Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (19 page)

The receptionist’s nasally giggle traveled across the room. Miranda propped her elbows on her knees, head hung, fingers massaging her temples. “What if Blaze’s falling out of the tree is God trying to tell us something.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m an idiot for trying to pull this off.”

Brad’s chuckle grated on her nerves. “Rand, I think God could get the message across a lot more effectively than breaking Blaze’s arm. This is just a hiccup. Don’t give up on it now. And you’re hardly an idiot.”

“I absolutely am. Did you hear me with the receptionist? ‘My husband’s hurt.’ My husband. Lied right to her face.” She rubbed her hands over her knees, dirt staining the denim in patches of beige.

“You’re not hurting anyone.”

“We’re . . . in . . . a . . . hospital.”

“You didn’t force Blaze to climb the tree. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“And if you knew what I almost did . . .” She stood, head hammering now. Panic—that’s what it was—creeping like something toxic up her throat. “I almost told Matthew the truth.”

Brad’s gaze shot to hers. “You didn’t.”

Something was humming now, like trapped wind. “Almost said it right to his face.”

“Randi—”

She mimicked herself, exaggerated her own breathy voice. “‘I’m not married. He’s not really my husband.’” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “‘It’s all a big show.’”

A gasp. Only . . .

Only it came from behind her. Oh no. The humming, the revolving door . . .

Brad winced. She turned. Could almost hear the click in Matthew’s brain as her eyes locked with his. Watched the dawning play out over his features as heated confusion turned to angry realization.

And maybe something even worse. Hurt.

“Matthew, I—”

But he whirled, disappeared the way he’d come.

Leaving heart-piercing shame in his wake.

“He’s not answering.” Brad scraped his fingers through his hair, letting out a frustrated exhale. His knuckles were white around his phone.

Miranda hugged her arms to herself, shoulders hunched, the weight flattening her into inactivity. She leaned against a pillar outside the hospital, cement cold against her back. Her thoughts, her emotions, they were a tangle of wires connected to a ticking bomb. Pull the wrong one and she’d detonate.

“Knox isn’t answering,” Brad repeated, moving until he faced her square on.

“Of course he’s not.” Because she hadn’t only accidentally confessed to her lie . . . she’d wounded Matthew. She’d seen it in the shadows passing over his face, the same look of betrayal she used to wear like a permanent accessory after Robbie.

Not possible. You and Robbie were a couple, together for a year and a half. You’ve barely known Matthew two weeks.

“Rand, this isn’t the time to play the wilting lily. We’ve got to do something before he goes and ruins everything.”

When had the sun slipped behind a mess of churlish clouds? “What can I do? You’ve tried calling him half a dozen times already.”

Seconds after Matthew had disappeared from the waiting room, she and Brad had rushed after him. But he was already gunning out of the lot in his Jeep.

Now, more than half an hour later, Miranda couldn’t seem to unfreeze. And Brad, poor panicked Brad, was about to lose it. “I’m so sorry, Brad,” she said for the twentieth, maybe thirtieth, time. How could she have been so stupid? The hairs on her arms rose as an unforgiving breeze whipped under the hospital’s canopied circle drive.

“Where’s your phone?” Brad asked, ignoring her apology, barely veiled irritation heating his tone.

“In my bag.” She pushed escaped strands of hair behind her ear. “Inside.” Where she’d left her dignity.

Or had she lost that years ago, when she’d traded in truth for a pretty picture now broken?

Brad gripped her elbow. “Then we’re going in. You’re going to call him this time.”

“Brad, if he didn’t answer your calls, he certainly isn’t going to answer mine.”

“You two were friends.” He lurched to a stop. “Maybe something else.” And then he was in front of her again, the accusation in his eyes as piercing as the sound of the ambulance’s siren bursting from the garage nearby. “Was something else going on, Randi?”

She yanked her arm away, escaped into the shelter of the revolving door. Oh, to just curl up on the floor, let the door spin and spin and spin until someone else had miraculously sorted out the clutter of her life.

Instead, when the door spit her out, her feet hit the flake-chipped flooring of the waiting room. She retrieved her bag, dug for her phone, heard Brad coming up behind her. “Think whatever you want, Walsh, but save the interrogation for another day. I’m calling him.”

“Rand, you know I didn’t mean—”

She cut him off with a raised hand as the rings of Matthew’s phone sounded against her ear, one after another. And then
his voice. “Hi, this is Matthew Knox. Sorry I’m not answering . . .” She took a breath, waited for the beep.

“It’s me.” A pregnant pause. “I don’t even know what to say. Maybe by the time you call me back, I will. But . . .” Nothing. There was no excuse good enough. She tapped out of the call.

“You should’ve told him you could explain,” Brad said.

“Like you already did a hundred times?”

He lowered his voice to a hush. “Do you even halfway understand what this could mean? Do you care?”

She punched a text message into her phone as Brad spoke.

Call me, Matthew. Please.

“Of course, I do. All it’d take is one call and he could have the media swarming. I’m so incredibly mad at myself.” She dropped her phone into her bag. “But I’ve got to worry about Blaze now.”

“Blaze is going to be fine. It’s your career that may end up permanently fractured.” They faced off—Miranda’s feet planted shoulders length apart, Brad with crossed arms. “Randi, I’m speaking as your manager . . . and as your friend. You could be in serious trouble.”

She softened her tone to match his. “I know, Brad. I . . . know.” Miranda lowered her head to his shoulder, felt his arms unwind and one hand pat her back.

“We’ll just have to regroup,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe Knox will decide he didn’t hear what he thought he heard.”

“Excuse me?” A nurse in maroon scrubs entered the lounge. “Blake will be ready to leave in a jiffy. Would one of you like to come back?”

Miranda met Brad’s eyes. He nodded. “Yes, I’d like that,” she answered, pulling her bag over her shoulder, grabbing the clipboard, and following the nurse down a shiny-floored
corridor. A thick blue stripe ran the length of the wall, all the way to the patient room at the far end.

“Blake’s in there,” the nurse said. “The doctor is giving him some final instructions about taking care of his cast.”

Miranda stepped through the door to see an exhausted Blaze, bobbing his head as the doctor spoke, a clean white cast encasing his arm.

“All right, we should be good to go, Blake. Take good care of that arm. We’ll see you again in a few weeks.”

Miranda approached the side of the exam table as the doctor left. Blaze’s feet knocked against the metal edges, and he gave her one of his lopsided smiles. “Guess it pays to be ambidextrous, huh.” The words rolled off his tongue way too easily, considering their location, the day’s events, and the sling holding his casted arm.

“Are you really ambidextrous?”

“I think so, but my fourth-grade penmanship teacher might disagree.” He hopped off the table. “Let’s go. Hospitals make me queasy.”

Miranda tilted her head to meet his eyes. “I’m really sorry this happened, Blaze. Truly.”

“Not your fault, muffin. Come on.”

“Wait a minute. You need to help me finish filling out this form.” She held up the clipboard. “Let’s see . . . They’re asking for your previous surgeries.”

Blaze looked over her shoulder at the form. “Oh, honey, we are going to need a lot more space than that. Maybe we should ask for another sheet of paper.”

Fifteen minutes later, they handed the clipboard to the nurse. As she walked out of the room reading the form, her eyes widened and she mumbled something about showing it to the doctor. But no one told them to wait, so they quickly covered the length of the hallway. Miranda was surprised by the sound
of voices growing as they neared the waiting area. “Wow, the ER must have filled up in the past few minutes,” she mused. They rounded the corner . . .

And a flash of light blinded her. The click of cameras. Voices hurling questions. And Brad’s call raising above them all. “People, back off. Back. Off.”

When the stars cleared from her eyes, she caught sight of the sheepish receptionist perched behind her desk.

“Randi, what happened? Was it an accident on set?”

“I thought
From the Ground Up
suspended taping?”

“Is a broken arm your husband’s only injury?”

They were still calling him her husband.

She slung her arm through Blaze’s good elbow, and they shoved through the crowd.
Wait!
“Brad, where’s Liv?” she called as they barreled outside, the press flocking behind. In all the chaos of the past hour, she’d completely forgotten her friend.

“She found Wi-Fi access at a coffee shop across the street. We’ll pick her up.”

They fell into Brad’s car.

And finally, twenty minutes later, after they’d picked up Liv and headed out of town, Miranda pulled her phone from her bag. No missed calls. No messages. No texts. She checked to make sure the ringer was on. Then opened a new text message, found Matthew’s number, and typed two words:

I’m sorry.

With one hand Matthew navigated the snaking highway, following the directions of his GPS. With the other, he hit speed dial on his cell and lifted it to his ear. This was probably stupid. All of it: the drive, the phone call.

But so was faking a marriage for the sake of television ratings.

The phone rang. Once, twice, three times.
Answer, man. This isn’t a call you want to miss.
Four, five, six rings.
Do I really want to do this?

He’d spent the first forty minutes of the drive with a tic in his jaw, the kind of fury beating through him he hadn’t felt since his father shoved his erroneous article at his face five years ago.

The next forty minutes, he’d debated with himself. Then he fished out his phone.

“This is Greg Dooley. Leave a message.”

Matthew waited for the beep. “It’s Knox. I’ve got your story. Call me.” He chucked his phone into the passenger seat and eyed the GPS. Less than half an hour to his destination.

He reached for the flimsy plastic cup in his cup holder. Fountain pop from a gas station, now flat. He flipped off the lid, pushed the straw aside, and drank.

It wasn’t right, what Miranda was doing. He wasn’t just angry about the lie itself. He’d kept quiet about that whole Robbie thing, had even gallantly thought he was helping the woman. His blind trust had kept him from seeing that her secrets went so much deeper.

And now he had no clue how to direct his reaction. After he’d stalked out of the hospital a couple hours ago, he’d slammed the door of the Jeep, then simply started driving. Aimless, twisted up inside like a tangled yo-yo.

Because as infuriated as he was toward Miranda, he couldn’t deny the thin ribbon of relief also winding its way through him.
She’s
not
married.
His conscience recited the new mantra like the “Hallelujah Chorus.” And he hated himself for it.

Whatever forbidden feeling you thought you felt before—thought
she
might feel—it wasn’t real. Because
she’s
not real.

Why he’d suddenly gotten the urge to hit the Interstate, to finally do what Jase had begged him to, he had no idea. Maybe
because Jase, unlike the woman who’d so skillfully caught him in her web, could actually be trusted.

The western sun stung his eyes, and with an angry swipe, he lowered the visor.

Yes. When Dooley called him back, he’d spill the whole thing. No more Mr. Nice Reporter. He’d tell all, and then they’d decide how to break the story—on the blog or another way.

His phone chirped from the passenger seat. Good. Dooley got his voice mail. He pulled it to his ear. “Knox here.”

“Uncle Matt!” Cee’s voice bubbled with glee.

He inhaled, every muscle knotted and tense.
Switch gears, man.
He couldn’t disappoint Cee. Not when he knew how much she loved using the speech-to-text relay phone service Jase and Izzy had purchased.

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s so good to talk to you,” he answered, knowing she’d read his words as the relay service transcribed them, relieved that she wouldn’t hear the strain in his voice.

“I miss you. When are you coming back?”

He wanted to say soon. Playing the gullible fool grew old the minute he heard Miranda’s sarcastic proclamation.
“It’s all a big show.”

His GPS directed him onto an exit ramp leading into suburban Knoxville.

“I’m not sure, Cee. Did you get the postcard I sent?”

After a pause, she spoke. “Yes. I hung it on the refrigerator. I wish you were here. I’m watching a movie tonight.”

Not for the first time, he tried to imagine watching a movie without sound. Only closed-captioning to explain what was happening on-screen. But if Cee had the cochlear implant surgery, it could transform her movie experience. He could actually take her to a theater.

And now he had a story, ripe with juicy deceit—just the
cash cow they needed to help fund the surgery. Except it might break Cee’s heart in the process. Not to mention Miranda’s.

“What movie?”

“Your favorite cartoon.
The Incredibles.
”

About a family of forgotten superheroes, the father frustrated, disappointed by the cards life dealt him. Matthew let out a slow sigh and turned onto Maple Street. Just a few blocks . . . “Hey, I heard you got your stitches out.”

“Yeah, and it didn’t even hurt.”

Some things didn’t.

Some things did.

He squinted, reading the numbers as he passed each house. 1945. 1947. 1949. There, 1951. “Uncle Matt, I want to meet Randi Woodruff. Is she with you now? Can I talk to her?”

“Sorry, kiddo, she’s not.”

“But can I meet her sometime?”

If Matthew did what he knew he should—tell her story, all of it—there was no way Miranda would want anything to do with him or his family. “I don’t know, hon. Hey, is your dad around?”

“Yup. Dad!”

Despite his stormy mood, he smiled at her yell.

“Here he is. Come home soon, Uncle Matt.” He heard the rustle of the transferring of the phone, the beep of the text service turning off, and then his brother’s voice. “Hey, Matt.”

“I’m sitting in front of his house, Jase.”

Jase’s pause lasted only a second. “Seriously?”

Matthew stared at the suburban home across the street. The beige structure and immaculate landscaping couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the cabin he’d been sleeping in for the past week. Or that shack in the mountains he and Miranda had visited. Fancy brickwork created a trail to the front door, potted ferns and hanging flower baskets adding splashes of
color along the porch. A two-story deck jutted out behind the house, and a privacy fence likely encased an in-ground pool.