Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (30 page)

“Flight 1041 to Chicago now boarding passengers in Section A. Section A passengers now boarding to Chicago.” The voice came over loudspeakers and Matthew stood. Chicago, then Minneapolis, then home.

He glanced once more at the North Carolina view, then turned away and boarded his plane.

Tires crackled over gravel as Robbie’s Prius disappeared down the lane. A heavy wind hurled itself against Miranda’s face, tangling in her hair. Pale sunlight was no match for the late-October chill that had painted the ground a frosty white. A glistening blanket still rested in place this afternoon.

“Good-bye, Robbie.” She whispered the words, letting autumn’s breath carry away her farewell.

Robbie hadn’t understood. But he’d gone.

“I’m really sorry, Rand.” Blaze’s voice came from behind. He stood on her porch steps, hands hidden in the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, the luggage from their one-night stay in Nashville at his feet. Apology and regret swam together in his eyes. “If I’d known, I never would’ve—”

She should have warned them of what she was planning to say—but she hadn’t been certain she would go through with her plan. “You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.” Not his fault he
and
Robbie had stood during her declaration of love. They’d had this conversation twice already. Once last night when they’d finally escaped the onslaught of press after her humiliating acceptance speech. Again in the plane on the way home.

“I thought . . .” The low-toned cadence of wind chimes filled in where his voice left off.

He’d thought he was playing his part as expected. And Robbie, obviously, had assumed he’d earned himself a spot back into Miranda’s heart.

What Blaze didn’t realize was, it wasn’t so much the embarrassment of having two men stand during the program that ripped into Miranda’s heart. It was more the fact that a third had walked out.

She hadn’t been able to see the person who’d disappeared from the ballroom just as Matthew Knox’s name climbed up her throat. But somehow, she knew.

So here she was, standing in the cold on her expansive property, which once again only reminded her how alone she really was. Just like the first time Robbie left.

And not at all like then. Because this time around, she had brought the rejection on herself with deceit. One deliberate lie after another. She couldn’t blame Matthew for turning his back on her. Not one tiny bit.

And she couldn’t blame the press for going camera-happy as Blaze and Robbie had stood there last night staring at each other in confusion. She hadn’t even finished her speech. Only mumbled an abrupt thank-you and fled the stage. She could only guess what the media was saying.

The beeping of a cell phone cut into the quiet now. It wasn’t Miranda’s. She’d turned it off last night, having the thumping desire to never turn it on again.

Blaze slid his phone from his pocket and read the text message. “Brad wants to talk to you. He’s worried.”

“Could you tell him I’m fine? Just not very talkative. I think I’ll take a walk.”

Her steps crunched over the hard sheen of frost underfoot.

“Miranda,” Blaze called. He padded down the porch steps, hustled to her side. “Don’t you want to know? Don’t you wonder what the press is saying?”

“I could make a pretty good guess. ‘Randi Woodruff Makes a Fool of Herself.’ ‘Marriage Troubles in Randi-Land?’ Does that sound about right?”

“So you said you wanted to thank the man you love. So more than one guy stood. Nobody died. We can explain it.”

“But that’s just it. I’m tired of coming up with false explanations.”

Blaze stood his ground, his demeanor for once stern. “Last night you were prepared to stand up in front of a celebrity audience and confess the truth—that you’re not really married, that you’ve fallen for a guy you just met. What’s different today than last night?”

The answer sprang to her lips. “What’s different is Matthew’s gone.”

Blaze flung his good arm in frustration. “Because he thought you were talking about me! Or Robbie. Doesn’t matter. Call him up and tell him the truth.”

How could Blaze understand? What did he want her to do? She might be Randi Woodruff, the homebuilder, the award winner. She might be able to handle blueprints and crews and power tools.

But she couldn’t handle rejection. Not again.

Blaze gripped her shoulder. “Last night you planned a grand gesture, the kind of thing most of us wish we were brave enough to do—wished we even had reason to do. You were ready to sacrifice your show, your career, your reputation if it meant a future with Knox. Don’t give up on that.”

Miranda pulled away. “You don’t get it. Matthew walked away. It’s done. And what I have left is
From the Ground Up.
It’s the constant in my life. So no, I’m not going to lay it down on the altar of futile wishes.”

Blaze’s eyes searched hers. “You are not your show, Rand.”

“And you’re not my husband.” The words flew from her lips—hurtful, she knew, by the wince Blaze tried to hide.

But he nodded, lips pressed and jaw set. Behind him, the mountain landscape had lost its color. “Your mom said she was putting on a pot of tea. Think I’ll join her.” He turned slowly.

“Blaze—”

“It’s okay. You’re right,” he said over his shoulder. Then he stopped and faced her once more. “But I am, too. And one of these days, you’re going to stop defining yourself by your career. Or your past. Or whatever man happens to disappoint you at the time.”

Miranda sucked in a sharp breath as his verbal darts hit on target. Only when Blaze disappeared into the house did her first tear fall.

“Knox, you’re a genius.”

Dooley’s enthusiasm was enough to grind up the last of Matthew’s energy. Weariness after his night of flights glazed over him. “Genius?” Try idiot. Phone to his ear, Matthew plodded from his bedroom and into his townhouse living room. Beige walls matched his spirits.

“You went dark, man, just when everyone started talking about you.”

Matthew dropped onto his aging couch, Miranda’s voice suddenly spinning through his mind.
“A high-quality sofa is always heavier because of its sturdy frame, which is constructed of kiln-dried hardwood free from knots.”

Free from knots.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get today’s blog post done. I just couldn’t decide what to—”

Dooley cut him off. “Don’t you get it? I’m not calling because I’m annoyed. Yes, I had a moment of worry when I realized you hadn’t posted anything today. But now, with all the rumors . . .”

Worry trickled in. Had Delia released those photos after all? Matthew fought the sluggish fog confusing his thoughts, forced his eyes open. His gaze landed on the overgrown spider plant by his patio doors. Limp leaves hung from a yellow vine. He couldn’t even keep a plant alive. “What rumors?”

“About you and Randi Woodruff.”

“Delia—”

“No, not her. First, it was the comments section on your blog. Did you seriously never read those? Commenters have been speculating that our blogger had a little crush on his subject for weeks now. But the biggie is the fact that at the gala last night Randi Woodruff all but admitted she’s in love with someone who
isn’t
her husband.”

Matthew swallowed the reply that jumped up his throat. Miranda hadn’t confessed any such thing. Unless . . . had she said more after he’d walked out?

“Come on, you were there. Two guys stood, but she didn’t acknowledge either one. Soo . . .”

Matthew finally caught on. “She wasn’t talking about me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m not stupid. I’ve read all your blogs. I’ve listened to you justify her obvious husband-parading at every turn. You went campaign-crazy trying to help save her show.” Dooley paused. “And then there are the photos you begged our lawyer to stop. You got her to fall for you, my friend. I knew you were a risk-taker sort of journalist, but I had no idea you’d go this far.”

He was going to throw up. “I did not do this on purpose. There’s nothing genius about it.”

Dooley filled his pause with a slow whistle. “You mean you actually fell for her? A married woman?”

“Let it go, Dooley.” He stood and paced the room, fighting the image in his head of Miranda in Robbie’s arms. “I can
guarantee you she wasn’t talking about me up on that stage last night.”

Dooley gave an irritated grunt. “Then why didn’t you post your final blog this morning? I thought you were playing coy with the press.”

“I wasn’t playing anything.” Tired frustration finally boiled over in his voice. “I’m done. That’s all.”

“You owe me a blog post, Knox. And a cover story.”

“Do we have to talk about this now? I’ve had three hours of sleep.” Matthew moved toward his bedroom once more, plodding past the tuxedo he’d discarded in the wee hours of the morning. His foot caught on the jacket, and when he jerked it loose, something plastic slipped from the pocket.

“You’re not doing this to me again. First Margaret McKee, now Randi Woodruff. You’re imploding, Knox.”

Matthew knelt and picked up the flash drive. He’d had the thing in his pocket at the gala. It contained the story he’d written yesterday afternoon about Miranda, a regular tell-all. After he’d seen Miranda and Robbie together in her kitchen, he’d let his annoyance write the article, and for a few heated hours, he’d had every intention of sending it to Dooley.

Now?

Now exhaustion muddied his determination. And the memory of Miranda up on that stage, the relief and pleasure and hope dancing over her face, tore into his anger.

“If it’s conflict of interest you’re worried about—” Dooley began.

“It’s not.” He held the flash drive in front of his face. Send it and sear Miranda’s reputation to ashes? Toss it and forget his instant career comeback? Matthew lowered into his bed, let his head fall against a pillow, and lifted his legs onto the mattress. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Oh, we’ll talk. And you’ll deliver. I invested in you. I gave you an instant career boost. You’re not going to screw this up.”

Screw-up.
He’d never escape it, the label, the identity. Matthew buried his head under his pillow. All he wanted was sleep.

And to forget the past month.

Not true, and you know it.

Matthew ended the call, Dooley’s voice still barking, and tossed his phone across the bed. He’d deal with it all later.

But just as his eyes drifted closed, a rap on his front door yanked him from the start of what would’ve surely been a restless sleep.
If
he’d even been able to turn off his sparring thoughts. He forced his feet to the floor, knowing as he covered the distance from his bed to the door who he’d find on the other side.

“It’s about time,” Cee spoke and signed at the same time as he pulled the door open. Her wide blue eyes glowed in the light of his living room, a stream of the sun’s rays pouring in behind her.

He gave her a hug, her head tipped back so she could see his moving lips. “Don’t tell me you learned to drive while I was gone. How’d you get here?”

“Surprise!” Izzy tracked through his front door, a steaming dish in her hands. And Jase behind her, his arms filled with more dishes. He should’ve known when he texted Jase to let him know he was home that they’d show up.

“What is going on?” Did he appear as bedraggled as he felt? He looked down at his bare feet, wrinkled jeans.

“We came straight from church to bring you Sunday dinner.” Izzy set the dish on his counter and turned.

Jase emptied his load and gave Matthew a one-armed hug. “Good to have you back for more than a day this time. Cee’s been listless without her uncle-hero.”

Hero, huh. “And I missed all of you. Especially you.” He
ruffled Cee’s hair, then raked his hand through his own. “I reek of airplane. Do I have time to grab a shower before dinner?”

“Yep.” Izzy held up a Pillsbury tube. “I still have to bake the rolls.”

“Hey, Cee,” he spoke and signed simultaneously, “there’s a gift for you in my computer bag.”

Something Miranda had carved—a figurine of a dog. Cee had been begging for a real dog for years. He heard her “Ooh” as he rounded the corner to the bathroom.

“Hey, Matt,” Jase said, following him down the hall.

“I know, the dog was a bad choice. Only gives her more ammo for begging.”

A chuckle rolled from Jase’s lips. “It’s not that. Besides, she’s stopped begging ever since we told her she’s going to have a baby sister or brother.” Jase gripped the doorframe to the bathroom as Matthew rummaged for a towel. “You, uh . . . you okay?”

Matthew caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the sink as he turned—shadowed cheeks, tired eyes.
No wonder she didn’t pick you.
“Fine. Why? You’ve seen me look worse than this.”

“Nothing to do with your looks. Your walk—it’s like a man defeated.”

Matthew leaned over the sink. “I messed everything up. Like alw—”

“Don’t say it.” Jase stepped into the bathroom, his reflection joining Matthew’s. “Little brother, you have got to get over thinking you’re a failure.”

“Jase, I need a shower, not a pep talk.”

Jase shook his head, gaze stern. “What you need is to try to see yourself the way the rest of us do. You are Superman to Cee—supportive, entertaining, always there for her. And Izzy—you’ve become the sibling she never had. I’ll never forget
that weekend I was traveling when our basement flooded and you came to Izzy’s rescue. Man, there is no one I’d trust my family with more.”