost. “Thanks for all your help. This would’ve taken hours more on my own.”

“Anything to help the wife. How would it look if I didn’t come along?”

How, indeed. If his questions were any indication, Matthew had enough suspicions on his own. But what he’d said this morning, about wanting to keep the blog going—did that mean he truly didn’t intend to write about what she’d told him last night?
At least not yet.
She couldn’t let herself get comfortable. “Blaze, have you read any of Matthew’s articles, his blogs?”

“Yeah, the dude’s pretty good with his ABCs. Why, haven’t you read them?”

She bit her lip, warming her hands inside the pockets of her fleece jacket. “I can’t. It’s weird, I know, but I’m . . . nervous. I don’t usually know the people who interview me, so if the story rubs me wrong, it’s no biggie. But Matthew, he’s . . .”

Blaze cocked his head, raised eyebrows prodding her on.

She shrugged. “A friend, I guess. And sometimes you think you know how a friend sees you, but then you find out they actually see you differently than how you thought they saw you, and you wonder, is that how other people see me? See what I’m saying?”

He belted out a laugh. “I
see
why Matthew’s the wordsmith and not you.”

She elbowed him in the side. “Says the man whose vocabulary is monopolized by
dude
.”

Blaze rubbed his palm over his stubbled chin, scratchy like the sound of sandpaper, before speaking again. “Want to know how else I see you?”

“I’m not sure.” He’d already told her she didn’t know how to have fun. Now what? She was too boring? Straightlaced? After all, she’d turned down his order to jump in a pile of leaves minutes ago.

“I see a woman who’s pretending to be married to one guy while falling for someone else.”

His words, like the cool of the night, chilled through her. She attempted a nonchalant giggle, but it came out a garbled cough. “What?”

His knees bent to bring him eye level with her. “You’re falling for Knox. And it makes total sense, too. You’re both creative types but in a different way—you with your wood, him with words. It draws you together.”

No. No.
No
. “Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Love, but you’re way off. I’ve known him all of one week. We’re just friends.”

“Universal code for ‘I’m crazy about him but don’t want you to know.’ And you’ve spent more time with him in one week than many people do with family members in a month. Look me in the eye, sweetie-pie, and deny it.”

“He’s nosy a-and cocky and . . . nosy.” And cute, even with
his blasted questions. And helpful and hardworking. “And he wouldn’t know a Hitachi from a DeWalt.”

“A what-y from a de-what?”

Another elbow in the side. Harder this time and accompanied by an exaggerated groan. “I’m going inside. Matthew should’ve been out here with more garbage bags five minutes ago.”

Blaze’s teasing laughter followed her inside. That, and the side effect of his words: worry. Because what if he saw something real?

I’m married. I’m married. I’m married.

She trailed through the mud room into the kitchen, the yeasty smell of homemade bread lingering in the air. Hadn’t she told Matthew he’d find garbage bags here? Where had he wandered?

“Matthew?” she called, leaving the kitchen. “Liv?” Liv had been off to run errands with a few of the children when they first arrived, the rest of the kids on an outing with a volunteer group.

She moved down the first-floor corridor, then slowed outside the den when the sound of piano reached her ears. She recognized the song, a favorite: “Beautiful Dreamer.”

She peeked into the room, surprise flitting through her at the sight of Matthew at the piano. His hands glided over the keys effortlessly. And standing beside the piano, the children who’d left earlier with Liv—Anya, Peter, Claire—their hands pressed against the back of the piano, smiling as they felt the vibration.

Listening.

Anya, Peter, and Claire were deaf.

With a gentle push against the door, Miranda padded into the room. She caught Matthew’s eyes, saw the red creep into his cheeks. Liv watched from another corner of the room. Anya spotted Miranda and waved with one hand, then just as quickly returned her palm to the piano.

The song ended to the children’s “clapping”—palms lifted, fluttering back and forth in ASL applause. Their faces lit up, eyes glowing, as their hands began to move in silent chatter. Oh, did they think Matthew was a volunteer sign interpreter?

And then her heart sighed as Matthew’s own hands spun into motion. He spoke as he signed. “My name is Matthew.” He spelled out his name one letter at a time. “What are your names?” It was possible she’d never seen anything sweeter.

“That reporter of yours is full of surprises,” Liv spoke from behind her as the children signed their names.

“Indeed.” But of course he’d mentioned his niece was deaf. So it wasn’t surprising he knew ASL.

“How old are you?” Matthew asked.

“Ten, seven, and six,” Miranda recited in a whisper as the children answered in sign. How often had she wished to communicate with these three, lamenting her lack of sign language skills, heart wincing as they stood by silently while she talked to the other children?

Oh, Liv knew basic sign language. And Claire, the oldest, could read lips. But more often than not, Miranda felt at a loss when trying to connect.

“All right, children. Into the kitchen for snacks. The others will be home soon,” Liv signed and spoke.

As she herded the kids out, Matthew’s fingers returned to the keyboard. He played a scale, upped an octave and played another. Miranda crossed the room and lowered onto the bench beside him. “Not only are you a writer, but you’re also a concert pianist.”

He chuckled. “Hardly. But I did take lessons ’til halfway through high school.”

“I always wanted to learn. But by the time they took me in, Grandpa and Grandma were on a fixed income. Not enough money.”

“Well, finally, something
I
can teach
you
.”

Even though her eyes were on the black-and-white ivories, she could hear the smile in Matthew’s smooth voice. Her heart quickened, and her conscience told her to stand up and leave. But Matthew pressed a key before she could move. “This is middle C.”

“I know
that.
If that’s all you’re going to teach me—”

“Patience, grasshopper. What do you want to learn? ‘Chopsticks’? Easiest song in the book.”

Did he have any idea the effect he had on her? What was wrong with her, anyway? How could she shift so quickly from pining for Robbie to wishing . . .

She shook her head, felt the hair tickling her cheeks and Matthew’s movement as he turned to face her.

“Not ‘Chopsticks’? Okay. Well, I can teach you something else.”

“No, that’s not it.” Miranda tried to stand, but her knees bumped into the underside of the piano and she wobbled—she’d turned into a klutz around this man—and sat back on the bench.

“It’s about those questions I asked in the tree house. They weren’t nice. I realize that. But I
am
a reporter.”

“True. But this . . .
this
was nice.” She looked from Matthew to the piano, back to his eyes. And that smile on his face, oh, she could seriously get used to it.

If she wanted to. But she didn’t.

“It’s just . . .” She lowered her head. “Not that many people know about Robbie. And now that I know you know, I feel . . . weird.”

“Why? I don’t think less of you because your first engagement didn’t work out. I could tell you about some relationship blunders of my own.”

“It’s not that as much as . . . I’ve built up this identity for
myself. And Robbie feels like a crack in that identity.” Why was she being so honest with him? Hadn’t she just decided to be more cautious?

“Is your reputation so important? I guess that’s a dumb question, because you’re a TV star, but it just seems . . .”

His voice trailed, and in the quiet she could hear the clomping of footsteps in the entryway. The other children must have returned from their outing. What Matthew didn’t understand was this wasn’t just about her reputation. It was about who she was, deep inside. And he’d seen a caged facet that was never meant to escape.

“Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell you about one of my less-than-proud moments,” Matthew said. “Remember how I told you the other night about my dad ditching our family?”

Yes, out in the cabin. When she’d talked about her parents. It seemed they’d formed a pattern of sharing secrets.

“Well, about five years ago, I pretty much accused my father—in print—of embezzlement.” His fingers grazed the top of the keys. “I ran a skewed article—one that I never should’ve pushed in the first place—and let a decade’s worth of anger pretty much destroy my career. Had to resign. And worse, the reporter I’d assigned the article was fired.”

She heard the regret dripping from his words, the shame.