Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  Matthew stuck his palm on the man’s forehead and pushed him out. “Buddy, have some decency.”

  “Bodyguard, eh?”

  Today, apparently, yes. He jabbed his finger at the security box, then rolled up the window. “What a circus.”

  “Nice move, though,” Blaze commented. “Bet you gave him whiplash.”

  Matthew tapped the accelerator as the gate swung open. “Just hope he doesn’t sue me.”

  Miranda’s head came into view in his rearview mirror. “What’d Matthew do? I didn’t see. By the way, do you know you’ve got quite the collection of soda cans on your floor back here?”

  “Knox palmed the dude. And here I thought all our boy did was write. He’s flexing his physical skills today.”

  While Blaze exaggerated, Matthew caught Miranda’s eye in the mirror. She raised an eyebrow. He winked. She glanced away. “Well, that’s three times you’ve come to the rescue now, Matthew. First you pushed my truck out of the river, then at the restaurant you brought the media to us, and today you got us away from them.”

  The restaurant thing. He certainly hadn’t planned to butt in on Blaze and Miranda’s evening. Ever since she’d explained why they were going on the date, he’d had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, his usual journalist’s interest bordering on suspicion. She was using her own husband for publicity. And yet, Blaze was apparently okay with it—maybe even liked the idea.

  But as he’d sat a few tables away Saturday night, watching Miranda’s forlorn expression and slumped shoulders, he couldn’t help himself. He’d pushed his chair back and wound his way through the tables dotting the terrace before he’d considered what he was doing.

  Ever since, something had shifted between him and Miranda. An alliance of sorts. Yesterday, Sunday, they’d spent half the day on her porch—he dotting her with questions, Miranda answering with laid-back ease.

  Why did she love building so much?

  “I love wood. The way it feels under my fingertips. The way it doesn’t die once a tree is cut down, but instead re-creates itself into something new and beautiful. And useful, too. Wood has an identity, and I get to help shape that identity when I build a house or a piece of furniture.”

  What was her favorite house she’d ever built?

  Easy, the first home she ever completed in Brazil.

  Not her own home?

  “Well, I don’t think it counts since I haven’t finished it.”

  “Why don’t you finish it?”

  It was the only question she’d hesitated on. She’d mumbled something about it not being the right time, being busy. And then she’d gone inside.

  As Matthew pulled into the parking lot, Blaze pounded him on the back. “Yup, Knox, you’ve been pretty handy to have around.”

  “I wouldn’t speak too soon.” Matthew angled to check his side mirror. “Our paparazzi friends made it through the gate before it closed.”

  Miranda groaned. “Swell.”

  He braked and parked in a visitor space in the lot and twisted to watch out the back window. Thankfully, someone else must have seen the scuttling mess of reporters, because they’d brought out the big dogs: three men in uniform. “You have security officers?”

  “I guess so.” Miranda’s voice contained surprise.

  Matthew jerked at the sharp rap on his window and turned to see Brad Walsh beckoning him to open the door. He obliged. “Hey, Walsh.”

  The man was beaming. “Good thinking having Knox drive today. While this may be the best thing that’s ever happened to us PR-wise, the last thing we need is someone getting Randi’s license-plate number.”

  Matthew slid out of the Jeep. “Actually, I only drove because Miranda’s truck wouldn’t start this morning.”

  But Brad had already moved to Miranda’s door. “Come on out, kid. I want you to turn, give one wave to the media, and then Knox, you’ll take her around to the back entrance.”

  Miranda peeked her head out of her open door. “But shouldn’t Blaze—”

  “Nope, Blaze here will be giving the media a statement.”

  “I will?”

  “He will?”

  Blaze and Miranda spoke at the same moment.

  Brad gave a curt nod. “Hurry up and go.”

  Miranda was already moving toward the set, and Matthew hustled after her. The sharp bite of cold contradicted the bright colors of the day, sunshine streaking through the faintest trail of clouds, surrounding mountains ablaze in reds and oranges. As they reached the back of the house, Brad’s voice drifted from across the lot. “Everyone, if you’ll just shut up for a minute, Blake here will make a statement. Randi is on a tight schedule, so—”

  Randi flung open the door. “Come on.”

  He ducked inside. “So apparently Brad was prepared for all this.”

  She folded her arms. “He could’ve called to let us know what was waiting here. Probably didn’t because he knew I’d want to turn around. Crazy reporters.” Her expression turned sheepish. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No offense taken. Just know we’re not all like that.” Right. Because he’d only broken into a zoo building. Chased after a senator.

  The sarcastic mental reminders drilled a hole in the wall he’d thought separated him from the paparazzi.

  Was he just like those jokers outside, after all? So desperate for a story he’d intrude on a person’s personal space and privacy? You are living on her property. Hoping for a scoop to make January’s print cover.

  But Miranda had willingly opened herself up to his presence. If anything, his blog was only helping her. And besides, every entry so far made the woman out in a positive light. No one could possibly accuse him of exploiting the opportunity.

  “So what are you taping today?” he asked as he followed her down the narrow hallway at the back of the set house.

  “No taping this morning, actually. I’ve got an interview about the award nomination. This afternoon we’re doing a few retakes from some of last week’s shoots.”

  “Sometime I’d like a tour of this place.” It certainly wasn’t like any studio he’d ever imagined. From the outside, it was just a huge house. From the inside, depending on what part of the house you were in, it looked either like a home under construction or an office building.

  “It’s a pretty cool studio,” she said. “Here, let me show you one of my favorite rooms.”

  They ambled past the living and dining room sets, around a corner and down another hallway, a mix of scents trailing behind—coffee, cedar, and then the potent smell of paint.

  Miranda stepped through an open doorway into a completely empty room. No furniture, no scaffolding or camera stands. Only four walls and three open windows, a few paint cans and rollers and what looked like a power painter. The mountain air cascading through the windows added a chill to the room but did nothing to dispel the pungent smell of paint.

  “This room is solely for painting. Whenever we do a segment on proper painting techniques, mixing, choosing your colors, we do it here. But . . .” She used a mixing stick to pry open a can. “I also use it for stress relief.” She dipped a brush in the bright orange liquid. She flopped the brush onto the wall, writing her name in large orange letters across the blue wall. Then she handed the brush to him. “Your turn.”

  He shrugged, slathering his own name across the opposite red wall. “So you do this whenever you want?”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t take long to cover it up when I’m done. It’s almost as relaxing as working in the woodshop. And if I’m having a series of bad takes or things are going wrong on set, I just slip away, do a little painting, and voilà. It evens out my mental kinks.”

  She picked up the power paint sprayer and attached a paint container. She fiddled with the nozzle. “Hmm, it’s stuck or something.”

  He dropped his brush. “Here, let me. I used one of these when I was helping Jase and Izzy paint their basement.”

  “No, I can do it.”

  “Let me,
Miranda.”

  “Just because you displayed your oh-so-brute force with that peeping photographer outside—” She pulled the power sprayer and at the jerking movement, a flood of paint streamed from the nozzle, slapping onto Matthew’s shirt, his face.

  Miranda’s jaw lowered, surprised silence filling the gap between them. And then an eruption of laughter pushed past her lips. “Oh my goodness. I’m sorry. Really. But . . .”

  “Oh yes, it’s so very funny.” He wiped his palm across his face, leaving a streak of red across his hand.

  Miranda still held the sprayer, bubbling giggles shaking her shoulders. “Sorry. I’m trying not to laugh.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  But the amusement in her sparkling eyes, the way her finger still posed over the trigger, told him she wasn’t done. Why, she was actually thinking about doing it again!

  Well, if it was a fight she wanted, he’d give it to her. “How does red look on me, Woodruff? Would you say it’s my color?” He stepped backward as he spoke, knelt down to reach for the paint can and brush behind him.

  “What are you doing, Knox?”

  “Red might look good on me, but I’d say . . .” He glanced at the can in his hands now. “Ahh, blue, like your eyes.”

  Her nose crinkled as she backed away. “My eyes are gray.”

  “Not in the sun. In the sun they’re as sky blue as this paint.” He plopped his brush into the paint.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “I’m the one with the paint gun.”

  He whipped his brush in the air, flinging spatters of paint at her. They landed in tiny drops on her shoulders, her cheeks, her silky black hair. “Take that, Miranda!”

  “Why, you—” And just as he knew she would, she sent a stream of red at him. He struck with his brush, painting a streak down her arm.

  Intoxicating, almost giddy energy took over as they splashed and spewed paint at each other. The paint fumes and Miranda’s nearness conspired to bully his common sense into nothing. Another river of red paint hit his chest, and he dropped his weapons, circling an arm around Miranda to pry the spray gun from her hands. She twisted, bumping an elbow against his stomach, her hair sticking to the paint on his face.

  “Brad is so going to kill me!” Miranda said through a fit of hysterics. But she’d stopped trying to get away from him, instead standing in place inside his hold, giving in to her laughter, her arms turning to noodles as she lowered the paint gun.

  “You got that right, Rand.”

  Matthew’s head jerked up at the same time as Miranda’s, and he got a mouthful of her hair. Uh-oh. Brad stood in the doorway, arms crossed, just like that day he’d found them in the flooded creek.

  And behind Brad, a reporter, catching the whole thing on video.

  “In the sun they’re as sky blue as this paint.”

  Why couldn’t Miranda get Matthew’s voice out of her head and focus on the interview? They’d already gotten off to a terribly late start. She’d cleaned up as quickly as possible, leaving a rainbow of color streaking the tiled walls of the dressing-room shower.

  Thankfully, she had a change of clothes, and Whitney was on hand to direct her makeup and hairstyle. Because, sure, that’s exactly what the reporter from the local NBC affiliate cared about after witnessing her paint fight with Matthew.

  Miranda forced herself to maintain eye contact with the fortyish reporter with a poof of blond hair sitting on the couch opposite her. Long dimples creased his cheeks like parentheses, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d half flirted his way through this interview. Maybe after what he’d seen of her and Matthew he’d figured . . .

  What? That she might be married but still enjoyed innocent dallying with whatever man happened to be around. False. Both halves of the sentence.

  I was not flirting with Matthew.

  The reporter, who’d introduced himself as Sam Toliver, leaned forward. “So, tell me about this husband who’s made a sudden public appearance.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath. Why couldn’t they have stuck to the easy questions? How did she feel about being nominated for the Giving Heart? What was her favorite charity?

  “Well, his name is Blaze—Blake, actually. Blaze is an affectionate nickname.” At least the reporter hadn’t insisted on Blaze joining her for the interview. They hadn’t had enough time to prepare for that yet. “Oh, and to set the record straight, I heard someone call him Mr. Woodruff earlier. His last name is Hunziker. I kept my maiden name for professional purposes. Anyway, he’s a great guy and . . . a great blessing in my life.”

  The reporter winked. And unlike Matthew’s wink earlier in the morning, Sam’s felt slimy. “That’s an awfully nebulous answer, Randi.”

  “I’m an unapologetically private person, Sam. Always have been.”

  “Yet you talk about your husband on your show. And you sure weren’t in discreet mode the other night when you were spotted at the restaurant.” The man’s voice had altered from flirtatious to hard in a matter of a moment.

  Miranda’s oversized leather chair threatened to eat her up. What did Sam want her to say? Her gaze flitted to Lincoln, watching from behind the NBC camera. They should’ve coached her more for this. She was used to answering questions about wood density and brackets and blueprints. Not this.

  “I talk about my husband because he helped shape who I am.” The lie that had bothered her for years gutted her once again. Because it now had a face. “As for Saturday night, is it really such standout news for a husband and wife to go to dinner together?”

  Sam’s slow smirk spread as he straightened. “Well played, Randi.”

  Compliment or accusation? This reporter was nothing like Matthew, had none of Matthew’s tact or kindness or . . . attractiveness. Her stomach tightened.

  “Let’s move on. There’s been talk that From the Ground Up may not be renewed. Can you shed some light on the accuracy of the rumors?”

  Oh, lovely. Can we go back to the questions about Blaze? “I prefer not to acknowledge rumors.”

  “So your public appearance with your husband had nothing to do with the rumors he didn’t exist?”

  Her fingers itched to squeeze into her palms, but she forced them to remain laced around her knee. Sam was jumping topics like a frog on lily pads, eager to snatch her up like a bug. Why didn’t Lincoln step in, stop the subtle assault? She wished she could see if Brad was watching. And Matthew.

  Most disconcerting of all was the realization of how close to the truth Sam crept.

  “I’ll level with you, Sam. People can think whatever they want about my marriage, my husband, and my reasons for dining out. All I have to say is, if I were the owner of the Timberlane, I’d be pretty happy about all the free publicity.”

  She caught Brad’s eye, saw his proud nod of approval. Relief surged through her.

  “And the rumors about the next season of From the Ground Up?” Sam prompted.

  “We’re currently taping season four. I’m confident of our future.” Had she kept the doubt out of her voice?

  “Then tell me this: What are we to make of the news that your network has heard a pitch from a new homebuilding show? I have the network president quoted as saying that he has, and I quote, ‘a variety of well-crafted, entertaining options on the table for the spring schedule, including a potential home show.’ What do you say to that?”

  Miranda’s pulse quickened as Sam read the quote. Her hands turned icy.

  Nothing. She had nothing to say to that.

  Only a blank stare. And a brand-new worry.

  Matthew emerged from the bathroom attached to Miranda’s dressing room, rubbing a towel against his hair. He jerked in surprise when he saw Brad sitting atop Miranda’s vanity, his feet propped on the chair.

  “Walsh, I didn’t know you were going to wait for me.”

  “Yeah, I waited,” Brad said.

  Matthew draped his towel over a hook on the back of the bathro
om door. “Did you think I was going to steal something?”

  Brad had begrudgingly let Matthew into the room twenty minutes ago at Miranda’s order. It had felt oddly intimate walking through her dressing room, making use of her private bathroom while she gave her interview.

  Was it childish to feel the need to defend himself all over again to Walsh? “I told you, she started it.”

  He spotted her color-splotched dark jeans and light-green shirt with the ruffled sleeves abandoned on the floor. She’d actually dressed up for her interview today. And Matthew had ruined the look by turning her into an abstract painting.

  Brad pressed his lips together in a stoic line. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Miranda.”

  “What are you insinuating, Walsh?”

  Brad’s feet clunked to the floor, and he rose to stand eye level with Matthew. “Just that since the day you got here, you’ve been toying with her. It’s the opposite of classy, flirting with someone who’s unavailable. Unprofessional, too.”

  “We weren’t—”

  Matthew caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror behind Brad. Tousled hair, stubble covering his cheeks. Izzy would’ve ordered him to shave by now. Stupid as it might sound, he sort of liked the rugged look. Give him a flannel shirt and he just might fit in here in the mountains.

  But why did his eyes look so . . . energetic? Why the circles of red on his cheek?

  He yanked his focus back to Brad. The man’s expression hovered between smug and infuriated.

  Matthew attempted a lame excuse. “We were just . . .” But he came up empty.

  She’s married.

  And he’d known exactly what he was doing.

  Brad’s glare bored into Matthew’s conscience. Miranda’s manager stepped around him. “Let’s go.” But he stopped in the doorway. “She’s off limits, Knox.”

  “I know that.” He did.

  But he also knew she was the first woman he’d felt drawn to in years.

  He pulled the dressing room door closed behind him and followed Brad.

  She’s married.

  And he was getting pretty sick of the reminder. Maybe because it only spotlighted his own aloneness. Sheesh, Matthew hadn’t made it past a third or fourth date since his mid-twenties. The couple times he’d been tempted to think he might’ve discovered “the” girl, he’d found himself breaking things off before he could mess them up.