Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  It was like he breathed sedation. Did nothing faze him?

  “Shameful, positively shameful, Randi Woodruff. I just can’t believe it took you this long to share your hubby with the rest of the world.” Debbi’s singsong accusation was accompanied by the pattering of her fire-engine-red nails on a glass end table.

  “Well, what can I say? My privacy is—always has been—very important to me. My marriage, too.”

  Blaze gave a consoling nod, squeezed her hand. There probably wasn’t an ounce of fake in his grin. He was loving every cutesy moment. He’d beguiled the talk show host within two seconds of meeting her. And Miranda was pretty sure he’d caused every woman in the live audience to swoon before the first commercial break.

  Ladies, if only you knew . . . Just this morning Blaze had told her one of his life’s ambitions was to break the Guinness World Record for most bacon consumed in a twenty-four-hour period.

  And yet, could she blame them all for buckling to his charm?

  Debbie flipped her bleached-blond mane. “So tell us, why now? Why keep your handsome hottie under wraps for three years and then out of the blue let Jack out of the box, so to speak?”

  Was that a ripple of suspicion in Debbie’s lilting voice? Might be she was a bit more perceptive than Miranda had given her credit for. Perceptive but without an ounce of tact. Handsome hottie?

  Miranda turned her smile on Blaze. She could almost hear his encouragement. Work the camera, girl. That’s right. She faced Debbie again. “Well, we’d heard about some of those rumors out there. Someone told me there’s even a www.wheresmirandasman.com.” Brad had shared that little tidbit a few months ago, and she’d laughed it off the same way she would a question about whether Craftsman tools beat Bosch.

  But that was before Lincoln had dropped the bomb about season four’s uncertainty.

  “I think all of us who live our lives in the public eye try to tell ourselves rumors and speculation about our personal lives don’t matter. But I guess sometimes the desire to set the record straight outweighs even our desire for privacy.”

  Blaze’s fingers intertwined with hers as he leaned forward. “And if I could interject—”

  Oh dear. God, please stop him. There she went again, praying for divine intervention in a scheme that was anything but aboveboard. She squeezed Blaze’s hand. Hard.

  Debbie’s eager nod set her hair bouncing, the flowery scent of her perfume wafting as she leaned forward. “Of course, Blake. We’ve heard far too little from you.”

  Another squeeze. “What my TV-star wife and I have is special.” Blaze’s voice strained as Miranda’s fingernails poked his hand. But he kept going. “But working so hard to protect our privacy has meant we’ve spent a lot of time apart. That’s been hard on our marriage. We decided if we wanted to have a healthy relationship, we needed some balance—even if it meant being seen together.”

  Before Miranda could stop it, a laugh pushed past her lips. No, a snort. A laugh-snort. A healthy relationship? In whose universe?

  Debbie batted the impossibly long lashes that rimmed her wide blue eyes. Her forehead crinkled in question. “I’m not sure I understand your laughter, Randi. Your husband’s comments, so well put, truly spoke to me.”

  Miranda released Blaze’s hand. “Oh, they spoke to me, too.” Spoke a load of hooey. “It’s what he said about me being a TV star. I don’t see myself that way.”

  “Well, I assure you, that’s how we see you. You are a celebrity, honey, and a talented one, at that. But I have to tell you, it’s even more fun seeing the romantic side of you than, well, the hammer-and-nails side.”

  Romantic, huh.

  Blaze’s grin turned sly. “Yes, the wife and I are nothing if not romantic.”

  “Oh, this is too cute.” Debbie clapped her hands.

  “Just because she may keep that side of her hidden on set doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Blaze turned to her, eyes twinkling and not so innocent just inches from her face. “Right, sweetheart?”

  He’s my “husband.” He’s ridiculously handsome. He’s going to kiss me.

  It’d been years since she’d been kissed. Might she actually be anticipating . . . ?

  But the fact that Blaze was having the time of his life, playfully toying with her right in front of cameras, meant there was plenty of irritation mixed in with her heightened senses. Didn’t matter. She had to do what she had to do.

  “Right, Blake.” She leaned forward, reluctance weighing her movement. Puckered.

  The kiss was featherlight and soft. But it was enough for Debbie. She squealed as the audience cheered. Blaze winked.

  “I’m just loving this,” Debbie gushed. “It’s time for another commercial break, but when we come back, it’s the segment of the show I’ve been waiting for. A surprise for our lovebirds here.”

  Uh-oh, that didn’t sound good.

  “Randi and Blake may not be newlyweds, but to viewers seeing them together for the first time, they might as well be. Which is why we’re going to play our own version of The Newlywed Game . . . right after this!”

  Miranda’s plastic smile stayed in place, but her confidence plummeted. Even Blaze’s eyes held a hint of worry. Heaven help her, they’d need a lot more than a kiss to get them out of this.

  The whir of Miranda’s table saw in her workshop sang a soothing chorus after a day she’d love to forget. How anyone in America could believe her happily married after so many blunders on the Debbie Lane Show, she didn’t know.

  Yet she and Blaze had left Debbie still cooing.

  Blaze . . . Ooh, if he ever tricked her into kissing him again, she’d go after him with a roll of duct tape. Tape those lips out of sight. His hands, too. Did he have to grip hers all the way through the show?

  Actually, in all honesty, the kiss hadn’t been horrible. Not a lot of chemistry, but she hadn’t felt the need to scrub her lips clean or anything.

  In a smooth motion, Miranda prodded a slab of wood under the saw blade. When she reached the end of the board, she straightened and flipped the switch.

  Thing was, as worrisome as Debbie’s little newlywed game was, it hadn’t felt all bad. Clammy palms aside, for that one hour with Blaze at her side, she’d experienced a different kind of audience appreciation. For once, it wasn’t her skill with wood and tools earning her recognition . . . but rather her womanhood.

  She’d snagged the handsome husband. She’d scored the kind of wedded bliss others only dreamed of. She had the whole package: successful career, life mate, a happily-ever-after in the making.

  If only it were real.

  Miranda nudged her safety goggles up to her forehead as a knock sounded at the door. She glanced past the table saw to the workshop window—Matthew, smiling, waiting, as his breath produced puffs of white. She made her way through the maze of equipment and projects-in-progress and pulled open the door, greeted by a biting chill.

  Matthew rubbed his hands together, nose red. “Hey. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside, brushing off her shirt. She didn’t need a mirror to know sawdust powdered her dark hair, and she probably had a trail of pink outlining her face where her goggles had been.

  Fleece ski jacket still zipped to his chin, Matthew sniffed the air. “Do I smell cinnamon?”

  “Apple cider. From my favorite orchard outside Pine Cove. They always save me a couple gallons from the first batch. I’ll grab you a mug.”

  He followed her to the far end of the workshop, where she’d plugged a hot pot into the wall. She poured a mug of the amber liquid as Matthew dropped his bulky messenger bag and perched on a stool. The low hum of her space heater filled the air. “So, nice job on the show today,” Matthew said. “I watched it on the old TV in the cabin.”

  She rolled her eyes as she handed him the steaming mug, fingers brushing his. “Are you kidding? If that had been the real Newlywed Game, Bob Eubanks would’ve laughed himself silly.”

  “Yeah, you did miss quite a few q
uestions.”

  Eight out of fifteen, to be specific. “I guess we had an off day. We were both surprised by the game and . . .” She topped off her own mug and hefted herself onto a countertop, legs dangling over the edge. “I guess it only makes sense Blaze and I might seem a bit disconnected. So much of the time, I’m busy with the show.”

  And then there was the whole just-met-last-week thing. Hopefully Mr. Reporter bought her excuses.

  “Well, either way, you still came off as a happy couple.” Matthew sipped his drink, eyes roaming the room over the rim of his mug. Quiet settled over the workshop, only the soles of Miranda’s shoes tapping against the under-counter cupboards filling in for conversation.

  He’s here for a reason.

  It was obvious, the way he kept rubbing one palm against his jeans, taking a breath and stopping before releasing whatever question he had for her. Finally, he set his mug on her metal tool cart and reached for his bag.

  “So, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Am I interrupting your work?”

  “This is relaxation, not work.”

  His eyes flitted to the saw where she’d been working. “What are you making?”

  Surely that hadn’t been the question he wanted to ask. “A new crib for Audrey’s baby. Did you notice how old the one she has is? And it’s the kind with the spokes a baby’s head can get stuck in between. Of course, I’ll have to convince Jimmy to accept it.”

  Matthew dropped his bag and stood, walked to the saw. “Looks like it’s going to be quite the creation.”

  Miranda abandoned her mug and joined him at the saw. “I hope so.”

  “It probably sounds incredibly unmanly to admit this, but I’ve never used a table saw. Never built much of anything, unless you count working with my dad on his motorcycle.”

  “Are you calling me manly?” she teased.

  And oh, the instant intensity in his eyes sent something swirling into her stomach so much warmer than her apple cider.

  “Not in the least.” The timbre in Matthew’s voice was smooth as sanded wood. But in a blink and a moment, he broke the connection. “Show me how?”

  “Sure. Umm . . .” She looked around for an extra pair of goggles, spotted a pair, and handed them to Matthew. “Safety first and all that.”

  For the next twenty minutes, she taught him the basics: Always look for knots, nails, or other foreign objects in the wood before beginning. Start the saw and let it reach maximum RPM before starting the cut. Feed the wood to the blade; don’t push it. Keep the wood firmly against the guide fence.

  He caught on quickly, asking about kickback and blade height and crosscuts. And even with the goggles subduing their visual connection, his nearness nipped at the barriers she’d tried so hard to keep in place.

  When he pushed his goggles onto his forehead and flashed a smile that trekked to her heart before she could stop it, she knew she had to do something. She backed away, switched off the machine.

  “Well, Teach, how’d I do?”

  “Uh, good.” She pulled off her goggles, moved to the counter, and gulped down the remainder of her now-cold cider. Didn’t cool down the warmth she wore like a bodysuit.

  “But not great.”

  “S-sure, great.”

  “Not amazing?”

  At his tease, some of her nervous energy dissipated. “All right, if it’ll make you happy, amazing.”

  He gave a curt nod. “That’s better.”

  “Hey, what did you come here to ask me?”

  His gaze strayed for an awkward moment before returning to her face. He picked up his messenger bag from the floor, then hesitated before pulling out a framed photo.

  Wait, not that photo. . . . Where had he . . . ?

  Well, she knew where he’d gotten it. There’s only one place the photo would’ve been. In the trunk. In her office. In her house. “You searched my home?”

  He winced. “Not extensively.”

  “What were you looking for? Incriminating files? Stolen goods? A chainsaw under my bed?”

  He held up a palm. “I didn’t step a foot into your bedroom.”

  “Wow, I feel so much better.” Her heart thundered, the frame in her hand like a cement brick, weighty with significance.

  “I need you to understand, Miranda, this isn’t the kind of reporting I usually do, this celebrity stuff. I’m a politics guy. Government. Hard news.”

  “So?”

  “So it was halfway instinctive to go looking for a scoop. Maybe I was bored, or maybe it was my stupid need for recognition as a serious journalist, but I couldn’t help—”

  She hugged the photograph to her chest. “You could have. You absolutely could have. I don’t care if you suspected I was the BTK killer. You—”

  “He was arrested years ago.”

  “You had no right.” But wasn’t it her own fault for letting her guard down, for leaving him to roam her property at will? She should’ve insisted he come along with her and Blaze.

  But after Saturday night, the way he’d stepped to her rescue in the restaurant, and then the other day, their paint fight at the studio, the way her heart so easily puddled into pleasure . . .

  She’d needed those hours away.

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. And I’m sorry. But . . . I do have to ask for an explanation. This guy isn’t Blaze. And it looks an awful lot like an engagement picture.”

  “So . . . what? If I don’t explain, you’ll conjecture?”

  He didn’t answer, only probed her eyes with his. What choice did she have? She lowered the frame to see Robbie’s smile, bold and vibrant and a little brooding. Just like she remembered, no matter how she tried to forget. She closed her eyes against the uprising of memories.

  Didn’t work. Because suddenly she was in Brazil, on her first day at Esperanca Construtores, warm with anticipation.

  When she’d walked onto the site that day, there was no missing the man hoisting one end of a wall frame. Tanned skin shiny with perspiration, dark hair grazing his neck underneath a handkerchief tied around his head. And eyes like cocoa beans, flickering with energy. Robbie . . .

  She’d listened that day as he instructed the rest of the crew in Portuguese, honeyed words oozing over her travel-wearied spirit, smoothing away her uncertainties. And then he’d turned his eyes on her, sent her a crooked smile, and switched to English. “Ah, you must be our new American.”

  Right then and there, with the Amazon sun beating through her work clothing, the clamor of a language she barely understood playing all around her, she’d tasted what had to be love. Or something awfully close.

  “Miranda?”

  It had taken everything in her to steady her voice, place her palm in his outstretched hand. Yeah, I’m your American.

  How long had it taken Miranda to finally untangle her identity from that of Robbie’s? To see herself as a full person, instead of one-half of a whole?

  “Miranda?” Matthew’s voice wrenched her from the memory. Her eyes snapped open to see a man nothing like Robbie. Not in looks. Certainly not in background. Yet with the same unyielding ability to pull her in.

  Say something. You’ve got to fix this.

  “Matthew, I . . .” She lowered slowly onto a workbench. Resigned. “I met Robbie in Brazil. He’d been there a couple years already. We connected, but, uh, Hope Builders team members weren’t supposed to be involved romantically. So we worked at just being friends for a long time, but we gradually became . . . more than friends.

  “And when things between Robbie and me became obvious, we were asked to leave.” The humiliation of that day, standing before the mission board, still burned her. She’d tried to keep her feelings for Robbie at bay, but as her months in Brazil turned into years, she’d eventually given in. “After three years in Brazil, I kind of liked the idea of returning to the States. Robbie said he’d come with me, even proposed before we left Brazil.”

  Her wo
rld had tilted in that moment.

  How quickly it’d all changed. She’d wanted to marry right away. Robbie had insisted they get settled in the States first. They’d set a date, and Miranda had counted the days . . . until there’d been nothing to count toward anymore.

  “It was actually my stories about Robbie’s and my work in Brazil that landed me the role on From the Ground Up. I only meant to audition for the crew. In fact, they’d almost settled on a different lead—Hollie Morris, I think her name was. Met her once—very awkward. But the execs liked my personality. Loved my stories about Robbie. Decided I should work them into the episodes. It was so well received.”

  Was she telling Matthew too much? And if so, why couldn’t she stop the rushing flow of truth? It all came accompanied with such an odd sense of relief.

  “I called Robbie my husband on the show because I figured by the time the episodes aired, I’d be married. Also . . .” She looked away. “It may seem old-fashioned to some, but I was feeling guilty about our living situation.”

  Her eyes landed on the photo again, and she remembered suddenly the love note he’d scrawled on the back of the photo. So unlike the final letter he’d written, left waiting for her when she’d arrived home that cool September night. She’d had news, the kind of news they should’ve celebrated with dancing and embraces.

  Instead, she’d spied his rambling note sticking out between a JC Penney catalog and an electricity bill. With a hand to her stomach, she’d sunk onto their bed, a weeping mess as she read. “You don’t need me. There’s no room for me in your life anymore.”

  Without ever even trying, she’d memorized Robbie’s cowardly letter word for word. Why was it that a person could forget a thousand moments over a lifetime but never purge the one memory she truly wanted to forget?

  She blinked away the tears begging to fall now. Had to focus. Had to repair this the way she would a leaky showerhead or busted coffee table. “Anyway, he left before the wedding. But I met Blaze. And . . . and yes, he’s a different man than the one I talked about in the first season. But he’s the man in my life now.” The same old scratching of her conscience played its sandpaper game. But shouldn’t lying feel natural by now?