by Melissa Tagg
His eyes landed on Celine inserting quarters into an arcade game as the consideration trekked a slow path through him. Maybe he should take the assignment. But not for the reasons Izzy listed.
If Dooley was to be believed, there were skeletons to be unburied in Randi Woodruff’s closet. The woman did have an interesting story, after all. Yes, he’d Googled her that afternoon. After three years in Brazil, she’d come home and within months landed the starring role on a new show. He’d read she’d beat out some other HGTV-type personality, had so impressed the network that they’d redesigned the whole show around her.
The husband mystery was intriguing, if nothing else. And though it was the last kind of journalism he’d ever aspired to, the gossip rags paid well for exposés. Plus, Dooley had hinted at a possible cover story.
If he had to temporarily ditch his journalistic integrity, so be it.
The decision made itself. He’d do it for Celine. For once, he’d play the hero.
Chapter 3
So this is what Big Bird felt like.
Miranda froze in front of the full-length mirror, five-foot-ten image blaring back at her like a horror movie in Technicolor. The sunflower yellow dress smoothed over her lithe form like a second skin and reached to her knees. Ruffled sleeves dolled up the look, and a cherry-red sash cinched her waist in place of her tool belt. “Whitney, I can’t wear this dress. I’m a walking hot-dog condiment.”
And then there were the heels. John Wayne would have had a better chance than she would of sashaying in front of a camera in the three-inchers.
“You’re autumn chic,” her assistant argued. “The point is to wow whatever morning-show host you’ll be chatting it up with this morning.” Whitney stepped back and gave an appraising once-over. “And trust me, this will do the trick.”
Miranda braved one more look in the dressing-room mirror, her form spotlighted by the row of circle lights over the vanity behind her. She winced. “This isn’t me. I should be wearing jeans and a tee and flan—”
Whitney halted her with a palm and shudder. “Don’t even say that word.”
“What? Flannel?” Miranda pushed a wayward curl behind her ear and fiddled with the red bangles shackling her wrist. A ponytail tamed and held the rest of her black waves—that, at least, in keeping with the norm. It wasn’t even the idea of a dress that bothered her so much. It was more the assumption that she couldn’t be trusted to pick her own.
If she’d done the choosing . . . well, it would’ve been midnight blue, like the color of the afghan Grandma Woodruff always used to fold over the back of her rocking chair. No sequins or frills, just enough flare to bow out at her knees and swish when she walked. In wedged sandals instead of the spikes she balanced on now.
“Someday, girl, I’m going to hike up to that mountain home of yours and steal every last scrap of flannel from the property,” Whitney said. “And then I’ll have a bonfire. Now show me your walk.”
“Uh, I think I’d rather stay right here.” Playing Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fakest of them all.
Because it wasn’t just her appearance putting on a false front today. Somehow she had to smile her way through an interview, all the while knowing Brad and Lincoln waited to pounce with her ready-made pretend husband. Apparently it was easier to find a willing stand-in than she’d figured.
If only they asked her before making the selection. Brad had called her with the news Monday evening.
“We found the guy from the other night, the one you thought was Robbie! His name is Blake Hunziker. Turns out he was with the catering crew.”
Brad had called the catering company to get the man’s name and contact information. He’d already contacted the guy, laid out their scheme, made the request. Just perfect. As if she hadn’t embarrassed herself enough in front of the stranger the other night during her momentary bout of mistaken identity.
“Just meet with him, Rand. And don’t think about it as lying. He’s just another character on the show.” Brad’s voice had skirted the edge of begging. “You’ve described your husband enough on-screen that we needed to find a look-alike.”
Fight or flight? One way or another, today she’d either cave to Lincoln’s plan or stand her ground. Neither sounded particularly fun. So should’ve downed a second Pop-Tart this morning.
“C’mon, Rand. Show me your stuff,” Whitney ordered. “If you can build a house, you can walk in heels.” Whit smacked her gum, arms crossed, waiting.
If Miranda had that much faith, she might still be in Brazil playing missionary. Or she’d at least remember the last time she warmed a church pew.
But at Whit’s demanding stare, her own stubbornness reared. Miranda raised her head and took a tentative step. Fine, more like a hobble. Then another, gaze fixed on the window behind Whit, where dawn spread a pale sheen over the fog rising from the Smokies. She’d risen at three thirty this morning to make it to the set by five, while darkness still blanketed the mountains.
Three cups of coffee later, she was still droopy-eyed. Or maybe that was just the prospect of meeting a certain Mr. Blake Hunziker.
“You’re not wearing work boots, girl,” Whitney urged. “And you’re not a horse. No plodding.”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed as she balanced herself with the folding chair facing the vanity.
“C’mon, you’ve got multiple publicity events coming up where you’re going to have to play Southern belle. Walk with finesse, wiggle your hips. Think Marilyn Monroe.”
Any more patronizing from her assistant and she might have to chuck a heel across the room.
“Randi Woodruff, can that really be you?” Brad breezed into the dressing room. “You’d look good in a nun’s habit, but today?” He whistled. “Matt Lauer or whoever won’t have words.”
“You ever heard of knocking, Walsh?”
“You ever heard of accepting a compliment?” He picked up a Duke University cap from the vanity top. “Not planning to wear this, are ya? Doesn’t match.”
Miranda plucked the hat from him. At least for the moment, Brad’s presence, annoying and endearing all at once, smoothed out her wrinkled emotions and the worry creasing her confidence. “Thank you for the hat advice. And the compliment.”
Brad dropped into an overstuffed chair. “That’s better. Now, we need to talk.” He sent a pointed look Whitney’s direction.
Whitney raised her hands in a surrender pose. “I can take a hint. But make her keep walking, Brad.”
“No thanks. Five minutes in these shoes and already my toes are weeping.” Miranda lifted one foot from her shoe, wiggling her toes, voice rising to a squeak. “Please, don’t do this to us. Set us free!”
Brad snorted. “You’re hilarious.”
“No, she’s stubborn,” Whitney piped in. “Like a mule. Walks like one, too.”
“Why, I oughta—”
Brad jumped from his chair, pulling her back by the shoulders while Whitney escaped the dressing room. “Easy, darling.”
Miranda attempted to shake out of his grasp, but her shoes staked her in place. “Well, she’s been heckling me all morning. I could find a new assistant, you know. And don’t call me darling.”
“You don’t scare me when you’re not wearing your tool belt.”
“Pretty sure these heels could do some damage.”
He glanced down. “Hmm. Point taken. Listen, can we sit for a minute?”
Miranda perched on the edge of the vanity, eyes moving across the line of photos spanning the opposite wall. Photos of houses they’d worked on over the seasons, the families who inhabited them. Mixed in, images of the children from Open Arms, wide-eyed smiles and hands waving. “I know you and Linc want me to meet my so-called husband today. Because apparently to you no means bring on the nuptials.”
“Yes, it’s true. Lincoln’s champing at the bit to introduce you. We vetted the guy like a president would his potential VP. He’s perfect.”
“I’m more concerned about the timeline�
��such as, how long I’m going to be stuck in a fake marriage. You and Linc promised me an exit strategy.”
“And we’ve got one. Besides, let me point out the fact that you’ve been stuck in a fake marriage for years now, Rand. We’re just giving the guy a face. Anyway, we’ll talk about that later.” Brad crossed one leg over the other, fiddled with a shoelace. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”
Miranda slid from the counter. “Like that there is, in fact, a purpose for high heels, and—”
“A reporter’s coming,” he cut in. “This morning.”
“I have another interview today?”
Brad cocked his head, yanked the knot from his shoelace in a jerky move that spoke nervousness. “Today, yes. And for the next few days. Weeks, actually. Three or four weeks.”
A trail of dread started in her brain and hiked its way to her throat. She straightened, ankles suddenly steady. “I don’t understand.”
“Today magazine wants to shadow you for an ongoing Web story. I think they called it a serial blog.”
She had the sudden urge to pelt him with the nails from her tool belt pouch. Except thanks to Whitney she wasn’t wearing it. “Shadow me? As in follow me around? And you’re just now telling me?” She crossed her arms, bracelets digging into her flesh.
“It’s going to be a daily blog. The timing couldn’t be more perfect with the Giving Heart Award and all that. And now with the show in jeopardy, this is one more notch on the ladder to renewal. The editor pitched the story months ago, but I didn’t really see any advantage in agreeing to his proposal. But when things started getting shaky with the show”—his words gushed, as if spilled quickly enough they might mop up her annoyance—“I thought it might ramp up viewer interest. So I contacted him and accepted his proposal.”
“You accepted . . . ? Brad, I’ve got a show to save, an award to win, and a fake spouse to fit into the insane puzzle that is my life. And, oh yeah, I’m chatting it up with the national media in an hour. Now I’m supposed to deal with a reporter playing Lamont Cranston?”
Brad paused, eyebrows raised.
“From The Shadow radio program, novels, comics,” she prodded. “Lamont Cranston is one of The Shadow’s aliases.”
“You have the weirdest trivia floating around in your brain. I’m surprised there’s room for all that woodworking knowledge.”
She shakily stalked forward and stopped in front of Brad, staring him down. “Don’t change the subject, Walsh.”
“You’re the one who went all Jeopardy on me.”
“Isn’t Today just another celebrity tabloid? Why would you agree to this when you know how hard I’ve worked to draw the line between my personal and public lives?”
“It may not be TIME, but Today isn’t just another grocery-aisle magazine. They portray celebrities as real people. They cover world issues, news, even the occasional political piece.”
“Yeah, when it involves scandal.”
Brad met her eyes, a stern glint hardening his expression. “Listen, I’m sure the reporter won’t be a problem. And the editor told me if you win the Giving Heart, you’ll be the cover story for Today’s January issue. Think of what that will do for ratings.”
Miranda exhaled, grasping for calm. But the choking feeling of panic wasn’t so easily subdued. “I feel like things are spinning out of control,” she forced out in ragged breaths.
“But they aren’t.” Brad stood and placed both hands on her shoulders. “Rand, ever since we found out about the possibility of the show getting cut, opportunity after opportunity has fallen into our laps. First the award, now the magazine feature. And that Blake guy—could it really be just a coincidence that he happened onto the set the other night looking so much like Robbie you almost threw yourself at him?”
“Are you saying there’s some kind of divine destiny behind all this?” Somehow she doubted God would be all that supportive of a phony marriage played out on a national stage.
“I’m saying, where you see chaos, I see ducks lining up in a perfect row.” He tipped her chin so her eyes met his. “And where you see a girl who can’t walk in heels, I see the ridiculously talented woman who rose from obscurity to charm viewers across the country. The star who has years and years of success left in her if she’ll just remember how to reach for it.”
Miranda felt something close to a smile take over. “You know, I seriously don’t deserve a friend like you.” Brad might drive her crazy, but he always found a way to encourage her. Running into him after returning to the States, just when she’d found herself in need of a professional manager, it’d felt like a divine favor. Undeserved.
Brad stepped back. “Well, you might want to remember that when I tell you the part about the reporter staying in the cabin on your property.”
Either Matthew truly deserved the title “unluckiest person in the world” or someone up there had it in for him. Probably both.
“No, no, no.” He banged his head against his rental Jeep door as he drove. Then banged it again. A little harder than intended. Fine, throw in a bruise, too. Not like this day could get worse.
So much for a shortcut. He’d thought it smart, taking the back road over the Appalachian foothills rather than the winding highway around. The plan backfired when the altitude obscured his GPS. Now, thoroughly lost and plenty frustrated, he drove aimlessly.
Through the open window, fresh mountain air breezed over his face. Under other circumstances, he would be relishing the experience. No concrete, no horns honking, not a corporate suit in sight. Only pillowy clouds and blue ridges draped in a blanket of pine and cedar.
Matthew slapped a hand against the window frame. “Purple mountain majesties, forget it.” Some good this scenic heaven did with its twisty roads leading him nowhere. If he missed this morning’s meeting with the From the Ground Up execs, Dooley would have his head once and for all.
He still couldn’t believe he’d even accepted the story assignment. But the look on Izzy’s face Saturday night, the thought of Celine missing out on her surgery . . . Well, no way was he going to sit around and do nothing. He’d write that blog on Randi Woodruff and scout for secrets. All celebrities had them, right? He’d even humiliate himself and do the entertainment TV gossip circuit if need be, spill the star’s story for the sake of cash flow.
Anything to help Celine. To do something, for once, that mattered.
Of course, he had to actually find Miss Homebuilding Celebrity before he could get to work. Hope crept in at the sight of a vehicle up ahead. Maybe he’d find a local who could point him the right direction. But why was the truck stopped along the road?
He slowed his Jeep as he approached, and as he reached the vehicle ahead—an old Ford truck that looked like something off the set of The Waltons—the full situation registered. The river running parallel to the road had curved and spilled over up ahead, flooding the road. And the driver of the truck had driven right in.
He braked and shifted into Park. Was the driver still in the truck? He hopped out of his Jeep and walked up to the truck bed. The front end dipped into the water. As far as he could tell, no one sat in the driver’s seat.
“Oh well. So much for luck.”
A screech sounded from the truck bed as a head popped into view.
Matthew jerked, his own gasp jumping from his throat. “Whoa, you scared me!”
The woman in the truck bed sat up. “I scared you? I thought I was out here in the middle of nowhere, alone, and suddenly I hear this voice.”
Alluring gray eyes, wide with shock, connected with his. So familiar . . . “You didn’t hear me drive up?”
A shrug and half smile. “Guess I was in my own world. A nice feeling, actually . . .” Her voice trailed at the end.
“You look like you could use some help.”
She slid from the truck bed, bare feet landing on grass, her yellow dress wrinkled. “You mean ’cause of the river slurping on my truck?” She chuckled. “Just needs a little push. I was g
oing to do it myself, but I don’t have to be back for another thirty minutes, so I was taking advantage of the opportunity. Plus, I don’t mind making my manager squirm over my absence.”
Her manager? She grinned as she spoke, sunlight casting a shine on her dark curls. Why did he feel like he’d met her before? Like he’d admired her smoky eyes . . .
His jaw dropped as it dawned on him. “You’re Randi Woodruff.”
Amusement played over her face as she rounded the truck. “At your service.”
He hadn’t expected the star-struck daze settling over him. Nor the sudden onset of nervousness. “You’re, uh, taller in person than you look on TV.”
Her laughter filled the mountain quiet. Her cheeks were rosy, probably from the autumn chill in the air. “You should see me in the heels they’re trying to make me wear. A regular Sasquatch.”
So not the word he’d have used to describe her.
She leaned against the truck. “Where you going taking the Ol’ Pass Road? Other than us locals, people quit using it years ago.”
“I’m lost. I’m trying to find Pine Cove . . . the set of your show, actually.”
She gave him a curious glance, then stumbled as the front of the truck sank farther in the sludge underneath. His arms shot out to catch her before she tripped into the water. And when she looked up at him, every self-conscious nerve in him stood at attention. Oh boy . . .
Steady, Knox. He practically pushed her away. “Careful. You’ll ruin your dress.”
There was that celebrity smile again. “Don’t I wish. Anyway, as long as you’re here, if you want to help me out with the truck, I can get you to the Cove. You missed the turnoff. It’s just a couple miles back.”
“Sure thing. We can push this out easy.”
“Since you’ve got some muscle on me, I’ll steer.” She plopped a bare foot into the mud surrounding the truck and climbed in.
