by Melissa Tagg
“Just a sec, Miss, uh, Mrs. . . . Randi?” He knelt to untie his Converse shoes and roll up his pant legs.
“I’m Randi on set,” she said out the truck window. “But I prefer Miranda.”
He stood, met her eyes. “Miranda.”
Laughter rang from the driver’s seat as Miranda took in his rolled-up jeans. “Nice look, Huckleberry Finn.”
“Funny. Mock all you want, but I’m not the one who drove my truck into a flooded roadway.”
“I was daydreaming, all right?”
He stepped up to her open door. “About what?”
Her gaze shifted to the view outside her windshield. “Taking an entire month off work. Expanding my workshop. Buying a new cabinet saw with chrome-plated surfaces. Woodworking to my heart’s content.” She straightened in her seat, facing him once again. “Probably sounds silly.”
He shook his head. “Not silly. Just not much like an ordinary vacation.”
“Well, I’ve never been all that ordinary.” Her comment hovered between nonchalant and something more. “All right, let’s do this.”
He pushed her door shut, then dipped a toe into the river. The cold sent shivers up his leg. She started the engine. He forced his other foot into the water and, standing knee-deep in the river, braced himself against the hood of her truck.
“Ready?” she called out the window.
“Stick it in Reverse and go for it.”
He threw his weight into the vehicle, pushing until his back strained, mud squishing between his toes. The vehicle barely budged, and as soon as he let up, it settled back into its mud bed. He took a breath, pushed again, swallowing the taste of humiliation.
He felt the jerk of the truck as Miranda shifted into Park. She jumped down from the truck. “New plan. Why don’t I put it in Neutral? I’ll help push and as soon as it’s out, one of us can hop in and steer.
He shrugged. “All right.”
She reached inside to shift into Neutral, then padded around to the front of the truck. She didn’t even flinch as she waded into the water. They stretched their arms beside each other, palms atop the hood. He slid her a glance. “Why do you drive such a beast anyway?”
“It was my grandpa’s. So sentiment or stubbornness, I don’t know, but I love this rusting heap.” She paused, eyes gazing past the truck to the winding stretch of tree-lined road, then shook her head. “Can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”
As cold numbed his feet, sympathy heated his heart. He’d done his cursory research about Randi—enough to know she’d lived with her grandparents for most of her childhood years while her parents did some kind of missionary work in South America.
“Well, let’s save your truck before the murky river eats it.”
She nodded.
But instead of pushing the truck, he slid his hand over hers. “Hey, what you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.” What are you doing, Knox?
Her eyes climbed from her covered hand to his face. “Um. Thanks?”
Celine. He’d said it because of Celine. Because she, too, lived with that sense of being unordinary. Because it’d become second nature to voice his reassurance. He pulled his hand back. “On the count of three?”
She nodded again. “One . . . two . . . three—”
“By the way, I’m Matthew, the reporter from Today. I hear you have a cabin—”
At his words, she whipped her head in surprise, slipped while he pushed. And as mud sprayed up into the air and the truck inched backward, he heard the “Oomph” as she landed in the water.
Oh man. Perhaps not the best timing for the introduction. “I’m sorry. I’m really—”
“My truck!” she sputtered through dripping hair.
The apology would have to wait. He hopped over Miranda—So getting kicked off this story!—jumped into the driver’s seat, and yanked the truck into Reverse. Backing up beside his Jeep, he parked . . .
And watched through the windshield as Miranda rose from the water, dress clinging to her body, hair a dripping frame around her face.
“I’m sorry,” he called again as he fumbled out of the car. “Sorry! Let me help—” He held out an arm.
She ignored it, lifting a hand instead to push the hair out of her face. “Oooh, Whitney’s going to kill me.”
He stood at the edge of the flooded portion of the road, creek water syruping over his toes. “Your dress—”
She waved off his worry with a fling of her hand. “I hated it the second I squeezed into it.” She hugged her arms to herself as she plodded from the water and came to stand in front of him. She poked a dripping finger at his chest. “But you . . . I don’t appreciate you waiting so long to tell me you’re the reporter.”
“I wasn’t hiding it.”
“You let me go on about Grandpa’s truck. You could’ve at least identified yourself before starting the interview. And you think you’re going to weasel your way into free lodging in my cabin?”
He’d laugh at her wrinkled nose if not for the fierce look in her eyes. “I’m not trying to weasel my way into anything. Your manager offered the cabin, and—”
She stomped her foot, water and mud spraying. “I know he did. Rat.”
“Would it make you feel better if I fell in the water, too?” Stupid thing to offer. Like he had any desire to go swimming in icy water.
But she smiled at his offer. Very possibly a bad sign. “It just might, at that.” She stepped forward, a gleam replacing the annoyance in her eyes.
“I was mostly kidding, you know.”
She reached out. “Oh, really?”
He inched backward. “Miranda, please. I’m a journalist, a professional. I’m on the job right now.” At least until she canned him.
“You did say you were here to shadow me. I was in the water, therefore—”
He ducked just as she lunged forward, but lost his footing in the process. Water splashed over his face as his backside settled into the flooded mud floor, Miranda’s laughter following him down. “You’re right. I do feel better!” She reached down and sent a wave of icy water toward him.
“Why, you . . .” He splashed her back and scrambled to his feet.
“Randi Woodruff, you get out of that water this instant!”
They froze in sync at the yell from the water’s edge. Busted. And by a guy who, if he were a cartoon, would have had steam coming out of his ears about then. Matthew leaned toward Miranda. “Uh, I think we’re in trouble.”
“We? I have a television interview to do, and between my dress and the water, I look like a jaundiced river rat.”
Angry Dude crossed his arms, eyes shooting darts at Matthew as he stalked forward to pull Miranda from the creek.
“Now, Brad, don’t freak out,” she consoled.
“In the truck.”
Miranda offered Matthew a shrug, then climbed into her truck. The guy named Brad dropped into his own car, glared once more at Matthew, and motored off behind Miranda.
Matthew lifted an arm in a frantic wave, creek water dripping from his shirt. “Wait, I need to know how to get to—”
But they were already gone, with only the sound of Miranda’s muffler trailing behind. Mud slicked around Matthew’s ankles as he trudged from the creek. “Well,” he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Welcome to North Carolina.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s all I had in the truck, Walsh. Didn’t have time to raid the dressing room.” Head high, Miranda strode past a slack-jawed Brad, away from the studio porch where moments ago she’d sacrificed her last vestige of freedom from public scrutiny. A foundation spokesperson had made the award nomination announcement on the national morning news show. After a commercial, the show went to a live-feed interview with Miranda, staged in front of the set house.
“It’s bad enough you decided to have a water fight before appearing on TV. Did you really have to make it worse with that?” Brad pointed to her long-sleeved T-shirt, the w
ords Harry’s Fingerlickin’ BBQ splashed across the front.
“Hey, Harry’s a friend of mine. He’ll appreciate the publicity.” At least she’d kept her left arm tight to her side during the interview, hiding the barbeque sauce stain from her last tangle with Harry’s tangy ribs.
“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Come on, Lincoln’s waiting to introduce you to your new hubby.”
She groaned through clenched teeth. “I feel like a teenage bride being led to meet the groom my parents arranged. What kind of dowry did you and Linc offer him?”
“Couple cows and a hundred bushels of grain.”
Brad ushered her to the side door, but she stopped him with her hand on his arm. “This is crazy. How do we even know we can trust this guy? What would make him agree to do this?”
“Money? Fame? We’ll take care of all his living expenses, plus pay him a great wage—as well as a tidy bonus if he sees this thing through. Apparently, he needs it. Appears to be a regular prodigal son—spent five years traveling around the world until he emptied his bank account.”
“And that’s who we’re trusting?”
Brad pressed his lips together, pausing before answering. “Rand, we’ve interviewed him. We’ve done background research. We feel confident this is our guy. But at the end of the day, it’s your call. Just meet him, okay?”
The sound of tires on gravel cut her off from answering. She recognized that Jeep and the guy behind the wheel. “Hey, that’s the reporter.”
“You mean the Marco to your Polo? Sure knows how to start things off on the right foot.”
“The river incident wasn’t entirely his fault.” After all, Matthew Knox had only been trying to help. Kind of nice, actually. With her handy-girl skills, she hadn’t had a man offer to help her out with so much as a light-bulb replacement since . . . she didn’t even know when.
And then there’d been that moment, standing knee-deep in river sludge. “What you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.”
A reporter’s ploy, right? Hone in on the interviewee’s insecurity, then coddle her into emotional goo. And yet, his voice, his expression, his hand on hers, all added up to some pretty convincing sincerity.
“Listen,” Brad said. “I’ll stall the reporter while you go meet Blake. Lincoln’s waiting with him in the meeting room.”
She nodded and entered the building, casting off thoughts of Matthew Knox. She stopped in front of the meeting room door. “For the good of the show,” she muttered and swung the door open. “Hey, Linc.”
“Ahh, Randi!” He stood, arms folded, in front of a white marker board covered in Lincoln’s scribble. Born in Charlotte, no siblings . . . college at Duke . . . three years in South America after college . . . met in Brazil . . . thirty years old.
Ladies and gentlemen, her life condensed into dry-erase board notes.
“I caught your interview,” Lincoln said. “Nice job. Though, interesting choice of attire. I especially liked the stain on your arm.”
Oy, and she’d thought she’d been so careful.
“Randi Woodruff, meet Blake Hunziker.”
Miranda barely heard Lincoln’s voice as the figure rose from a chair at the head of the conference room table. The same face she’d seen last Friday, deep-set, dark eyes, mop of black hair, square shoulders—all uncanny in their resemblance to Robbie. But the likeness stopped at this man’s carefree grin flanked by twin dimples.
He sidled around the table and held out his tanned arm. “Hi, um, honey. Darling. Sweetheart. Which do you prefer?” The man’s dimples deepened with his teasing, a playful glint in his eyes.
“Randi will do,” she said wryly, accepting his handshake.
“Really, this is all too perfect,” Linc declared, clamping one hand on Miranda’s shoulder, the other on Blake’s. “You look good together.”
Miranda stepped back. For the good of the show. If she just kept telling herself that . . .
“I go by Blaze, by the way. So how long have we been married?” Blake asked. He ran a hand through shaggy hair, the lazy smile never leaving his face, and then tucked his hands into the pockets of his board shorts. Wasn’t it a little chilly to be dressing like a surfer?
“A few years, right, Rand?” Linc looked to her.
“Three as of last Friday,” she said on autopilot. Couldn’t take her eyes off Blake. It was like staring at a hologram of Robbie. Freud couldn’t have deciphered the emotions twisting inside her at the moment.
It’s only temporary. You can do it. She ripped her gaze from Blake. “For the record, Lincoln, I have serious reservations about this.”
He nudged his glasses. “But you’ll do it, right? I’ve already filled Blake in on everything.”
“And I’m perfect for the job,” Blake offered. “My parents are on a three-month safari in Africa—no joke. And I’ve spent the last five years country-hopping on one adventure after another, haven’t kept in good touch with anyone. So friends, hometown folks, they won’t have any reason to doubt this thing.”
In other words, no ties, no one to question the logistics of their marriage.
“Siblings?” she asked.
For the tiniest moment, a shadow flickered over his face. “Not anymore.”
She’d have stopped him right there if she could have, at that first glimpse of vulnerability from her husband-elect, but he’d already continued. “And another thing: I can cook like no one’s business. You will be one well-fed wife during our little marriage, pumpkin.” He fiddled with the zipper on the sweatshirt he wore over a bright orange T-shirt.
“Call me pumpkin again and our marriage won’t make it past the honeymoon.”
He donned a properly chagrined expression and dropped into his chair. “So, where do we go from here?”
Lincoln pulled out his cell phone. “I go to a meeting with the publicity team. You two lovebirds can take a few minutes to get to know each other.”
Miranda’s eyes pressed into slits. She ought to whack Linc.
No, she ought to about-face and leave the room, the surfer dude, and Lincoln’s smug expression behind. But resolve anchored her in place. As much as she hated it, this was the best plan to save her show, her career . . . her identity.
As Lincoln exited, she lowered onto the chair at Blake’s right. “So, uh, Blaze. That’s an interesting nickname.”
He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Yeah, little incident with a metal travel mug in a microwave. Then there was the time I singed off my eyebrows roasting marshmallows. Oh, and the fireworks seven, no eight, Fourth of Julys ago.”
“Suddenly I’m worried about welcoming you into my house.”
Blake grinned. “Don’t. It’s been three and a half years since my last fire. Hot air balloon. Operator error. In Switzerland. Ah, that was a doozy.”
Apparently Jack London had nothing on this guy.
He rubbed his palms together. “So, look, this is a wild situation. One minute I’ve got a part-time stint with a catering company, the next I’m talked into my first acting gig in a role as your husband. But I like helping people—which, from the sound of it, is exactly what you need.”
“I need some normalcy, that’s what.” Something told her this guy was anything but.
He leaned back in the couch, chuckled. “I can’t promise that. But I can promise to stick to whatever story you want, play the perfect husband. You totally have my word.”
For just a moment, a new thought teased her: This could be fun. Would it be so bad to show up at some glitzy restaurant on the arm of this, uh—fine, she’d admit it—hunk? To put up with his dimpled grins and crinkled, marble eyes?
Would it be so painful to act out the happy marriage she’d always dreamed of? “Why are you really doing this, Blaze?”
He must have recognized the imploring tone of her voice for what it was—a plea for assurance, for some kind of serious answer to convince her she wasn’t about to make the mistake of her life. “When
your manager approached me, at first I thought, ‘Dude, I’ve spent a good deal of my life in someone else’s shadow. This is my chance for the spotlight.’ May not be noble, but it’s a reason, right?” He shrugged, then softened. “But the truth is, I had a chance to help someone once, and I . . . failed. Ridiculous as it sounds, this felt like a second chance. A slightly insane one, but . . . Well, anyway, the paycheck’s good, too.”
Miranda studied him. He may brush off his own words, but she’d seen a spark just then, something honest and generous. He genuinely saw this as a noble cause, didn’t he? “And y-you really think we can pull this off?”
“Babe, I once bungee-jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I think I can manage a few weeks of wedded bliss.”
He propped his feet on the conference table, flip-flops in place of shoes, not even a hint of concern on his face. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from the man. “You don’t think we’re crazy trying to pull the wool over a whole country’s eyes?”
“Oh, I think you’re crazy, all right. I just happen to like crazy.”
Oh, Lord, help me. But the prayer had no business flitting through her mind. She couldn’t ask God to help her lie.
Not lie. Pretend. Remember what Brad said: “ . . . just another character on the show.”
Somehow the thought didn’t ease her conscience. Someday when this is all over, God, I’ll be the obedient, meek and mild woman I’m supposed to be. The person Mom and Dad always wanted me to be. Maybe she’d go to church again, too. Rekindle the faith that had burned down to barely a flicker of late.
But for now, she had to do what she had to do.
“All right, Blaze. Consider yourself fake-married.” She stood and reached behind her head to loosen her ponytail.
“Not so fast.” Blake rose, mischievous smile in his eyes. “Shouldn’t we say our vows?”
“Excuse me?”
He extended his arm. “Hand, please.”
She complied, solely out of amused interest.
“I, Blaze Hunziker, take you, Randi Woodruff, to be my imaginary wife. For richer or for poorer—though I prefer richer; in sickness and in health—I never get sick; for as long as that guy named Lincoln shall order.”