Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  A duet of exhilaration and trepidation—possibly what it felt like just before jumping out of a plane—sang through Miranda. “You’re a clown.”

  “Shh, this is a serious occasion. Now, do you, Randi Woodruff, take me, Blaze Hunziker, to be your imaginary husband, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you need me for your show?”

  “I—”

  “Randi! Good, you’re still here.” Brad burst into the room. “I’ve just been showing Matthew Knox around, and—” His voice clipped as his eyes swept over Miranda and Blaze, standing hand in hand in the center of the room. He tossed Miranda a mocking grin. “Well, isn’t this a sweet moment.”

  It was then Miranda noticed Matthew standing behind Brad, jeans still wet around his ankles, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. And curiosity, plain as the white walls of the meeting room, spelled out in his raised eyebrows and tilted head.

  Miranda dropped her hands, flush warming her cheeks.

  “Rand, don’t you want to introduce Blake and Matthew?” Brad prodded.

  “I, uh . . . I do.” Eyes to Blaze. His wink did nothing to quell the butterflies ramming into her stomach. God, help me. And this time she didn’t take back the prayer. “Matthew, this is . . . my—” deep breath—“husband.”

  Let the farce begin.

  Chapter 4

  Sunlight streaked through the curtains of Miranda’s bedroom window, spotlighting a trail across the redwood floor and over the quilt tangled around her legs. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms and breathing in the morning air breezing into the room from the window she’d kept cracked open last night.

  She sank back against her heap of pillows. Not too many more nights and temps would dip below freezing. But she’d cling to autumn as long as she could, drinking in its color and tasting its mountain chill. The air smelled of pine and leaves and . . .

  Burning?

  Miranda sniffed, nose crinkling and the last clutch of sleep releasing as she realized the distant scent of smoke came from her own house. “Blaze!”

  She jerked to her feet, toes connecting with the cool wood floor before tripping over the blanket wound around her legs. She kicked herself free, then reached for the green fleece robe draped over her bedpost.

  “Ooh, if that man is burning down my home, I’ll . . .” She’d fake-divorce her fake husband—that’s what.

  She crossed the room in quick strides and barreled down the stairs. On a different day she’d have stopped to gulp in the sunrise still caressing the morning, its pinks and oranges cascading through the lanky windows fronting the house. But not with that man somewhere in the place, probably the kitchen. She passed a mess of sheets and blankets strewn across the living room floor.

  Oh yes, she’d abandoned him to the couch last night, their first night, for all intents and purposes, as husband and wife. Maybe he’d tossed and turned all night. Maybe that’s why he was playing arsonist in her kitchen now.

  “Blake? Er, Blaze?” She thudded through the dining room, skidding to a halt in the opening to the kitchen. He stood shirtless over the stove, sinewy muscles threading down his arms and back. She felt the warmth spread over her cheeks even as she exhaled.

  “Morning, sunshine. Thought I’d make you breakfast. I hope you like your flapjacks well done.” The words rolled lazily from his tongue ahead of a yawn as he ran a hand through his floppy mop of black hair.

  At least a frilly apron covered his torso. She cinched the belt of her robe, did not even want to think about what her own hair looked like. Or her face. Had she even washed off her makeup last night? They’d rolled in so late, and she’d had to find sheets for the bed in the cabin—

  The cabin, the reporter! She slapped a hand to her forehead. She’d been so exhausted last night, she hadn’t even checked out the condition of the cabin first. Just pointed it out and left Matthew Knox to explore it in all its neglected glory on his own.

  “Hey, you okay, Woody?” Shirtless Blaze stepped toward her.

  Miranda’s gaze found its way past Blaze to the spatters of batter all over the wall behind the stove, the pile of blackened pancakes on the plate atop the counter. “Woody?” she asked warily.

  “Short for Woodruff. Thought you might like the endearment, but judging by the way you’re clenching and unclenching your fists, I guessed wrong.” He tapped a spatula against his chin. “I tried darling and sweetheart yesterday. Scratch those. How about honey?”

  “How about you hand over that spatula?”

  “How about you come and get it?” He winked. “This is fun. Your turn. How about I . . .”

  She reached out, loose fleece dangling around her arm. “Hand it over before we have to call the fire department. I really don’t need you living up to your nickname while under my roof.”

  He jerked the spatula back. “Make me.”

  Her hand closed around the end of the spatula, cakey batter oozing through her fingers. “Let go, Blaze.”

  He kept a steady grip. “Our first married fight. This feels so official.”

  “Give it to me.” Her elbow jabbed into his chest as she struggled for the utensil. And why was she smiling? This wasn’t fun, it was a matter of safety. “C’mon, Blaze. You need to know, I wear the pants in this family.”

  He whirled, sending her spinning with him, and her hip hit the stove with an “Oomph.”

  “Sorry, buttercup, but all I see are bare legs under that robe.”

  “Why, you . . .” Still holding tight to her end of the spatula, she stomped on his foot. “Take that, Mr. Breakfast Burner.”

  “And here I thought you weren’t a morning person, little missus.”

  Finally she gave up on the tug-of-war. But she wiggled a finger in front of his face. “You may be stronger than me now, but remember, I know where you sleep.”

  “Yes, the infamous couch to which all husbands under duress are banished.”

  Under duress? The laughter seeped out of her as his words took root. “Do you feel conned into this, Blaze? It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? We’re not even twenty-four hours into this charade, and I’m convinced there’s no way it can work. I don’t even know you. Someone’s bound to catch on. And, oh yeah, I’ve got a Geraldo Rivera type sleeping just a stone’s throw away, and—”

  Blaze placed a finger over her lips. “Calm, m’love. Save the worrying for later. You haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  She glanced around him at the stack of charred pancakes. “I’m not sure I want to.”

  Blaze rubbed a hand over the stubble shadowing his chin. “You know, I think I’m going to help you in more ways than one. I’ll play your husband for the sake of your show and because I’ve been bored ever since returning to the States. But I think I’ll also teach you to have fun.”

  Miranda folded her arms. “I’m perfectly capable of having fun—thank you very much.”

  Blaze shook his head before she finished. “People adept at fun don’t use phrases like ‘perfectly capable’ and ‘thank you very much.’”

  “We need to talk seriously for a minute. I think we should set some ground rules. Starting with”—her eyes darted to his apron-covered chest—“clothes. Please wear them. At all times.”

  A grin lit his dark eyes. “What else?”

  “I’m sorry you have to sleep on the couch, but as you probably noticed last night, I haven’t finished building the rest of this house. So the couch is all I’ve got as far as guest space at the moment. But it’s a must. Our relationship is strictly . . . professional.” Because, yes, it was oh-so-professional to playact a marriage.

  “Right. Clothes, couch. That’s it?”

  “Also, I think it’d be better for you to avoid any solo interviews with the media. Let me do as much of the talking as possible.”

  “My lips are sealed. Anything else? Too many more rules and I might need to start writing them down.”

  She released a half smile. “Just one more thing. No more cooking.”


  He gasped. “Punkin, I swear I’m a whiz in the kitchen. There’s something up with your stove. I think the burner’s got issues.”

  “The burner’s fine. It’s the cook.” She swiped for the spatula again.

  “Not a chance, doll.”

  “Another rule. Don’t call me doll or punkin or—”

  He hip-checked her away from the oven. “I’ve got pancakes to make.”

  She bumped him back. “You mean burn.”

  Blaze’s arm circled around her, reaching for the bowl of batter and trapping her against the counter. He lifted the bowl over her head. “You were saying?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She could kick herself for giggling.

  “I—”

  A throat clearing from behind broke into their banter. Over Blaze’s arm, Miranda gaped at the figure in the kitchen doorway. Matthew Knox stood in the opening, amusement mixed with embarrassment in his expression. And, oh dear, how long had he been standing there? And how much had he heard?

  “Um, I knocked on the front door, but no one answered.”

  And the couch. He’d probably seen the blankets and sheets. Reporters were observant like that, weren’t they? And he’d wonder . . .

  “We were just . . .” C’mon, think, girl.

  “Little morning routine we like to play,” Blaze supplied. “She’s at her most feisty in the morning.”

  Ooh, she’d whack him with the spatula—if she ever got ahold of it. Blaze turned to face Matthew, one arm slithering around her waist to her front, pulling her backward into a half hug.

  Did she look as flushed as she felt? Apparently she’d forgotten to factor in the touchy-feely part of this whole thing. Of course, if the man had bothered to wear a shirt, this wouldn’t be nearly as awkward. Gulping, she patted her hand over Blaze’s.

  “Married life. It’s a roller-coaster ride.” His voice brushed over the tip of her ear.

  Matthew gave a hesitant nod. “Uh, mind if I grab a cup of coffee?” Poor man looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

  Another rule: No hugging! Although, hubby sure smelled good—pancake batter and soap. And he wasn’t unattractive. Quite the opposite, really. Not that she cared to admit it aloud. “Sure thing. Mugs are in the cupboard right over the coffeemaker.”

  As soon as Matthew turned to open the cupboard, she hissed at Blaze, “Hand off my stomach!” and pulled away. “So, Matthew, what’s on your agenda today?”

  He poured a cup of coffee. “Well, whatever you’re doing. I’m your shadow from here on out.” He took a sip and headed for the door. “See you later.”

  Lovely. A wacky husband infiltrating her house and a nosy reporter following her every move. If she survived this soap opera, she’d deserve a dozen Emmys.

  That and freedom. At the sobering thought, she hugged her arms to herself. Oh, please let Brad be right. Let all the curiosity about her so-called husband die down at the end of this deception. Let the lingering effect of Robbie’s past presence in her life finally—finally—fade.

  Let spacey Blaze pull off his role. Let Matthew remain oblivious. Let her heart mend in the process.

  “Oh, Rand, almost forgot.” Blaze reached into the pocket of his apron and held up a crinkled envelope. “When I was digging around looking for a griddle, I checked the high cupboards over your refrigerator and found this on top of the fridge. I thought you might be looking for it.”

  No mistaking the handwriting on the envelope or the air mail stamp. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Blaze it hadn’t been misplaced. She’d meant to slip Mom’s letter up there. Out of sight, out of mind. But saying so would only invite questions.

  Questions she had no desire to answer.

  So she pulled the letter from his outstretched hand, thanked him, and buried the envelope in the deep pocket of her robe.

  “Installing crown molding can be a pain in the you-know-what. But if you have the right tools and take your time, I promise you can master it. Let’s get started.” Randi Woodruff’s lithe form perched on the corner of a dining room table as she spoke. Three seafoam-green walls gave the staged room a beachfront feel, and set lights bathed the gathered crew in warmth.

  Matthew observed the taping from behind the “fourth wall,” fingers wrapped around the ice-cold Coke Brad Walsh handed him. Apparently Miranda’s manager had forgiven him for his part in yesterday’s creek incident. Either that or the man was waiting for the perfect time to hammer Matthew with a lecture.

  “You should’ve heard Randi moan when Tom told her we needed to re-tape her crown-molding segment,” Brad whispered. “It’s the one project she hates with a passion.”

  But you’d never know it by the smile she flashed at the camera. Miranda glided across the set with a charming mix of grace and confidence. “Here are the tools you’ll need for the job: power miter saw with 10-inch carbide-tipped blade, tape measure, pneumatic finishing nailer, framing square, coping saw . . .”

  Matthew whistled. “Wow, I should’ve spent some time in a few hardware stores before coming down here.”

  “I hear ya there. Sometimes I have to remind her we didn’t all grow up watching Hometime with our grandfathers.”

  Her grandfather, huh. Probably the one who’d left her the truck. “What do you know about her parents? I read they were missionaries. They still in—where was it?—Brazil?”

  “Yes.”

  Was that tension in Brad’s voice? Matthew slid him a look but met only folded arms and eyes still glued to the activity on set. “That a sore subject?”

  “Not sore.” Brad’s shoulders stiffened, a tic in his jaw filling the pause before he spoke again. “But not all that popular, either. And it’s not my story to tell.”

  Waves of curiosity whooshed in, salty and enticing. Matthew popped the tab on his can of Coke and took a long drink, carbonation fizzing down his throat.

  On set, Randi climbed up a ladder. “The first thing we’re going to do is use a chalk line to mark our installation lines along each wall.” She held a piece of molding in place and marked its position with a pencil. “Modern crown molding actually traces back to the Renaissance when designers drew on elements of Greek and Roman architecture, using ornamental plaster and wood cornices to embellish the intersection of ceiling and wall.”

  Matthew followed her movements as she pulled an electronic thingy from her tool belt and said something about locating studs and joists. “She really knows her stuff, doesn’t she?”

  He felt Brad’s glare as the manager’s voice moved above a whisper. “Of course she does. What, did you think she was a fake?”

  Man, the guy played uptight to a T. “No, I just . . .” Except, well, maybe.

  Miranda’s voice jutted into his fumbling reply. “Coped cuts are used where one piece of crown molding meets another at an inside corner. Coping is the process of cutting the end of a molding to mimic the profile milled into its face.”

  Matthew tossed Brad a sheepish grin, going for a mood-lightening tone. “Do you have any clue what she just said?”

  But Brad didn’t crack—pressed lips and stony stare ready at the defense. “Randi Woodruff has more talent in her pinky finger than most people accumulate in a lifetime.”

  Chill, buddy. I wasn’t implying anything.

  Miranda’s instructions continued. “To create a snug-fitting joint, hold your coping saw at a five-degree angle away from the face of the molding and cut carefully along the marked edge.”

  Brad’s rigid stance still leaking hostility beside him, Matthew downed the rest of his Coke. Time to mend fences. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  “Hey, we’re trying to tape here!” the show’s director, Tom Somebody-or-other, yapped from where he leaned against a coffee cart. “Walsh, take the chitchat outside.”

  Brad tapped Matthew’s shoulder. “Come with me.”

  “But I haven’t finished learning about crown molding. It was just getting interesting. Cutting joints and sawing faces. It’s like, Frankenste
in meets Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.”

  Brad rolled his eyes, pointing at the exit. “Out.”

  Matthew turned, but not before meeting Miranda’s amused gaze, her snicker rattling over the set as she stayed balanced atop her ladder. At least someone appreciated the humor—someone who managed to make Levi’s and a plain white tee scream femininity. Even with that pencil between her teeth, her smile could have graced any magazine cover.

  And would if he did his job right.

  Brad gave him a light shove, and Matthew acquiesced, emerging into autumn’s outdoor embrace. The colors of fall were beginning to deepen, as if an artist had smudged fresh paint over the landscape, blotting out the lingering green of summer.

  Matthew matched Brad’s stride. “This is a beautiful setting for the From the Ground Up set. Like going to work in a Thomas Kinkade piece.”

  Brad gestured to a patio set, surrounded by meticulous landscaping sloping down a scenic ravine. “Let’s talk.”

  “Look, yesterday we sort of got off on the wrong foot. Today we still seem to be hobbling along on the same leg. How about we shift weight or something? Start over.”

  Brad dropped onto the rattan chair and motioned for Matthew to sit. “Fair enough.” He opened the folder he’d been carrying since walking onto the set earlier. “Matthew Knox. Originally from Minneapolis, worked for the Star Tribune for five years. Pulitzer finalist in 2006. Impressive, by the way. Moved into the position of news editor in 2007 for a short six months before being bumped up to interim managing editor when your predecessor had heart surgery. And in 2008—”

  Every muscle in Matthew pulled taut. “Pause, Principal Walsh. You’ve got a file on me?” And just how much did the guy know about . . . 2008?

  Brad closed the folder with a snap. “Yes, I do. I’m picky about who spends time with Randi.”

  Matthew’s hand tightened on the empty pop can he still held. “Hey, you okayed this blog project. I don’t understand what’s up with the interrogation act now.”

  “I okayed the project based on a proposal that listed the reporter as Lisa Spangle. She interviewed that one blond singer slash train wreck last year—made her look like Shirley Temple. Spangle’s a softie.”