by Melissa Tagg
Miranda opened the door another inch, motioning behind her. “This is Liv, the friend I told you about who runs Open Arms.”
He nodded. “Nice to meet you.” His scrutiny flitted from Liv to the room behind her. What did he make of the place? Honey-colored walls, the greens and blues of Grandma’s quilt on the bed, redwood furnishings. Did the room betray its single occupancy? What if the whole house did?
“So, did you need something?”
“I know tonight’s sort of a PR thing for you. Have you considered it could get a little crazy afterward?”
“Not sure I follow.”
“Follow . . . exactly. What if the paparazzi follow you home?”
“I’m not that big of a celebrity.”
“My blog had over 450,000 hits today.”
Shock slicked through her, pushing goose bumps to the surface of her bare arms. Behind her, Liv whistled.
“I was thinking, I might be able to help. Be your decoy. I’ll take your truck. You and Blaze can slip away in my Jeep. Leaving in a different vehicle than you came in couldn’t hurt.”
“I appreciate the offer.” Though it might be wishful thinking to assume she’d attract that much attention. Still, surprise warmth glided through her at Matthew’s thoughtfulness.
“We’ll just need to arrange a key swap. Outside the restaurant when you leave?”
“Sure. It’s a date. A plan, I mean. Not a date. ’Cause I don’t do dates ’cause I’m married. Not that I meant date that way anyway.” Oh, someone just stuff a sock in her mouth already.
The corner of Matthew’s mouth quirked and he turned.
Liv’s smirk greeted her when she reentered her bedroom. “Don’t do dates, huh. And what would you call tonight?”
“A publicity stunt.”
Liv stood, crossed the room, and placed her arm around Miranda’s shoulder, surveying her in the mirror. “You look fabulous. And remember I’m here for you no matter what.”
“I wouldn’t do it if I could think of another way to save the show. You know that, don’t you?”
Liv turned, retrieving a sheer black wrap from a hook on the closet door. “Just be careful, all right? In the span of a couple days you’ve gone from secluded celebrity to having two men roaming your house.”
“I can handle Blaze. As for Matthew, he’s only after human-interest stuff. I’m not worried.”
“Makes one of us.”
“Liv—”
“I know, you’ll be fine. Because you’re Randi Woodruff. You can take a few pieces of wood and a hammer and construct a house, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Your confidence is inspiring.”
Livvy handed off the wrap, then reached around Miranda’s head to pull out the tie holding her hair back. She fluffed Miranda’s hair. “There, it looks perfect down and loose. You need a cute purse, though. I’ve got my red one downstairs. I’ll go empty it.”
Miranda ran a brush through her hair, slipped on her shoes, and paused for a final glance in the mirror. She ran both palms over her bare arms, stilled, and remembered.
One more thing to do.
She pulled on the glass knob of her vanity drawer, and with an unsteady hand, felt her way to the back until her fingers recognized the softness of velvet. She removed the box from the drawer and held it up in front of her face.
How long since she’d shoved the ring box out of sight, vowed never to pull it out again? A year and a half, two years? She’d gotten away without wearing a ring due to the practicalities of her job.
She’d given Matthew the usual explanation just today when she’d caught him looking at her hand.
“Jewelry is a no-no at work sites. I only wear mine when I know I’m not going to be around power tools and wood—on special occasions.”
“So I suppose your date tonight counts as a special occasion.”
It was the third time he’d asked about the date since they’d started working. His reporter’s curiosity was obvious. Why—after years of not stepping out in public with her husband, when she was notorious for protecting her privacy—was she all of a sudden now okay with their being seen together? Not just okay but making an effort? That’s what he wondered, right?
After brushing him off twice, she’d finally decided to shoot straight. While they’d worked on the porch, she told him about From the Ground Up’s iffy ratings and Lincoln’s certainty that finally spotlighting her husband was the key to securing the show’s future. As soon as she’d finished explaining, doubt started chipping away at her. She’d so easily slipped into trusting Matthew Knox. But what if he took what she’d just said and published it in tomorrow’s blog? Made her out to be a publicity hound?
But he’d said little after her explanation.
“I suppose all that sounds fishy,” she prodded.
He laid down his hammer. “Not really. Just kind of . . . unromantic.”
Miranda blinked now, skimming her thumb over the ring box in her hands. She used to keep it on the nightstand, torture herself by creaking it open in weak moments.
Unromantic.
Matthew had no idea.
With her thumb, she popped open the case. The square-cut diamond inside glistened as keenly as the day Robbie had presented it to her. When he’d knelt, waited for her squeal, and pushed the ring into place.
Well, tonight she’d do the honors. Miranda plucked the ring from the case and slipped it over her finger.
“You look as uncomfortable as a snowman in the tropics.”
Miranda gritted her teeth. The whiny saxophone of the jazz band inside floated to the outdoor terrace of the Timberlane restaurant. “That’s hardly a complimentary thing to say to your wife.”
Across the table, Blaze flashed his pearly whites. His hair covered his ears and brushed the collar of his button-down shirt, but he was freshly shaven. He even wore a tie—a lime green one, but still, it was the dressiest she’d seen him.
And the most mischievous. His eyes glimmered with playfulness as he reached across the table to pat her hand. Did he possess even a speck of understanding of the importance of this night?
“I’m just saying, you need to relax. Just because we’re at an uptight restaurant doesn’t mean you need to be.”
“To you, this may only be a free meal at a ritzy joint, but tonight could make or break this marriage, which could, in turn, make or break my career.” Her focus jumped from table to surrounding table. Were any of the journalists Brad mentioned here? Oh wow, was that Congressman Franklin a couple tables over? “What if nobody recognizes me, Blaze?”
Candlelight flickered in his dark eyes. “Then tomorrow we’ll go somewhere else where the people are more observant.” His dimples deepened with his goofy grin.
“Why do you keep smiling like that?”
“Because we’re supposed to look like we’re in love. Which is why you really should consider leaning forward a bit. Your posture might impress what’s-her-name, you know that old manners lady . . .”
“Emily Post?”
“But it sure doesn’t give the impression you’re thrilled to be here with me.”
A groan rumbled through her throat, but the man had a point. As their waiter approached, she forced her shoulders to relax and propped her elbows on the table, head tipped toward Blaze. “Better?” she whispered.
He only winked. The waiter placed their meals in front of them, gaze lingering on Miranda before he whisked away with their salad plates.
“See that? The dude definitely recognized you.”
“Either that or I’ve got lettuce in my teeth.” The sweet smell of apple-glazed pork made Miranda’s mouth water. She spread a linen napkin on her lap, gripped her fork, and then paused when she noticed Blaze’s stare. “What?”
“I’ve just figured out how we’re going to convince everyone we’re in love.”
“How?”
He pointed his butter knife at her plate. “The way you just looked at that pork chop, babe? That’s the look you need to gi
ve me when cameras point our way. Pure delight.”
“I can’t help it. I love me a good pork chop.”
“If I’d known all it took to get you relaxed was a hunk of meat, I’d have started grilling from day one.”
Miranda’s mouth closed around a bite, a sigh of satisfaction escaping. Tender meat and an explosion of flavor almost made the pressure of this night worth it. “How’s your steak?”
“Delectable.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of silverware and glass along with hushed conversation from surrounding tables keeping them company. Heat piped in from vents overhead mixed with the outdoor chill, and moonlight slanted in, highlighting the shiny surfaces of the terrace.
“Can I ask you a question?” Blaze said, something close to serious in his lowered voice. “How in the world have you been able to keep up this mystery-husband thing for three years? Shouldn’t someone have figured out the truth by now? How long were you planning to keep it up?”
Miranda swallowed, eyes darting to the surrounding tables. “Honestly, it hasn’t been that hard. I’m not a Hollywood star. I don’t have paparazzi following me around. I live in the mountains, Blaze. They probably couldn’t find me if they tried.” She rested her fork beside her plate. “It’s only been recently that interest has really picked up.”
“What if someone had asked to see a marriage certificate?”
She shook her head, voice soft as she leaned forward. “You’re forgetting the story. We met and married in Brazil. That international explanation has always sufficed. As for how long I planned to keep it up, well, I didn’t really. Have a plan, I mean. You have to understand, Blaze, it didn’t start out as a lie. I really thought . . .”
Miranda sucked her next words in before emotion could intrude. She picked up her fork once more. “Can I ask you something?”
Blaze’s head rose, the usual merriment that crinkled at the corners of his eyes replaced with consideration as he waited for her question.
“Why are you doing this? I have a vested interest, obviously, but what about you? I know you said something the other day about wanting a second chance to help someone, but this . . .” She gestured with both arms, voice lowering. “Isn’t it a little extreme? You could’ve volunteered at the Red Cross or something. Instead you’ve put your life on hold to . . . play a part.”
Blaze looked away. The thread of lights twinkling from the terrace roof cast a halo around his head. “Is it that hard to believe a guy like me might want to help someone?”
“It’s not the money or the fame?”
He let out a derisive laugh. “I can think of better ways to get famous. And yeah, the boost to my bank account is nice, but I come from family money, so if I was that desperate . . .” His voice trailed.
Miranda cut into her pork chop. “Family money, huh. Like, you’re from blue-blood stock? You don’t look it.”
His lips parted into a wry half smile. “Yes, well, my family would be in full agreement with you there.”
Another bite. “This pork chop is like something from heaven.” She waved her fork. “Vegetarians do not know what they’re missing. What did you mean your family would agree?”
He eyed her plate. “Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s not on the best terms with the parents.” He stretched his arm across the table, fork headed for her plate.
“What are you doing?”
“Taste testing.” He swiped a bite.
Through Blaze’s movement, she saw the flash of candlelight. “Blaze—”
“Married people do it all the time.”
“Careful of the candle—”
The crackle of burning fabric and a swirl of gray rose up as Blaze settled back into his seat. He sniffed. “Hey, do you smell—?”
“Your arm!”
He yanked his arm into the air, an orange flare threatening to flame. “No,” he moaned. “Not again.”
Panic jerked Miranda into action. Her fingers closed in on the stem of her water glass, and she pitched its contents toward Blaze. Steam sizzled as the fire died. She lowered her glass to the table and stared at Blaze, water dripping from his face, darkening the fabric of his already-blackened sleeve.
“Good save, hon.”
“Are you all right? And what did you mean, not again?”
He took one more glance at his singed shirt, then dropped his arm and shrugged. “Have you forgotten my nickname?”
Oh. Of course.
“Should I wave down a waiter and get you another glass of water?”
The man had just set his arm on fire and he was worried about her being thirsty? And speaking of waiters, shouldn’t someone have come running at the sight of Blaze, uh, ablaze? Miranda scoped the place. No one ogled their table. No laughter. Not a single sign anyone had witnessed the near catastrophe.
“I can’t believe it. It’s like there’s a dome of invisibility around our table. You started an actual fire and no one even noticed.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Oh, right, that publicity thing. Sorry it’s not working out.”
Stung by her own insensitivity, she swung her gaze back to Blaze. “No, I’m sorry. Worrying about publicity when you could’ve been hurt. Did you burn your arm?”
“Nope. But do you think we should tell someone at the restaurant they need better smoke detectors? I’m big on smoke detectors. Which reminds me, when did you last change the batteries in the ones in your house?”
That comment probably should have frightened her. But the only worry rolling through her, inconsiderate though it may be, was the complete failure of their evening out. What would Lincoln say? What had she done wrong?
She bit her lip, eyes traveling the room once more, then landing on a figure moving toward their table. “What’s he doing here?”
Blaze twisted in his seat to follow Miranda’s gaze. “Knox? Dude must be hungry.”
Matthew’s walk bordered on a swagger as he approached their table. He smoothed a forest green tie that brought out the subtle jade hues of his eyes. Had he seen the fire? Come to assess the damage? His confident stride stopped at their table. “Say, aren’t you Randi Woodruff, star of From the Ground Up? I love that show.”
The forceful volume of his voice carried over the terrace. Miranda felt the confusion take over her face. “Um, Matthew? Ever heard of an indoor voice?”
“I’d play along if I were you,” Matthew hissed through his teeth, cheesy smile still in place. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in person.”
Blaze’s “Ahh” reached over the table. Apparently he’d figured out Matthew’s game. Am I dense?
“Yes, this is Randi Woodruff.” Blaze’s voice matched Matthew’s in pitch, and what was with the full name? “What can we do for you?”
“Wait, you’re her husband? I’ve always wondered about you!”
She felt the turning of eyes on their table, heard surrounding chatter quell to an interested buzz. Slowly, like the movement of feathery clouds filtering moonlight, Matthew’s purpose dawned on her. He was acting, helping.
Making sure she didn’t go unnoticed.
If he was helping her tonight, then he probably didn’t plan to expose their publicity scheme in his blog tomorrow, right?
She almost launched herself at him in gratitude. For one tempting moment she imagined the arms that had both strained to pull up old porch wood and cradled little Lola now closed around her. But he’s the wrong man. Miranda blinked, found words. “Why, yes, this is my husband, Blake.”
“Could I get your autograph?”
She nodded, swallowed, waited as he pulled out a narrow notebook and pen. His reporter’s notebook. She’d watched him fill the thing with notes ever since he arrived. Matthew placed it in front of her, opened to a blank page.
With Matthew’s pen, she scribbled her name, paused. And then an additional note: Thank you. When she handed the notebook back, Matthew acknowledged the note with a wink.
And then she
felt a tap on her back. She turned in her seat.
“Excuse me, did I just hear—” The man at the adjacent table broke into a grin. “I did hear right. Randi Woodruff. I’m Bob Yankee from the Asheville Citizen-Times.”
Miranda heard Matthew’s footsteps as he walked away, his mission accomplished. Warmth blanketed her earlier worries at the realization he’d been watching out for her all along. Warmth and gratitude and . . .
And suddenly the concern in Liv’s eyes made sense.
Chapter 6
If it was publicity Miranda and Blaze wanted, they were about to get it. Matthew slowed his Jeep to a crawl as he approached the photographers huddling outside the Pine Cove studio gate. The glaring morning sun glinted from the lenses of their cameras.
“You’re officially fish food for the paparazzi now, Miranda,” he said over his shoulder.
She jutted her head into the space between his seat and Blaze on the passenger side. “What?”
“Check it out, missus,” Blaze drawled. “Our Saturday night splash sealed the deal. Get ready to do a parade wave.”
Matthew heard scuffling in the back seat. “Not a chance.” Miranda’s voice was muffled. Was she hiding? Matthew stifled a laugh. “You’re a celebrity. I thought this was the kind of stuff you famous types craved?”
“Movie stars, maybe.”
The throng of photographers parted slowly as Matthew drove toward the gate. No cameras flashed, as sunlight provided all the light they needed, but the hollered questions made their way through his windows.
“Randi Woodruff, are you in there?”
“Is Mr. Woodruff available for interviews? Will he appear on the show?”
“How do you feel about the rumors?”
Matthew glanced over at Blaze. The man never flinched, his relaxed posture the complete opposite of the tension emanating from the back seat. How had Miranda ended up the star of From the Ground Up when her husband was the one with all the public panache?
When Matthew arrived at the gate, he opened his window and reached out to punch in the security code. But before his arm was even halfway out, a reporter stuffed his head through the window. “Ah, it is Randi Woodruff.”