Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (27 page)

Not for the first time, questions about Blaze’s real life—the one he lived when he wasn’t faking it as Miranda’s husband—poked at him. Miranda had said there was an exit strategy for their pretend marriage, but just how long had Blaze committed to this thing? Was he beginning to feel trapped, maybe regretting his decision?

But Blaze waved him out the door before he could ask his questions. “Go on. Randi’s probably in need of company.”

“I don’t know where the church is.”

“Miranda went down that path. Maybe if you follow it, you’ll end up there.”

Matthew shrugged. Might as well. Outside, the wind tousled his hair, and he buttoned his black jacket the rest of the way. He needed to clear his head of this rotten day but couldn’t stop the flashback playing like a movie reel . . .

He’d seen his father before Gordon Knox saw him. The man stepped into the hotel lobby, scanning the expansive room. Matthew took a breath, waved and waited.

“You look different, son,” his father said when he reached him. Gordon Knox’s teeth, either caps or the work of some hard-core bleach, glowed white against a tanned face. His still-thick hair was more salt than pepper now, and extra lines creased his face.

“I guess five years will do that.” The words broke free before he could second-guess them. Did they come out as accusatory as they’d sounded in his head?

His father’s face gave no hint. “Yes, I suppose that is how long it’s been.”

The speech Matthew had rehearsed on the way fell by the wayside as his father grasped his hand. “So what’s your conference for?”

“Oh, some silly thing on community utilities management. Comes at a bad time with the campaign and all. Election is only two weeks away. But if I’m elected, it’ll be good experience. Jase did tell you about my city council run, right?”

“He mentioned it.”

“How is Jase, anyway?”

“Fine. He’s had some business setbacks, though.”

“Hmm. Anything I can help with?”

About fifteen years too late for that, wasn’t he? “I don’t think so.”

“I saw a Starbucks. Let’s grab a cup of Joe.”

Matthew followed his father’s long strides, the smell of coffee whetting his appetite.

Gordon scouted the coffee shop, seemed to find what he was looking for, and guided the way to a booth. Which is when Matthew’s eyes landed on the figure already sitting there.

Delia.

And she wore conniving like a piece of clothing, from her taunting, toothy smile to the way her fire-engine-red nails tapped the Formica table. He jerked to face his father.

Gordon motioned to the booth. “Sit, son. I believe you two know each other.”

Blindsided, Matthew did as his father ordered. He slid in across from Delia.

“I’m going to grab a latte. Son, Ms. Jones, can I get you anything?”

“Grande skinny mocha, no whipped cream,” Delia said.

Matthew only shook his head. “What are you doing here?” he asked as his father walked to the counter.

“Mr. Knox called me. I came.”

He didn’t know whether to believe her or shoot questions at her like bullets.

“Enjoying playing lightweight celebrity blogger?” Delia asked.

“What turned you into such a crank, Delia?”

“Maybe having my editor take me out on a date, and then—rather than calling, maybe asking for a second date like a normal guy might do—he force-feeds me an article that gets me fired. That might do it, don’t you think?”

He started to open his mouth, but she stopped him. “And don’t give me the ‘we had a source’ argument. I tired of that long ago.”

He hadn’t planned to mention the faulty source. Whether she would believe it or not, he’d been about to apologize for the dinner-date misunderstanding. But she wouldn’t have accepted the apology anyway. Delia’s scowl seeped disdain, and
if it weren’t for the curiosity clawing him, Matthew would have walked out right then.

Instead, they’d waited in silence for his father.

And when Gordon Knox returned, he got right to business.

“Son, the reason I wanted to talk to you is twofold. First, remember my Ducati? I had it detailed a few months ago.”

His father had contacted him because of a
motorcycle
? Confusion fought with a reel of memories, all the same: the sound of the bike’s muffler as his dad rode away. So many evenings he’d watched from the window as Gordon Knox took off on his nightly ride, then lain awake in bed listening for his return.

Until one night . . . he didn’t.

“Yeah, I guess I remember.”

“And remember how I always said one day it’d be yours.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Except . . . except maybe he did.

“Dad, I want a Ducati, too.”

“Someday, son, you’ll have one. And not just any bike, but this one.”

So clear now, the memory. He must’ve repressed it years ago. Or had simply given up on the promise ever coming true. And in the process of disappointment, forgotten.

“It’s time for you to have it. You can come pick it up in Knoxville or I’ll ship it to you. Whole lot of value in that thing.”

And then it rushed him, the anger. It pushed at the restraints he’d thought in place. No more. “I don’t want your bike. If you think it makes up for years of neglect, you’re wrong. And just so you know, it’s not neglect of me I’m angry about. It’s Mom. She was sick and you—”

“Matthew, my goal here is not to rehash the past.”

“Well, maybe it needs to be rehashed.” He hated that Delia was sitting there watching this beside his father. Gordon Knox
hadn’t only insulted him with this ridiculous sham of a reunion, he’d invited his rival to watch.

“It needs to be healed, is what,” his father inserted. “And that’s why Ms. Jones is here. I want us to call a truce. A public truce. End this painful estrangement. Become a family again.”

Delia’s nose wrinkled. “Why would I want to be a part of that?”

“I’d like you to write about it. I know you suffered in that mix-up with the article. I thought, who better to record my reconciliation with my son?”

Oh.
Slowly, like an ugly puzzle coming together, the pieces connected in Matthew’s mind. This was all a part of his father’s campaign. He hadn’t called Jase because he wanted to reconnect with his sons. He wanted a publicity stunt.

Matthew could feel the tension in his jaw snap. “I can’t believe you would—”

“Son—”

“Would you stop calling me that?” The words exploded from him, probably too loudly, probably enough to disturb the coffee shop’s other customers. But his father had wanted a public reunion, didn’t he?

It could be public without being positive.

Slowly, his father leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. “It’s what you are.” His tone spoke challenge.

“Maybe. But when you gave up your role, I gave up mine. You left. You took all the money. You didn’t go to Mom’s funeral. And now you want me to agree to some hokey article to shore up your city council campaign?” He stood, pushed out of the booth. “Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t wish you on any city.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “Think about what you’re doing. This could be as good for you as for me. It’s not like your career’s headed anywhere.”

The hurt, same as always, hammered him.
Screw-up. Failure.
Fists balled at his sides, Matthew closed his eyes. Only for a moment. Just long enough to make the decision.

Been trapped in this place too long
. His father’s grip. His failure’s grasp.

He met Gordon’s eyes. “I don’t want the motorcycle.”

He turned, his legs carrying him from the Starbucks and through the hotel, the sun washing his face when he stepped onto the parking lot. Each step echoed his decision.
Done. Done. Done.

But Delia’s voice stopped him before he entered his Jeep. “Knox, wait.”

He reached for his door handle.

“Hold on—just wait.”

Against his better judgment, he paused, waiting for her to reach him. When she did, he pressed his body against the side of the Jeep to keep as much space between them as possible. “What?”

“I didn’t know that’s what this meeting was about. Sure, I was curious, especially when he bought me a plane ticket, but I’m not so low that I would’ve accepted that kind of story.”

The sun-warmed metal of his Jeep burned his back. “Fine.”

“But as long as I’m here . . .”

“What do you want?”

“I want in,” she snapped. “I’m like any red-blooded journalist, Knox. I’m just like you.”

If that was true, he should do society a favor and find a cave to hide out in for the rest of his life. The altitude had gotten to her.

“I’m sick of Minneapolis. Even though I talked my way into a job at the
Pioneer Press
, everyone there still remembers. I want to move up. Let me in on the Woodruff story. It’ll be Knox and Jones, partners in storytelling crime again. What do you say?”

She was kidding, right? He rubbed clammy palms over his jeans and cocked an eyebrow. “Last time we worked together was a disaster—”

“Not my fault.”

“And you’ve done all you could to hassle me ever since.”

“Nothing personal.”

“Yeah, right. So if you think I’ll let you anywhere near Miranda Woodruff, you’re crazy. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable.”

Fine, he’d stepped right into that.

“I know you’re gunning for more than a blog, Knox. Dooley’s probably baiting you with a chance for the February cover, right?”

“January,” he conceded.

“I want in,” she repeated. “And you’re going to let me in because you owe me.”

And that’s when he’d finally yanked on his Jeep’s door handle. Called it quits. Headed home.

Home . . .

Somehow the mountains really had started to feel like home. They’d pulled him in, wrapped him up in a quilt of beauty and wonder.

And maybe hope. If God could sculpt these ridges into such perfection, surely He could sculpt a person, too. Root out the parts so prone to screwing up. Remake a man into something . . . worthy.

Matthew’s feet crunched over leaves and twigs, moonlight painting a path in front of him. He’d become so lost in his reverie, he hadn’t even realized he’d reached the church. At least, he assumed it was the church.

Worthy of whom, Matthew?

He stopped, watched the white of his breath float until it disappeared.
Is that you, God?

Worthy of whom?

His colleagues. His family. His father. No, not his father.

Miranda.

Or maybe you, God.

He started forward again, toward the church, the cold now sneaking past his jacket.
My identity has always been about trying to be better. Trying not to be the screw-up. Trying to succeed.

And that’s probably why he’d stayed away from church, let his faith fade for such a long time. Because his attempts never panned out.

But maybe it’s not about trying anymore. Maybe it was never supposed to be. Maybe I’m simply supposed to let you build me like you built these mountains. Like Miranda and one of her houses.

He stopped in front of the church, its white walls glowing against moonlight. Miranda sat on the front steps. “Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, yourself. How was seeing your dad?”

“Horrible. How about your day?”

“Horrible.”

He gestured to the step. “May I?” She nodded, and he lowered, the step narrow enough that his thigh brushed hers as he sat. “You know, we’re kind of a wreck, the two of us.”

“Don’t I know it.”

She reached for his hand then, leaned in. And sighed.

The featherlight dress fell in satiny wisps over Miranda’s shoulders, her waist, breezing to her ankles until only her toes peeked from under the midnight-blue ripples.

“Yikes, Miranda.” Liv squeaked out the words, pushing Miranda toward the full-length mirror attached to her closet door. “Look at yourself.”

She couldn’t. She probably resembled a clown. Worse, Raggedy Ann trying to fit into a china doll collection. Jeans, boots, her tool belt and favorite flannel—that’s what she belonged in. Not this Vera Whoever creation. She couldn’t make herself look.

From behind her, Liv’s hands closed around Miranda’s arms and shook. “Open your eyes, silly.” Her bare feet shuffled over the hardwood floor as Liv nudged her closer to the mirror. “Or I’ll spread the word about your date with the reporter tonight.”

Her eyes shot open as she whirled, slippery fabric swishing around her legs. “You wouldn’t! And it’s not a date. It’s not even—”

“Then get ahold of yourself and check out how you look in the dress.”

Miranda mirrored Liv’s crossed arms with her own. “Promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone. I’m supposed to still be married.” At least in the eyes of everyone except Liv, Matthew,
Blaze, Robbie, Brad, Lincoln, Tom . . . The network of those in the know was getting bigger and bigger.

Liv picked up a DVD case from the nightstand, mock sincerity lighting her eyes. “I swear on the awesomeness of this movie, your favorite and mine, I won’t say a thing.”

“I’d prefer you not spread the word about my love for Captain von Trapp, either,” Miranda muttered, turning obediently. “I’d lose all credibility with the crew if—”

She quieted as the figure staring back at her stilled, the only movement her slowly unfolding arms. The dress hugged her upper body, sheer straps crisscrossing over her shoulders, leaving her arms bare. From there, it dropped over her waist in a graceful line to the floor. “I look . . . like a girl.” With actual
curves
.

“I’d say
woman
.” Liv stepped up beside her. “You’re breathtaking. And will be even more so when we fix your hair and dab on some makeup.”

And heels. She’d wear heels tonight because suddenly something had loosened in her heart. Or maybe her brain. Yeah, probably that, considering her history with heels. But the dress wouldn’t look right with anything else. It had to look right, because . . .

She fingered the tendril of hair tickling her cheek.

Because of Matthew Knox.

And if she stopped to dwell on that realization, she’d go and analyze her way to an ulcer. Better not to study it just yet. “We need to hurry. I’m supposed to meet Matthew in an hour, and it’s a forty-five-minute drive, at least.” She reached behind her head to loosen her ponytail.

Liv stepped up to help. “Here, let me. And stay calm. I’ll have you photo ready in minutes.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh, no photos tonight. Matthew promised me where we’re going is off the beaten path.”

He’d offered the assurance over the phone this morning, then told her to look on the porch—where she’d found the garment bag draped over the railing. She’d unzipped it while still on the phone, ran a hand over the shimmery fabric. “How . . . why . . . I thought you were saving your money for Cee’s surgery?”

“I figure this is an investment. I teach you to dance, you survive the Giving Heart gala.”

She’d checked the tag inside the dress. Her size. How had he known? But she’d known the answer without having to ask—Liv. “I’m not seeing how that’s an investment.” A rustling breeze played with the chimes dangling from the porch overhang.

“Oh yes, well, you promise to dance with me at the gala, I write my best blog yet, and I reckon Barbara Walters will be calling me to ask what it was like dancing with
the
Randi Woodruff. I will, of course, require compensation for such an interview. Good idea, huh?”

Oh yeah.
“It’s beautiful.” The color of night when the sun dipped behind the Smokies.

“Well, I thought with your gray eyes and dark hair . . .” His words had petered out as he cleared his throat, silence stretching like the emotions expanding in her chest. Fluttery and unfamiliar after so many years tucked away.

Now, up in her bedroom, wearing the dress Matthew picked out, those
feelings—
whatever they were—glided through her again, tasting new and sweet, like the honey Grandma used to buy straight from the local beekeeper.

“So he asked you on a date two nights ago when you were out walking, then disappeared for a few hours yesterday, and then called you this morning, from the cabin on your own property, to get you out onto the porch so you’d find the dress?”

Miranda couldn’t stop the grin stretching her cheeks. “That’s about how it went.”

Liv shook her head and whistled. “If you ever get yourself
out of this fake-marriage business, that Knox is a keeper. Now, sit, Rand, and I’ll do your hair.” Liv prodded her toward the Victorian stool in front of the antique vanity. “Up or down?”

“You’re asking me? If fashion savvy had been a subject in school, I’d have flunked out.” And yet, the dress alone had her feeling runway worthy.

“Well, which way do you think Matthew would prefer?”

She met Liv’s eyes in the mirror above the vanity. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Woodruff.” Liv picked up a brush and pulled it through Miranda’s hair.

Last-name treatment. Livvy definitely saw through her. Which meant she might as well confess. “The other day we were working on Audrey’s house, and by the end of the day, all my hair had come out of the ponytail. He made the comment I should wear it down more.”

Liv stopped with the brush midair. “You’re so completely smitten.”

“Not true.”

“Deny it all you want, honey, but I have eyes. Even Brad noticed—”

“Brad? What does he know? And when were you talking to him?”

She watched Livvy blink at the mirror. And what was with the blush? “Oh, my goodness. Don’t tell me . . . Seriously?”

Livvy tugged the brush through Miranda’s hair. And none too gently.

“Are you two . . .”

“He just calls sometimes. That’s all.” Yank.

“And?”

“And we talk.” Pull.

“And?” Snarl. “Oww, careful there. It’ll completely ruin the effect of the dress if I show up tonight bald.”

“Sorry,” Liv mumbled. “But I have nothing to say, all right? We’ve talked a few times. That’s it. And he wants to volunteer at Open Arms. And I’m his ‘plus one’ at the gala tomorrow night. That’s it. And he’s coming to church with me on Sunday.”

“Let me guess . . . That’s it?” Laughter tumbled from her lips.

Liv jerked a makeup bag from her purse on the quilt-topped bed “Laugh all you want, Woodruff, but I’m not the one denying a crush on a guy who bought her an evening gown. While, I might add, harboring a fake husband.
And
who just got rid of her former fiancé.”

Miranda clamped down on her giggles and twisted on the stool to face Liv. “I’m pathetic.”

Livvy dusted her cheeks with blush. “You’re conflicted—that’s what.”

“Robbie wanted to get back together.”

“I can’t believe it. I also can’t believe you didn’t invite me over while he was here. I’d have loved to give him a piece of my mind. And my fist.” Liv reached into her bag, pulled out a tube of eyeliner. “Eyes closed.”

“Well, it’s possible you may still have a chance. He made it clear when he left he’d be sticking around town for a while.”

Liv harrumphed.

“Why’d he do it?” Miranda asked softly, opening her eyes as Liv stepped back.

“Who, Robbie? Come back? Didn’t you say his father died and—”

“No, Matthew.” She motioned to the dress. “This. Tonight.”

Liv lowered onto the edge of the bed, leaning over, hands on Miranda’s knees. “You know why.”

“He’s helping me get ready for the award ceremony. I told him about not feeling graceful. So he’s . . . helping. I know that.”

Even before she finished, Liv’s head swayed back and forth. “Be honest, Rand.”

Choking panic wafted up, like the time she’d gotten lost in the market in San Paulo, suffocated by the mixture of foreign words and smells. “I shouldn’t go. Even if there was no Blaze, there’d still be the show and the fact that supposedly I’m married and . . .”

Liv clucked her tongue and produced a tube of lipstick. “Don’t be silly. You’re thinking too hard. You’re dying to go. Even Blaze wants you to go.” She held out the lipstick. “Put it on.”

Dying to go, yes. Because Matthew brought her to life in a way no one had since Robbie. He listened. He talked. He
saw
. Exactly what, she still wasn’t sure. But it was enough to know he was looking. Not at a homebuilder. Not at a television star. At
her.

She closed her fingers around the lipstick, puckered, felt the color deepen in a sticky, smooth stain.

“How do I look?”

“Like a finally-happy woman ready for a first date.”

“A first date with a man who’s been chronicling my life for three weeks. Should be interesting.”

“Should be amazing. Now go forget everything else and have a wonderful time.”

Matthew paced in front of the abandoned building he’d taken over for tonight’s date. Miranda should have been there by now. What if she was driving around lost? What if the dress didn’t fit? What if she hated it?

Nah, she’d called it beautiful earlier.

Shoes! What if she didn’t have any shoes to go with the dress? He was such a
guy.
Didn’t even think about that. Knowing Miranda, she probably had a closet full of boots and that’s all.

The obnoxious caw of a bird streamed through the trees. He’d heard about this place the night he’d picked up Jimmy at that truck stop. It was a lone building set back from the main road, about twenty miles north of Pine Cove.

Even if Miranda did make it out there, to the middle of nowhere, complete with shoes, what if she thought this whole setup was hokey?

His pacing came to a halt at the sound of tires rolling over gravel. She’d made it. Matthew glanced down to his shiny shoes, up his black pants and tuxedo jacket, then to the plastic-encased wrist corsage he held in one hand. A deep-burgundy rose, which the florist said symbolized
unconscious beauty
. Couldn’t have been more perfect.

Now if only the rest of the night could sail the same tide of perfection.

He was at Miranda’s door before she’d even cut the engine. He opened the door and she stepped out.

“Hey, Matthew.”

The sight of her made him drop the flower box. It landed at his feet, and as he knelt to pick it up, he caught a glimpse of the strappy, heeled sandals poking from beneath the dress he’d picked out. He lifted his head.

“Good . . . shoes.” Words . . . stuck.

But who could blame him? With
her
standing in front of him all . . . gorgeous and stuff. He rose, his gaze capturing each inch of Miranda until it stopped at the smirk in her eyes. “Were you worried I’d show up barefoot?” she drawled, lifting one corner of her mouth.

Oh boy. She’d worn lipstick, of her own free will. Unless Whitney or Liv or someone had forced her. But no, she could take on any of them. Yep, the color accenting her grin was her own doing. And knowing that was . . . enticing.

“Say something, Knox. It’s not every day I ditch my Levi’s
for a gown.” Her voice softened. “A really, really pretty one. Thank you.”

“You’re . . .” It’s like something disconnected between his brain and his mouth.

“I think the word you’re looking for is
welcome
,” she offered, now eyeing the corsage. “Is that for me?”

“No.” Maybe he should blink or something so his admiration didn’t come off as ogling.

“Uh, so
you’re
going to wear it?”

“No, I mean,
welcome
isn’t the word I was looking for.” Finally an entire sentence. “Beautiful. That’s what I meant to . . .” He thrust the corsage box toward her. “So . . . here.”

Her dimpled grin widened as she accepted the box and slipped the corsage over her wrist.
Idiot.
He should’ve done that.
Get ahold of yourself, man.

“So, where are we, anyway? You’d think I’d know about this place.” She was gazing at the one-story structure, probably dissecting its construction. She looked at buildings completely differently from the way others did.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll show you.” He held out his elbow, and she tucked her arm through his. At last, a smooth move. And even though there wasn’t anyone else around to see, he still felt a puff of pride at having her at his side. They ducked under a low-hanging porch roof.

“I heard about this building from some locals. Used to be called Everly Hall. Apparently it was the happening-est place in the area during Prohibition, complete with a distillery in the back room.”

They paused in the doorway. “You mean it’s a speakeasy?”

Matthew grinned. “Was. Tonight it’s a ballroom.”

Inside, the twinkle of Christmas lights lit up the room, thanks to the battery-powered generator he’d purchased yesterday. He’d bought at least a dozen coils of lights and spent
hours today stringing them around the room. Thanks to his iPod, the smooth tones of a big-band dance number echoed through the room.