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Chapter 1

Asheville, North Carolina

On any other day of the year, in the lull of routine, she could almost forget the lie she lived. But today’s would-be anniversary made forgetting about as easy as building a house from cotton sheets.

Miranda Woodruff hooked a thumb under her tool belt and stepped onto the outdoor set, squinting against the familiar glint of studio lights. The light crew usually played off the sun when taping outside, but this evening’s canopy of low-lying clouds dimmed the valley already hazed over by the smoky cover of the Appalachians.

Mission: Smile. Access her inner Colgate commercial and convince everybody she meant it. Forget the date on the calendar, and while she was at it, pretend this afternoon’s lousy interview never happened. Hey, if anybody could fake it—

“Randi! Where’ve you been?” Across the set, Whitney’s heels clicked over the bluestone patio. How did her assistant walk in those stilts? Especially with a tangle of cords and wiring webbing the set.

Miranda skirted around a camera to meet Whitney, pasting on a grin about as plastic as the lighted Ficus trees hedging the patio. Only one more sequence to shoot, and then they could call this week’s taping of her show, From the Ground Up, a wrap.

Whitney reached her, disapproval tugging her face into a frown. “What’s with the cookie crumbs all over your shirt, girl?”

Busted. “Got a secret stash of Chips Ahoy! in the truck.” Along with enough Coca-Cola to de-corrode a few car batteries. The stuff of emotional self-medication.

“Let’s see, we’ve covered your season finale, plans for next season. Now I’d like to get personal for a moment.” Hours later, that reporter’s nasally voice still played on repeat—accompanied by a feeling so achingly routine it barely stung.

Fine, not true. A dozen raging wasps couldn’t do to her what today’s interview did.

“What do you have to say regarding the rumors about your marriage?” Miranda’s shoulders stiffened all over again at the memory of the reporter’s averted eyes as she posed the question—the subtle-as-a-foghorn interest edging her words, the disappointment when Miranda’s underwhelming answer fell flat. “I’m sorry. I don’t talk about my personal life to the media.”

“You know everybody’s curious about where you disappeared to today.” Whitney brushed the crumbs off Miranda’s white V-neck tee.

And probably annoyed, too, since her last-minute appointment with the magazine journalist meant taping would run late tonight. “One of those spur-of-the-moment interviews. Brad coerced me.”

“We need this, Rand.” Why the worry in her manager’s voice as they’d spoken over the phone? Surely after their third season finale her homebuilding television show had finally hit its prime. “Is the crew mad?”

Whitney stepped back, glance darting from Miranda’s boots and denim up to her signature tee. “Not mad. A tad irked, maybe. No one likes to stay late. Might’ve helped if you’d hit the catering table with everyone else. You always eat with the gang.”

Except on October 4. But none of the studio bunch knew the gut-punching significance of the date. And she’d just as soon keep it that way. Otherwise there’d be no holding it together through tonight’s taping. “Needed a little quiet. That’s all.”

“Well, let’s hope the break has you in top form so we can close this in one take. That dark sky won’t hold out forever.” A spotlight snapped on as the set hummed into post-break activity. Whitney pulled a tube from her pocket. “Now, pucker up.”

“Right, because a girl can’t build a house without lipstick.”

“Correction: lip gloss. Now get out there and do the Home Depot thing.”

As Whitney pranced away, Miranda turned her eyes to the green ridges peeking through dusk’s fog. Those paunchy clouds did promise rain, and soon. They just needed to get through this taping. . . . Correction: she needed to.

And she would. Always did—on all four October 4ths since he left.

Robbie.

But she couldn’t let her mind wander there—to Robbie, the anniversary. She needed to ditch thoughts of that prickly interview, too.C’mon, think favorite things. Real Sound of Music–like. Bubble baths. Bonfires. Ooh, or how about the new Powermatic 2000 3HP table saw? Now, there was something to put a little spring in a girl’s step.

“Oh, please tell me that grin means what I think it means.”

Her focus slid to the right. Brad Walsh. Yup, there he stood in all his hair-gelled, leather-shoed, this-century’s-William-Holden glory.

“And what do you think it means?” And why in the world did her manager have to pick today of all days to visit the set?

“That you’re happy to see me,” Brad said, sweeping his arms wide. “That you realize, after years of my devotion, you’re finally ready to make the move from client to dinner date.” He honed in on her mouth.

Don’t even think about it, Walsh.

“Kid, you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.”

She brushed a finger over her front teeth. “Uh-uh, lip gloss. And thanks. But no dice on the dinner date. We’ve had this chat a thousand times.”

Brad rolled his chocolate-brown eyes. “I know . . . I’m city, you’re country. Hogwash.”

Despite the blues she’d lugged around all day, giggles pushed out now. “Hogwash? Is that your way of trying to fit in down here in backwoods-ville? Nice attempt, but you need a debutante, an urbanite. Maybe a ballerina. I’m too . . . flannel and scrambled eggs.” Seriously. He should see her at breakfast.

She stepped away from Brad, nodded at the head cameraman as he settled in his perch at the Panasonic, and found her own spot behind a granite-top island.

“You’re hardly a lumberjack, Rand.” Brad moved beside her. “You’re television’s tomboy darling. So said TV Guide last week.”

She surveyed her props for the closing how-to segment: pitcher of water, steam iron, oak slab. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“Lincoln called, said we needed to talk.”

Sure enough, the show’s producer strode across the set now. He stopped, exchanged words with the director, and then angled for Miranda and Brad.

“He looks intense,” Miranda said.

“Always does.”

Lincoln reached them, held out a hand to Brad. “Good to see you, Walsh. Randi, I need a few minutes with the two of you.”

Oh, please don’t let it be bad news. Anything else today and she’d need a bucket of ice cream to go with the rest of her cookies. “Should we sit?” She gestured to the rattan furniture positioned on one side of the porch set.

Lincoln leaned against the island counter. “Actually, let’s make this a standing meeting. I’ve got to run in a sec. Here’s the thing: I’ve got good news.”

Miranda tasted relief, syrupy sweet.

“And some bad.”

Good-bye, Aunt Jemima. “I vote for the bad first.”

Lincoln folded his arms over his black sweater, which matched his wide-rimmed glasses. “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight: Season four of From the Ground Upis on shaky ground.”

Was it just her, or were those heavy clouds sagging even lower in the sky? “Well, we knew the network was looking at fiddling with our time slot, right?”

Lincoln was shaking his head before she even finished. “I’m not talking a time-slot switch up. We may be on the chopping block.”

Which explained the ripples of anxiety in her manager’s voice when he’d called about the interview. Brad must have sensed this coming. “Doesn’t compute,” he said now. “The show’s done well for three seasons. Randi’s as popular with viewers as ever.”

“And we’re half done filming season four,” Miranda added.

“I know it’s unpleasant to hear, but if you look at last season’s ratings and future projections, it’s not entirely unbelievable. But nothing’s certain. We have time to make our case to the network before they settle on the spring lineup. Which brings me to the good news.”

Lincoln straightened his glasses and leaned forward. “I’ve had the best publicity brainstorm of my life. I have a plan to save the show and up your celebrity status by the zillions, Randi, dear.”

Why did that sound more foreboding than hope inspiring? “Whatcha gonna do? Parade me in front of every grocery-aisle tabloid?”

Lincoln’s smug smile stretched his cheeks. “Not just you.”

Brad’s sharp intake of breath signaled his realization. She met his eyes, read his “stay calm” expression. What had he just figured out that she hadn’t? “Who else?” A niggle of alarm slipped under her skin.

“Drum roll, please. . . . Your husband.” Lincoln’s words rushed like the breeze now rolling into a steady mountain wind. “You know, the unseen character on your show. The one who taught you all you know.”

Oh. Oh no. Disbelief crowded out the elation of only seconds earlier. He couldn’t be serious. Lincoln Nash didn’t know what he was asking.

Except that he did. And somehow that made it worse. Miranda hugged her arms to her body. “That’s impossible. You know I’m not . . . never was.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “You know Robbie left before the wedding.” The one that would’ve happened three years ago today.

“What I know is you talk about him in every show.”

“Because of you, the audition, the pilot. Because while we taped the first season, I naïvely believed I’d be married by the time it aired. Because my contract stipulates . . .” And then there was the little matter of her guilt. She shot Brad a pleading look, swallowing sour desperation. Say something!

But Lincoln spoke first. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the fan websites, tabloid headlines—‘Who is Randi Woodruff’s mystery man?’ Not naming the guy was the best decision we ever made. Especially since, well . . .”

He didn’t have to finish. They hadn’t named her husband because the man who should have filled the role had ducked out early. She’d shielded that truth from her fans, even most of the crew, citing her desire for privacy. Up until now it had worked.

“Anyway,” Lincoln went on, “you finally give people the peek they want, and you’ll save your show. Be sure of it.”

“The only thing I’m sure of is”—pain latched itself to her shell-shocked words—“I don’t have a husband.” She felt Brad’s palm on her arm, the chill of the coming storm.

Lincoln only shrugged. “So we get you one.” He checked his watch. “Gotta run. We’ll chat more.”

And before she could hurl even one of the arguments clogging her throat, Lincoln was off.

“He’s dead serious, isn’t he.” She slumped against the island counter.

“Like Colonel Sanders in a chicken coop.” Brad’s eyes were pinned on Lincoln’s retreating form.

“And I’m the chick with her head on the chopping block.” As Brad placed his arm around her shoulder, grumbling clouds drew her gaze. And suddenly all she wanted was escape. She itched for the comfort of the mountains, her workshop. The heady smell of sawdust, the feel of wood underneath her fingers, glass-smooth and waiting for her magic. Home.

Where her lies couldn’t find her.

Well, apparently, until today.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“This is officially the stupidest thing you’ve ever talked me into.”

The click of Matthew Knox’s shoes echoed on the heels of his brother’s hissed words, the empty, dark hallway stretching before him like a cave. Only a slit of light beckoned from under the closed door at the end of the corridor. On the other side of that door, a journalist’s treasure trove.

For real—he’d hit the jackpot this time. Political favors, special-interest pandering. The evidence was at his fingertips. As long as he didn’t get stuck with one leg into this gaping window of opportunity.

Matthew paused. This was the direction he’d seen the former politician walking, right?

Behind him, his brother heaved a sigh. “Dude, did you even hear me? I’m talking epic proportions of stupid.”

So his older brother didn’t approve. So what was new? “Voice down, camera ready. Is that so much to ask?” The story hovered so close, he could feel it. Surely it completely justified breaking into the zoo’s administration building.

No, not breaking in. After all, he and Jase hadn’t busted any locks or climbed any fences. They’d only followed ex-Senator McKee in. From a safe distance. When no one was looking.

“What about Margaret McKee?” Jase whisper-shouted. “She’s the celebrity. Your article’s supposed to be about her. You asked me to come to take pictures of her and the glamour crowd. Instead we’re sneaking around an empty building while she’s out dazzling the masses. You know Delia Jones is out there, too, right?”

“’Course I do. And Jones is going to throw up when she realizes she spent the night buddying up to the senator’s daughter when the senator himself was playing dirty politics right under her nose.”

Yes, it was a departure from his assignment—to write a feature on recent acting phenom Margaret McKee, daughter of the former senator—but surely the editor of Today would forgive him. And, oh, how spicy the taste of victory when he beat Jones to the story.

It was his nemesis, Delia Jones herself, who’d let it slip that the real news of tonight’s gala at the zoo was the former senator’s plans. “Rumor is McKee’s stepping back into the political boxing ring with a little prompting from Shawn Keegan.”

Keegan was not only the zoo administrator but also an investor with fingers in no less than a dozen corporations and foundations in the Twin Cities . . . and whose underground influence in politics was the stuff of electoral legends. It would make sense the man would want a friend in the State Senate.

And while a local political scoop wouldn’t normally be of much interest to a national magazine like Today,surelythe fact that the ex-senator happened to be the father of celebrity up-and-comer Margaret McKee would help Matthew’s case.

Finally a hard news break. Good-bye fluffy human-interest pieces, hello nitty-gritty reporting.

“Come on, Jase, this is my chance. Besides, you should be thanking me. With business slow at the gallery, I’d think you’d appreciate picking up a photo sale to Today.” Anyway, he hadn’t asked Jase to join him for this extracurricular portion of the evening. Jase could’ve stayed outside with the rest of the Twin Cities’ fancy-schmancy types.

He just wants to make sure I don’t get into trouble. And considering Matthew’s recent history of botched freelance gigs, could he blame him? Still. “Don’t mess this up for me, Jase.”

Jase sighed. “You’re that convinced?”

Matthew squinted in the dark. “Would I have rented a tux, endured this whole hoity-toity fund-raiser, if I wasn’t?” He raked his fingers through his short brown hair. He’d sacrificed his shaggy look in favor of a close cut for tonight’s gala, had even gotten reacquainted with his razor—no hint of his usual five-o’clock shadow. Anything for the story.

And the good senator’s daughter seemed to like the change, too. Two days ago, during their initial interview, Margaret McKee had been about as attentive as a narcoleptic. Tonight she’d hovered at his side, claiming his arm at every dance.

Too bad he was out to dig up her father’s wrongdoing. Rumors of the senator’s up-for-grabs votes—for the right price, of course—had dogged McKee throughout his two terms. Now he was meeting behind closed doors with one of the state’s biggest financial tycoons. Oh yeah, there was a story here.

Jase switched his camera bag from one shoulder to the other. “You better be right. How many times have we gotten into scrapes over your hunches? Oh, right, not hunches. Journalistic instinct. I’m just surprised your ‘instinct’ hasn’t landed us in jail.”

“Yet.” Matthew grinned and continued down the hallway.

“That’s not funny.” Jase shuffled behind him. “You can James Bond it all you want, but I’ve got a wife and daughter.”

Matthew only waved Jase on. The faint strains of the orchestra’s music glided in from where the city’s movers and shakers mingled over hors d’oeuvres and champagne. He reached into his coat pocket, clasped his digital recorder.

“What if you’re wrong?” Jase’s whisper filled the silence.

Polite of Jase not to tack on the obvious: Wouldn’t be the first time. “Then we shrug and say we got lost looking for the restroom.”

“You always do this, Matt.”

Seriously, did Jase have to be so talkative tonight? He clearly didn’t get covert. “Do what?”

“Dig for something that’s not there. What happened to my trusting kid brother?”

Disappeared the same night Dad did. Matthew sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m not wrong this time. I saw the senator and Keegan sneak off. Considering what Delia told me—”

“And that’s another thing. Why, of all people, would she tip you off?”

Fine, so that question had poked at Matthew all night, too. The woman despised him. “Maybe she didn’t realize what she was giving me, or maybe she’s finally forgiven me.”

He could practically hear Jase’s eyes roll. Right. Not likely. But Delia’s reasons didn’t matter right now. He stopped outside the office door. Recorder on. Hands sweaty.

“Now what?” Jase whispered.

“Um, truthfully? I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He fingered his collar, loosened the strangling bow tie.

“Perfect. What do you think we’re going to find, anyway? Two men smoking cigars, inking a contract with the mafia?”

“Jase, I just need you to trust me.” Even as the words left his lips, he gulped for their return.

“Son, I just need you to trust me.”

Trust. Yeah. Right.

A laugh boomed from the other side of the door. Matthew pushed his ear to the wood. The senator’s muffled voice leaked from the room, words tinged with reluctance. “I don’t know about this. But a deal is a deal, I suppose. Perhaps it is best I lay low.”

“The things we do in the name of elections, eh?” This from Keegan.

Matthew held his breath. Keep talking, Senator.

“You think there’s really a shot with a write-in campaign this late in the game?” Keegan.

Ah, there it was. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Jase,” he spoke in a hush. “We wait here until they leave. Soon as they open the door, you snap a photo.”

Jase grunted. “Nothing doing. They’ll call Security and have us arrested.”

“So what do you suggest? Busting in on them?”

“Hey, you’re the captain. Lead away. For the record, I still think this is—”

“I know, I know. The stupidest thing we’ve ever done.” But it was possibly the best career move of his life. If he could only land something concrete. Allegations alone did not an ethical article make.

Like trespassing and eavesdropping are ethical?

“All right. New plan.” He lifted a fist, knocked.

The voices on the other side of the door silenced. Another knock, and the door swung open. Matthew grinned as the ex-senator’s burly form filled the doorframe. He had a few inches on Matthew’s six feet three, and his shoulders suggested a past career in the NFL rather than the statehouse.

“Uh, if you’re looking for the restrooms—” McKee began.

“Actually, no. The name’s Matthew Knox, and I’m here to talk to you and Mr. Keegan.”

“Party’s outside,” Keegan called from inside the room.

“Yes, but—”

“And you’re trespassing,” the zoo administrator finished.

Matthew would have pushed past McKee if the man didn’t look poised for a takedown. Instead, grasping at confidence, he folded his arms. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I know you’ve got an announcement to make soon, maybe even tonight. I know you’re planning a late entry into the election, and I can write an article hinting at your plans and thus fizzle your big PR splash, or you can let me in on it. What do you say?”

The senator raised an eyebrow as Keegan joined him in the doorway. Jase coughed.

“So you’re paparazzi, are ya?” Keegan’s eyes pressed into slits.

“We’re not paparazzi!” Matthew blurted. “Are you kidding?”

“Dude, I don’t think you’re the one who should be offended here,” Jase muttered.

“I promise, you won’t be sorry,” Matthew gushed. “Just talk to me.” Way too close to begging. Why did his voice sound so tinny? And why were both McKee and Keegan smiling all eerie-like? Not good.

McKee chuckled. “Oh, I know I won’t be sorry, son.”

Matthew angled to see Jase swiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

“You see,” McKee continued. “That big announcement you’re talking about . . .” He lifted his hand, checked the watch on his wrist. “I’m guessing it’s going down right now. And you, my friend, are missing it all.”

“So you’re not . . .” And just like that, it made sense. Delia’s divulging what she knew about McKee’s plans. No, what she’d concocted. She’d planted the idea in his head knowing he’d bite, knowing he’d go and do something stupid. And now she was out there with the real story while he faced the fiery amusement in McKee’s eyes.

“We should go, Matt,” Jase urged.

“Yes, do.” Keegan poked a finger at Matthew’s chest. “’Else I’ll arrange for an escort.”

Matthew whirled on his heels after Jase, the back of his neck burning with heat. Jase stalked ahead, spine rigid.

“I can’t believe you!” Jase called over his shoulder as they burst outside. “We could’ve been arrested.”

Strings of light decorated the zoo’s courtyard, enveloped in late-summer warmth. A server walked past with a tray, trailed by the scent of shrimp. Maybe whatever announcement McKee had alluded to hadn’t happened yet. Maybe Matthew hadn’t missed it.

Maybe he hadn’t royally screwed up just yet. Again.

He scanned the crowd for Delia.

“I’ll never be able to bring Celine to the zoo,” Jase said, stopping, yanking on Matthew’s arm.

“There are other zoos—”

“You just couldn’t let it go, like always. You’re wasting your talents.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“It’s because of Dad and that article, isn’t it? You’re trying to prove something.”

Music, dancing, it all faded as dark hurt snaked through him. “Don’t go there, Jase.”

His brother trapped him in an angry stare until the blare of his cell phone broke the moment. Jase exhaled and pushed past Matthew, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Matthew turned, gaze falling to the ground, where his shoes glowed against overhead lights. Alone in a glitzy crowd. Frozen by humiliation.

And the truth of his brother’s razored words.

“Matthew?”

And the hits just kept on coming. Not Margaret. Not now, with that pouncing smile.

“Matthew Knox, you missed my announcement.” She slithered an arm through his elbow.

And there was Delia. Watching from the crowd, grinning as if she’d nabbed a trophy. Ever the rival, ever a step ahead. The realization thudded through Matthew.

“You mean you’re the write-in candidate?”

Margaret’s confirming nod jabbed the final stake in this failure of a night. “I purposely waited until my father disappeared for a few minutes. I want people to vote for me as me, not just as ‘the senator’s daughter.’ People think I’m only into the acting scene, but I’ve always intended to make a difference in a bigger way. And since I’m convinced our current pool of candidates don’t cut it, I decided to jump in.”

And Today could’ve had the story ahead of everyone if he hadn’t ignored his assignment. Done for. So completely done for.

A yank on his arm jerked his attention from Margaret.

“Whoa, bro, what’s the hurry?”

“It’s Celine. She’s in the hospital. Bike accident.” Jase shoved his camera bag at Matthew, his cell phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear. “Honey, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

And in the time it took Jase to clamp his phone shut, all thought of Margaret McKee and his repeat failure fled. In its place, the kind of pulsing dread he hadn’t felt since . . .

Since the day everything fell apart.

x

“Listen, we’ll figure this out. I’ll talk to Lincoln.”

Miranda pulled away from Brad’s hold. No amount of her manager’s optimism could erase the suffocating truth: When Lincoln Nash made his mind up, he was as immovable as the Smokies.

“I don’t have a husband.”

“So we get you one.”

Like men waited in droves to stake a claim on a woman more comfortable in Levi’s than lipstick. Catching her director’s impatient glare—right, there was still tonight’s taping to finish—she moved into place behind an oak two-by-four balanced over two sawhorses. “Tell Lincoln husbands—pretend or otherwise—don’t grow on trees.” And that even if they did, it was just too easy for a restless wind to blow them
away.

Brad’s chuckle defied her morose words. “You know, if you think about it, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

The sounds of the set crew filled the air—voices, footsteps on the patio, cameras rolling into place. “It’s a horrible idea. It’s bad enough I’ve gone along with a lie for three seasons straight, all because it supposedly cutes me up.” But she had to admit it had worked. She’d protected her privacy, holed away in the mountains, drew a strict line between her public persona and personal life. “Now you want me to bring the lie home by playing house with a pretend husband? And what about Robbie? He’s out there somewhere and—”

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried if you do this, Robbie will catch wind of it, maybe think you’re really married, and never come back.”

With her back to Brad, she ran a hand over the oak slab. Smooth and unmarred, perfection. But why hadn’t someone from props dented the wood already? The whole point of this episode’s how-to was to highlight her repair techniques. Couldn’t do that with a pristine piece of lumber.

Brad stepped closer, spoke over her shoulder. “Robbie’s still got a clutch on you.”

She pulled out her hammer, poised to do the job herself. “Don’t start. Not today.”

“Three years and an ocean. And you’re still holding on.”

Grip tight around the hammer, she faced him. Overhead, cumulus clouds rolled and growled. “Stop. Don’t you dare come here and Dr. Phil me. You’re not my therapist. You’re not my friend. So just . . .” She whirled, raised her arm with hammer held high, and pounded into wood, a lightning-like crack echoing over the set. The slab rattled and stilled.

“Rand.” Brad’s clipped word punctured the now-quiet set as a wave of mountain air scraped over her cheeks.

She couldn’t look at him. Not her friend? What was she thinking? He’d found her a wallowing mess three years ago on her bathroom floor. He’d answered every single middle-of-the-night call those first few months. He might be her manager now, but they’d been college pals first. And if he wasn’t her friend—being one of the few who knew . . . all of it—then who was?

She ran a hand through her curls and turned on her heels, hammer swinging. “Brad—” And hit a wall. A soft, growling wall. And what was that warm . . . ? Oh, swell. Coffee, hot and oh-so-brown against the white of her shirt.

“Good evening to you, too, Randi,” Tom Bass, the show’s director, spoke in monotone.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “And sorry for the holdup.” She peered around Tom to see Brad’s retreating form. I didn’t mean it, Brad. It was just this brutal day.

Eyes back to Tom, her gaze traveled from his gray whiskers to his dusty and now coffee-covered jeans. “I, uh, had an accident with the wood.”

He folded his arms. “I see that. It’s cracked.”

Possibly along with her mental health. Someone handed her an apron, and she slipped it over her shirt, covering the coffee stain. She had to focus. You’re Randi Woodruff, homebuilder extraordinaire, tool-belt-wearing how-to girl.

“Tell props we need a new two-by-four,” Tom barked at a passing crewman. “Look, I know you don’t like our show closers, but don’t go around breaking stuff. Thing is—”

She held up a palm. “I know. Viewers love the cutesy how-tos. Endears me to them.”

Tom patted her cheek. “That and your good looks and charming personality. Now, I don’t know what you, Brad, and our illustrious producer were chatting about—”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Or what’s been bothering you all day. But we’ve got work to do and an impatient crew. Think you can pull yourself together for one more segment?”

She nodded, then breathed in deeply as Tom left the spotlighted patio, the scent of coffee mixing with pine and heat from the lights. Brad met her eyes from where he’d taken up residence by the picked-clean food table, hopefully catching the apology in her wave.

She could do this. Finish the taping, then escape to the mountain. Drag herself through one more episode ending, try to ignore the guilt these closing segments always caused. Like sandpaper scratching her heart each time she forced the words.

You made your bed . . . Yeah, sure, a bed of nails.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tom boomed from off set.

Focus. She tucked a runaway curl behind one ear and stepped to the patio table in the corner of the set, connected with the camera.

Three, two . . . “I don’t know about you, but sometimes no matter how careful I am, I end up with dents in my wood.” Cue cute pout followed by we’re-all-in-this-together expression. See, easy.

If she could only silence her conscience.

“But most dents are fixable. All you need are two things: water and a steam iron.” She picked up the iron posed atop the table, then walked over to the newly placed board, practiced grin still in place. “Now, some people would be too impatient for this repair technique.”

This was it. The line the whole sequence hinged on. Don’t think about what you’re saying. The glare of the set lights whited out her scenic surroundings, the faces of the crew. Just her and the camera. And the lie.

“My husband, for instance, bless his blasted heart, is so impatient he eats TV dinners half frozen.” My husband. Sandpaper. Scratching. Scraping. I’m sorry, God.

“He may have taught me everything I know, but if it were up to him, we’d throw out this damaged slab. But I say, don’t be so quick to pitch a good thing.” Oh, if ever words held such layers. She hid a grimace, gestured to the lumber. “Now, with softwoods, like pine or cedar, just wet the dented area to swell and raise the sunken wood. But for hardwoods, you need an iron.”

Her eyes landed on the groove in the oak board, a blight on an otherwise perfectly usable piece of wood. And suddenly all she could see was her own heart. Dented. Damaged. She closed her eyes against forming pools. She hadn’t made it all day only to fall apart now with cameras rolling, everyone watching.

Quick, do the Maria von Trapp thing. Sleeping in, feather pillows, maple syrup . . .

But it didn’t stop the screeching of her conscience, the emotions swirling inside her. The interview, Lincoln’s news . . . the anniversary.

And then, movement. A flash of orange as a man strode along the side of the set. That profile! Crooked nose, high forehead, floppy hair. So like . . .

The pang in her heart pushed out a gasp as a whoosh of mountain wind painted goose bumps over her arms. The first raindrops spattered on the wooden slab. She dropped the iron.

“Robbie?”

Chapter 2

“You call this a story?”

Editor Greg Dooley’s words bulleted through the phone line, a mixture of incredulity and anger. Matthew stifled a groan, pushing away from the table, wooden chair scraping over the laminate flooring of Jase and Izzy’s kitchen.

He’d known, even as he stayed up typing into the middle of the night, waiting for the sound of Jase’s car coming up the drive, his article couldn’t hope to live up to Dooley’s expectations.

And he had no one to blame but himself, letting Delia Jones get the best of him like he had. Besides, how was he supposed to write when all he’d been able to think about was Celine in the ER? I should’ve been there. They’d always had a special bond, he and his niece.

Instead, he’d spent the night playing baby-sitter for the neighbor kid his sister-in-law had been watching at the time of the accident. Jase dropped Matthew at the house before whisking off to the hospital to be with Izzy and Cee. While the neighbor kid slept, Matthew had slumped on the couch, worrying, plunking out an article he’d have been ashamed to show his high school journalism teacher.

“I don’t know what to say, Dooley.”

“We don’t even have a single photo of the announcement.”

Only a bird chirping outside the window interrupted the morning stillness of the house. The rest of the family still slept after their early-dawn return from the hospital, when Jase had carried in a bruised but otherwise okay Celine. Too beat to drive home, Matthew had crashed on the couch.

Now he moved aside his glass of orange juice and tortured himself with another look at the newspaper.Actress Announces Late-race Write-in Campaign. The blaring headline mocked him, and Jones’s byline under the lead article—front page, top of the fold—blew the last of his dignity to bits.

He had to admit, Delia Jones had done okay for herself since he’d gotten her fired from the Star Tribune.

Matthew’s stomach pinched. “I confess. I messed up. But I was so sure. I heard this rumor about Senator McKee, and I had to follow up on it. For the good of the magazine! I was only—”

“You were only playing Superman when all I ever asked for was Clark Kent.”

Matthew stilled in his chair, the force in Dooley’s voice blasting any attempt at argument. I really messed up this time.

He stood, carried his empty cereal bowl to the dishwasher. Sunlight so bright the kitchen’s white cupboards glowed against pale yellow walls splashed into the room from the window over the sink. A thunderstorm would’ve been a better match for his mood, complete with hail and howling winds and brooding clouds.

“You used to have a nose for news like no one I know, Knox. But you spent an entire week hounding Margaret McKee. You should’ve sensed this story long before the actual announcement.” Dooley’s sigh spoke frustration. “At the very least, you should’ve turned in a story that made everyone else’s look like bare bones. We should’ve read about who she had lunch with and how often she checks her e-mail and who painted her stinkin’ nails!”

Matthew caught his reflection in the window—stubble-shadowed face, wrinkled tee borrowed from Jase, circles around his eyes. He turned, reached for the pitcher of juice to return to the refrigerator. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . sorry.” Why did the apology fall so flat when honest-to-goodness regret clamored inside him?

“And I’m sorry I keep letting an old college friendship cloud my common sense. I tossed you the story because my best reporter went on maternity leave before McKee agreed to our interview and I know the freelancing thing hasn’t paid off for you lately—especially after . . . well, you know. But I guess you’re still the same old Knox.”

Matthew opened the fridge door with a heavy exhale, head dropping as Dooley’s words found their mark, his sore spot still bruised from five years ago . . . or maybe fifteen.

Yes, that’s right. It wasn’t enough that life—no, Dad—played him for a fool once. The first time tore apart their family. The second, his career.

And the consequences clawed at him still.

“You let your father’s past actions cloud your reporting.”

“The article had ‘conflict of interest’ written all over it.”

“You tried, convicted, and sentenced him in one headline. All because of what? His long-ago Houdini-dad act?”

As the cold of the refrigerator crept over his face, the voices from his past played one after another. Together they added up to one heaping reminder of just how far he’d fallen—from one-time Pulitzer finalist to local disgrace. Freelance writing for a national magazine that was barely a step up from a gossip rag.

“Still the same old Knox.”

“You still there, Knox?” Dooley’s voice, the humming light from the back of the fridge tugged him back to the present. One hand still gripping the door handle, he raised his head and heaved the door closed. As he did, his fingers brushed a crinkled piece of notebook paper stuck to the refrigerator with a Snoopy magnet. Two stick figures—the tall one holding a kite, the short one smiling. Underneath, scribbled in his niece’s nine-year-old scrawl, the words: Uncle Matt and Cee fly a kite.

Best thing his brother ever did, bringing Izzy, a single mother, and her daughter home from his teaching stint at Texas A&M. Celine was only five at the time, still recovering from her bout with meningitis.

Jase didn’t have to play at the Superman thing. He just plain lived a heroic life.

“Knox?”

He blinked, turning from the fridge. “LucyLu’s,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Her nails, Margaret got them done at this froufrou place in downtown St. Paul called LucyLu’s. She ate lunch at Periano’s yesterday, and as far as checking her e-mail, she looks at her iPhone at least once every five minutes.”

“Now you tell me.” Something close to amusement tinged Dooley’s words.

Matthew dropped back into his chair and flipped the newspaper over. Couldn’t look at Delia’s headline anymore. “Listen, don’t pay me for the article I turned in. I blew it, and I don’t blame you for being angry.”

The pause on the other end of the line stretched, the sound of Dooley tapping his keyboard coming through the line. And then, “Fine, I can’t believe I’m going to offer you this after you just blew the biggest scoop this side of Watergate—”

“Slight exaggeration, maybe?” Matthew cut in.

“You are in no position to mock my hyperbole. Listen, about six months ago, Lisa, my reporter who’s out on maternity leave now, came to me with an idea for a new story. Not a print article, mind you—at least not right away.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the tabletop. “Tell me more.”

“We proposed a serial blog on the Today website, pitched it to the subject’s manager over five months ago but never heard a thing. And then, a couple of days ago, he contacts me out of the blue, says they would like to make it happen. But it would require travel to North Carolina.”

Matthew reached for the Cheerios box. “A serial blog?” Like, a daily journal or log of activities? Okay, so it wasn’t Woodward and Bernstein material. And he’d promised himself when he accepted the Margaret McKee assignment it’d be his one and only foray into celebrity reporting. But if this interviewee was interesting . . . “Who’s the subject?” He chomped on a handful of cereal.

“Randi Woodruff.”

A Cheerio lodged in his throat, and he sputtered. “That woman from that home makeover show?” What was the show called? Izzy and Celine had a standing Sunday night date to watch it. Cee loved it so much she’d taken to saying she wanted to be an architect when she grew up. “You want me to interview a reality TV star?”

Dooley chuckled. “You say it like she’s one of those girls from The Bachelor. Not the same thing, Knox. From the Ground Up is a legit home-repair show. And she builds homes for low-income people, does all kinds of charity work on the side. She’s a do-gooder.”

“Right, a regular Mother Teresa.” Minus the habit, plus a tool belt. He’d caught the show a couple times and wondered if the perky star with the smoky eyes actually knew her stuff or if she was simply a pretty face playing This Old House.

“I can’t pay much, either,” Dooley went on. “But I can promise you readership. Though her show’s ratings haven’t been impressive lately, there’s been a burst of interest about Randi Woodruff herself. Lots of curiosity about the husband she always talks about—the one no one’s ever seen.”

Tabloid speculation at its best. And Dooley was asking him to join the silly fray. Not a chance. “Look, I appreciate the offer, especially considering last night and all. Generous of you, really. But I don’t think it’s my thing.” Definitely not the heavyweight material he needed to make his career comeback.

Matthew dropped his feet from the tabletop as Celine padded into the room, her hair mussed and a line of stitches over one eyebrow. He offered his niece a smile as she settled in the chair across from his, sleep still tugging at her features. He lifted his right hand to tap his chin, then his open left palm, and finally his elbow.

American Sign Language for Good morning.

With both index fingers, she signed, “Hang up.”

In a minute, he mouthed.

“This could be a big story,” Dooley continued. “Yes, we’ve got the blog thing to do, but I’m still hunting for January’s cover, if you catch my drift. So do what you do best: sniff. See if there are any skeletons in the closet. By the rumblings going around the entertainment media world, I think you might find some.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not an entertainment reporter. We all know that after the McKee fiasco. I think I’ll hold out for something a little more meaty.”

He felt the familiar attention of Celine’s eyes on his face as he spoke. She read lips like a master, her way of “listening” since the meningitis stole her hearing.

“That’s some pride you’ve got going, Knox. I know you’ve got Walter Cronkite aspirations, but even Walt had his fluff years.”

“I’ll consider it. All right?” About as seriously as he’d consider piercing his nose. But he owed Dooley at least a show of gratitude.

“Consider quickly. If I don’t hear from you by tonight, I’m moving on.”

They hung up and Matthew turned his full attention on Celine. “How do you feel today?” he said aloud, signing at the same time.

The look in her eyes was like a kick in the gut—hurt and a hint of lingering fear. His heart lurched for the hundredth time since last night. “Why didn’t you come?” she said, voice low and with her familiar blending of words. Because she’d been speaking long before losing her hearing, she still used her voice.

“To the hospital? I wanted to, but Jase asked me to stay here with your friend from next door.”

Celine slid out of her chair and rounded the table to stand in front of him. “You should’ve come.”

He latched gazes with her and nodded. “I know. And I’ll make it up to you.”

Hands to her hips, she stuck her bottom lip out in a playful pout. “How?”

Love for the kid feathered through him. Forget Dooley and a story in North Carolina. This is where he belonged.Here with family, and with his niece, the one person who never failed to see past his screw-ups.

x

This is where Miranda belonged. Tucked in a hidden nook in the Smokies, away from the hurried pace of television taping. From the crazy ideas of her crazy producer. From the humiliation.

She’d actually believed it was him. Someone ought to tattoo the word naïve on her forehead.

Miranda’s arm moved at rapid pace, prodding the sand­paper under her palm back and forth. The motion soothed, the scratching of the wood her lullaby. Long windows paneling her woodshop’s west wall invited in the colors of the sunset, spilling oranges and reds against the opposite wall. A buzzing light bulb dangling overhead provided the shop’s only other light.

At the tightening in her wrist, Miranda stilled. She moved from her kneeling position beside the antique chest of drawers to sit cross-legged, wood shavings and abandoned scraps of sandpaper blanketing the woodshop floor.

Up here, there was no probing into her privacy. No Robbie look-alikes, either. Last night’s embarrassing episode still harassed her—the way she’d fastened her gaze on the man strolling along the edge of the set. How she’d called out his name. The circus of thoughts crowding in . . .

It can’t be him . . . unless . . . he remembered the date! Unless Robbie, too, had woken up squeezed by the grip of unwelcome memories. It would’ve been our anniversary. Three years. We would’ve celebrated with a vacation. Or maybe they would’ve simply stayed home, enjoyed breakfast in bed, and then tackled a house project together. Working side by side the way they had when they first met.

Miranda blinked and pulled open the bottom chest drawer, resumed sanding its base. “Forget yesterday. Forget all of it.”

“That easy, huh?”

A screech exploded from her at the surprise sound of a male voice in her workshop, and in one fluid movement, she reached for her hammer and lurched to her feet.

“Easy there, Mighty Mouse.” Brad Walsh stumbled backward, knocking into her table saw, hands raised in surrender. “It’s just me.”

Miranda’s heart pounded as she lowered the hammer. “Sheesh, Walsh, what were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?” She leaned over, hands on her knees. “I think I’m having a heart attack. My arm hurts. Aspirin.”

“I read somewhere the pain-in-the-arm symptom doesn’t happen for women. So if your arm is hurting, it’s only ’cause of how furiously you were sanding. Like someone’s life depended on how smooth you got that drawer.”

She lifted her head. “Someone’s life is going to depend on how quickly he explains his presence in my shop.”

Brad folded his arms over his navy blue polo. “Two things: first, an apology.” He lowered onto a workbench, voice turning serious. “It didn’t hit me ’til I got home last night. The date, I mean. The anniversary. Things make a little more sense now.”

She dropped beside him on the bench. “You mean the way I lit into you yesterday?”

“I mean the way your eyes were devoid of anything close to happiness. Sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. I should’ve supported you instead of pushing your buttons.”

She released her hammer, and it clinked to the floor. “Wasn’t just the anniversary. There was the news about the show, Lincoln’s crazy plan, and the interview earlier in the day. They asked such personal questions.”

Brad patted her knee. “And the Robbie twin?”

She offered a shrug in place of an explanation. What must the crew think of her? When she’d seen the stranger on set during taping last night, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from propelling forward. In the time it had taken to reach the patio’s edge, the sky finally broke open in a blitz of pounding rain, moisture hammering Miranda’s face, running in rivulets down her cheeks. She’d sidestepped a camera, ignoring her director’s chiding and the sudden hustle of the crew. Had to know. Had to see the man’s face.

She’d said his name once more, approaching from behind, damp clothing clinging to her skin and sending shivers throughout her body. She’d raised an arm, tapped his shoulder.

He’d turned. And the chill darted into her heart.

Not him. Of course. It never was.

“I could’ve sworn it was him.” She shook her head as Brad stood and reached for her hands. “Guess I had Robbie on the brain.”

He tugged her up from the bench. “Could’ve happened to anybody. C’mon. There’s another reason I drove up tonight. I’ve got a surprise.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me you brought me a dog.” She nudged the dresser drawer closed with her foot.

“Say what?”

She yanked on the light bulb string and the light blinked off. “Every year for the past three years, when my anniversary-that-almost-was rolls around, you suggest I get a dog. And while I’d love one, I’m not home enough to be a good owner.”

Brad latched on to her arm, tugging her toward the shop door. “No dog, I promise.”

Outside, the fiery hues of the sky washed her mountain clearing in a blaze of color. The leaves on the trees circling her property were just starting to turn, green fading into the promise of a colorful autumn. The home she’d begun building nearly three and a half years ago, when she still wore Robbie’s ring and believed their love unbreakable, rose from the clearing—one half finished, livable; the other half nothing more than foundation and frame.

Fitting, really.

She stopped halfway to the house and blinked at the figure sitting on the front steps. “Liv? What are you doing here?” She turned to Brad, swatted at his arm. “And here I thought you brought me a sheepdog.”

Miranda’s best friend rose and gathered her into a hug. “Actually, he was leaning toward a mastiff. I talked him out of it.”

Brad’s nervous chuckle sounded from behind her. Liv released Miranda and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket, breath visible in the chill of the evening.

“So you’re the surprise,” Miranda said, stepping back.

“Half the surprise,” Brad corrected. “I’ve got awesome news. We’re going to celebrate.”

“Sounds good, but please tell me y’all brought sustenance. Pretty sure the only food in my kitchen is a box of Pop-Tarts and some beef jerky that’ll break your jaw.”

Brad moved to his car, ducked in, and then returned with two paper bags. “The woman can build a house but has the nutritional habits of a toddler,” he muttered, passing the women and climbing the porch.

“Can it, Walsh,” Liv called after him. She tucked an arm through Miranda’s. “We brought all the fixings for homemade pizza. And Brad didn’t notice, but I also stuck in a package of Peanut Butter M&M’s.”

“My hero.”

They entered the house, greeted by the sound of Brad already unloading groceries in the kitchen. Liv paused in the living room. “Hey, before we join Chef Walsh, you okay? You know, I’m still so mad at Robbie, I could rearrange his teeth.” Twin strawberry-blond braids framed Liv’s face, and feisty anger leaked from her voice.

Miranda burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? You have trouble slapping mosquitoes. And you’ve never even met Robbie.” Liv Hayes ran Miranda’s favorite charity, a shelter in Asheville for orphaned children with special needs. She’d befriended Miranda during her “dark days” after Robbie left, encouraged her to volunteer at the shelter as a healthy distraction.

“But seriously, how are you? Brad filled me in on your mother of all bad days yesterday on the way up. You could’ve called me, you know.”

Miranda’s gaze roamed the room as she considered Liv’s question. Overhead, thick redwood beams crisscrossed, and soft light gleamed from a hanging fixture. During the day, tall windows tugged in the colors of the outdoors, dramatizing the otherwise muted hues of Miranda’s furniture. A fireplace and mantel edged one wall, and an open stairway lined the other. The opposite side of the room opened into the dining room. Beyond that, a kitchen and the unfinished portion of the house—what would’ve been a master suite.

Instead, Miranda slept in the small bedroom at the end of the otherwise incomplete lofted second floor.

This was supposed to be her and Robbie’s dream house. After Robbie had woken up, she’d never quite had the heart to finish building.

“Yesterday was rough,” she confirmed as they continued to the kitchen. “But you and Brad are here now. And you brought M&M’s. Friendship and sugar—best therapy there is.”

They walked in on Brad dumping a packet of yeast into a bowl, Miranda’s ruffled apron tied around his waist. “Nice, Brad.” Liv giggled. “So how long are you going to make us wait for your big news? You getting married or something?”

“Very funny.” He wiped his hands on his apron and faced Miranda. “You, Miss Woodruff, have been nominated for the Giving Heart Award.”

Miranda froze. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t think so,” Liv countered. “This is Brad, remember. He can’t even tell knock-knock jokes.”

Brad draped a towel over the bowl of dough and set it aside. “Completely serious. The foundation is making the announcement next Wednesday. And if ever a celebrity deserved an award for her charitable contributions, it’s you, kid.”

Liv squealed and threw her arms around Miranda. “Ah, see, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. You’re so going to win! Didn’t Audrey Hepburn win the Giving Heart way back when?”

Brad chuckled. “You look shell-shocked, Rand.”

“I’m flummoxed.” A delayed grin finally spilled over her face. “Always wanted a reason to use that word.”

“And what better reason!” Liv declared. “Let’s get cracking on that celebratory pizza.”

Miranda pulled a cutting board from the cupboard as Liv lined up toppings—onion, green pepper, jar of olives, fresh mushrooms. The Giving Heart Award. Who would’ve thought? The award had snowballed into a high level of prestige in the past few years. How in the world had the host of a little sleeper of a homebuilding show made the list of nominees? Especially one in danger of cancellation?

“You remember the prize is $100,000 to your favorite charity, right?” Brad asked as he kneaded the pizza dough.

“How awesome would it be to give that to Open Arms?”

Liv flipped the oven to preheat. “Very. We’re in need of roof repairs.”

“Oh, I could help you with that, silly. I’ll get a few guys from the crew and—”

“Girls, at the moment, I’m the one who needs help.” Brad lifted his hands, dough clinging to his fingers. “This is too sticky.”

“You need more flour. Here, let me.” Miranda relinquished her knife to Liv. “Brad, this is good news for the show, right? The network’s not going to axe a show whose host is up for the Giving Heart. Maybe I can even talk Lincoln into dropping the husband thing.” Hope slid in as she worked her fingers into the dough.

“That’s not exactly the case,” Brad said over the sound of running water. He rubbed his hands together. “Lincoln’s the one who was notified about the nomination. He called me. He thinks this is more reason than ever to come up with a husband to parade in front of the press.”

“He’s crazy!” Exasperation pushed Miranda’s words out in a huff. “I can’t conjure up a husband from thin air.” She pounded a fist into the dough, knuckles connecting with the bottom of the mixing bowl. “I won’t do it.”

“Linc thinks viewers, and the foundation board, need to see your softer side—and that we need to quell the rumors that your mystery husband doesn’t exist. After all, if you win, you’ll be more popular than ever. Which means curiosity will rise to new levels. Either way, in his eyes, the husband scheme is how we’ll save the show.” He took a breath. “Which is what you want to do, right?”

Her fingers curled around the dough. He knew she did. Because somehow saving the show meant saving herself, her identity. Without From the Ground Up, who was Miranda Woodruff, anyway? Nothing but a jilted, practically family-less woodworker with half a house in the mountains. “Of course I do,” she said in a whisper.

“Then the husband reveal could give you just the push you need.”

Sure, right over a cliff.

Oh, how she wished, for the thousandth time, she’d never brought up Robbie’s name back when she auditioned for the show. Wished she hadn’t mentioned her post-college years in Brazil, hadn’t told the panel of execs about constructing homes in Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s urbanized slums. About the schools they’d built in rural communities. About the mission team leader, Roberto “Robbie” Pontero, who had pulled from her an architectural creativity—and a passion—she hadn’t known she possessed.

“And who is this Robbie?”

She’d blinked when the executive asked the question during the audition. The words had slipped out of their own accord: “My husband.”

Such a stupid lie, prompted solely by the guilt she’d felt at going against the convictions her grandparents had tried so hard to instill in her—living with a man she wasn’t married to. And once the lie was out there, it stuck. Because the panel latched on immediately to the novelty of her foreign romance. She hadn’t known the story would become such a part of the show, had told herself it was a harmless fib since she planned to marry within months anyway.

What was it Grandma Woodruff used to say? “Best way to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.”

Only in Miranda’s case, God probably wasn’t laughing. Not when she’d made such a mess of things. Maybe it would’ve been better if she’d never auditioned in the first place, never beat out that other girl—Hollie Somebody—for the hosting spot.

“Let her be, Walsh,” Liv piped up, edging into Miranda’s wandering memories. “We came to have fun tonight, didn’t we?”

Miranda lumped the dough into a rounded ball. “Liv’s right. I’m starving. I’ll think about the show and Lincoln and Robbie . . . tomorrow.” Limp smirk. “At Tara.”

“All right, Scarlett O’Hara. So you got any soda in the fridge?”

Brad nudged her arm as Liv crossed the kitchen. “Just consider it,” he said gently. “Remember when one of the biggest show sponsors dropped out and you took charge and found an even bigger one? Remember how you fought the network execs so you could build in poorer areas of the country? Be that Randi Woodruff again. You’ve invested too much in this show to let it sink.”

If only Robbie had thought the same about their relationship, she might not be in this situation.

But as Brad’s words pricked her insides, a new ribbon of energy needled through Miranda. He was right. She’d spent far too long in the clutches of the past, determination lost to a pelting ache.

No more. The show needed a savior. And she needed the show. It was time to make a power play.

And unlike Robbie, she played for keeps.

x

Matthew swung his right arm back and then forward, fingers releasing the bowling ball into a thud and roll. The embarrassingly pink ball took its sweet time covering the distance of the lane. One measly pin down.

Par for the course these days. Wrong sport, but still. At least Izzy and Jase weren’t there yet.

“You’re really bad at this, Uncle Matt.” His niece peered up at him from innocent blue eyes.

“It’s the ball, Cee. If you would’ve let me use the red one like I wanted—”

“No,” she cut in, pigtails swinging as she shook her head, hands signing along with her spoken words. “You’re no good.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’ve got incredible tact?” He ruffled Celine’s bangs and reached for his ball when it spit out of the machine track.

“I don’t know what tact is.”

“My point exactly.”

The smell of grease from the snack bar in the corner permeated the bowling alley. Neon lights rimmed the walls, and music thrummed through the speakers overhead. Too bad he hadn’t been able to talk Cee into the aquarium instead. But she had insisted on bowling. And uncles were supposed to give in.

Just like journalists were supposed to write.

Sure, but did kitschy celebrity pieces even count? Throughout the day, he’d given Dooley’s assignment offer its obligatory consideration, but he kept coming back to the same conclusion: too humiliating. Did blogging even count as journalism?

Matthew approached the lane, released his ball again, and for a moment things looked good. Straight down the middle until a last-minute curve sent it into the gutter.

“Like I said, you’re really bad.” This time giggles punctuated Celine’s words.

Though Celine’s eyes were on his face, he signed as he spoke. “Just you wait, Cee. When we get home we’re playing Candy Land, and I’m gonna whomp you.” Maybe no one would pay attention to the electronic scoreboard announcing his lack of skills.

“Matthew!” Izzy’s call rose over the clutter of voices and falling pins in the bowling alley.

He handed Celine her purple ball, signed “Your mom’s here,” and then turned. His sister-in-law bounced toward him, blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, bowling shoes slung over her shoulder by the laces.

“Where’s Jase?” he asked as Izzy reached them.

“Doing some after-hours work at the gallery. Besides, things were decidedly cool between the two of you before you left this morning. Care to explain? Jase sure didn’t.”

Matthew turned to Celine, evading Izzy’s question. “Need help, Cee?”

“I think not.” Her latest phrase of choice. She sashayed up to the lane, bowling shoes tapping against the wood floor. She threw a near-perfect roll. Nine pins.

“Getting beat by my daughter,” Izzy said from behind him. “Wow.”

“Just having an off night.”

Izzy plopped onto the bench behind the ball track while Celine lined up for her second throw. “So tell me, why are you hanging out with Cee instead of on a date? It’s Saturday night.”

He cast her a glare, then sat beside her. “Know what I love about you, Iz? Your kind respect for boundaries and privacy.”

“What kind of sister-in-law would I be if I didn’t pry?”

Celine hit her last pin and jumped up, clapping her hands. Matthew waited until she turned, eyes on him, to lift and twist his own hands in silent applause.

Izzy leaned in. “You’re a good uncle, Matthew. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“And I’m lucky Jase brought you two cowgirls back from Texas.”

Izzy chuckled. “Yeah, I’m still a little mad about that during the fifth or sixth blizzard each Minnesota winter.”

And then Celine stood in front of them, hands moving as she signed. “I’m hungry. You said we’d get pizza.”

He nodded. “Right. Can you order for us, Iz? We’ve got one frame left each. We’ll meet you over at the tables. Or did you want to play?”

Izzy shook her head. “Nah, I only paid for the shoes so they’d let me on the floor.”

He glanced down at Celine as Izzy walked off. “Maybe I’ll get a strike this time.”

“I think not,” she repeated.

She thought right. Another gutter ball. “Don’t you dare laugh, Cee.”

Minutes later their game ended. He didn’t even bother looking at the score as they left the floor to join Izzy. “Man, the guy behind the counter just told me to go back to the ranch,” Izzy drawled as they sat, drumming her nails on the tabletop.

Matthew eyed her Cowboys jersey. “I’ve been telling you for years, you’re in purple-and-gold territory. Flashing your Dallas duds ain’t the best way to make friends up here.” Matthew dropped a straw in Celine’s glass and handed her a napkin, making sure her eyes were on his lips before speaking. “Pizza for the big winner, as requested.”

“Maybe you should take bowling lessons, Uncle Matt. Then you wouldn’t lose so bad.” Izzy snorted at that, and Matthew tossed his straw wrapper at her.

He dished up a cheesy slice for Celine, then plopped a slice on his plate. “Pepperoni and mushroom, my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Celine added.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, kiddo,” Izzy instructed before biting into her own slice. “So did you two have a good afternoon?”

Matthew studied Celine while she chattered about the day they’d spent at the park. Bangs hid the stitches over her eye, and with no visible bruises, no one would know she’d been in an accident the night before. Izzy told him earlier today the man who clipped Celine’s bike had honked before making his turn. Of course, she hadn’t heard.

Could’ve been so much worse.

“Iz,” he blurted suddenly, swallowing a bite of pizza. “Have you scheduled the surgery yet?”

Jase and Izzy had been talking about cochlear implants for six months now. Because of the circumstances of Celine’s hearing loss, she was a perfect candidate for the surgery, which could help her regain at least a degree of hearing. And after yesterday . . .

Izzy met his eyes over the rim of her soda glass. She lowered the glass to the table. “Cee, you want another piece of pizza? Or are you ready for a couple arcade games?”

Celine practically jumped out of the booth. “Games. But save me a piece.”

Matthew dug into his pocket for a handful of change and passed it off to Celine. “Win me a teddy bear, all right?”

“You’re too old for stuffed animals,” Celine said before trouncing away.

Matthew turned to Izzy, forked in another bite. “What’s up? Why’d you send Cee off?”

Izzy dropped a pizza crust onto her plate and pushed her plate away. “The surgery. It’s not happening anymore. At least not anytime soon.”

Matthew paused mid-chew. Not happening? But if it could help, if it meant Celine could hear honking cars . . . bowling pins knocking down . . . “Why? I thought you were only waiting for the insurance company.”

Melancholy played over Izzy’s face. “We got a letter from the company yesterday. They’re declining coverage.”

“That’s ridiculous. The doctor said insurance usually covers cochlear implants.”

“Usually was the operative word, I guess. And with things so bad at the gallery and my hours cut at the school, we don’t have the money.”

Matthew lowered his arm from the back of the booth, tense with disbelief. “Does Cee know?” Just the thought ripped at his heart.

Izzy shook her head. “Not yet. We’re trying to believe for the best. Maybe if we save for a couple years, if things turn around . . . And the social worker at the hospital said we could file an appeal to the insurance company.”

“But if you wait too long, isn’t there a chance the surgery won’t do as much good?”

Izzy pushed her empty glass to the middle of the table. “We’re trusting God. It’s all we can do at this point.”

No, not good enough. And it wasn’t all hecould do. Resolve expanded inside him as cheers erupted from a nearby lane. “I have some savings, Iz. Not a lot, but it could help.” And if nothing else, he’d downsize from his townhouse to a smaller apartment. Lower rent meant more money to push their way.

The dejection in Izzy’s eyes softened into gratitude. “Not gonna happen, Matt. Jase would never—”

“Do you have any idea how many times Jase has been there for me over the years? It’s about time I did something for him.”

“What I really wish you’d do is take that story assignment in North Carolina. Go meet Randi Woodruff. Do you know how many people would kill for a chance like that? Have some fun.” Her expression intensified. “Be an example to Celine of someone who doesn’t give up just because they’ve hit a rough patch.”

Izzy paused, then picked up her fork. “Besides, if Celine finds out you had the chance to interview her hero and didn’t take it, she’d never forgive you. Have you seen the From the Ground Up poster she has in her bedroom? The tool set she insisted we buy her for her birthday?”

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 1

Asheville, North Carolina

On any other day of the year, in the lull of routine, she could almost forget the lie she lived. But today’s would-be anniversary made forgetting about as easy as building a house from cotton sheets.

Miranda Woodruff hooked a thumb under her tool belt and stepped onto the outdoor set, squinting against the familiar glint of studio lights. The light crew usually played off the sun when taping outside, but this evening’s canopy of low-lying clouds dimmed the valley already hazed over by the smoky cover of the Appalachians.

Mission: Smile. Access her inner Colgate commercial and convince everybody she meant it. Forget the date on the calendar, and while she was at it, pretend this afternoon’s lousy interview never happened. Hey, if anybody could fake it—

“Randi! Where’ve you been?” Across the set, Whitney’s heels clicked over the bluestone patio. How did her assistant walk in those stilts? Especially with a tangle of cords and wiring webbing the set.

Miranda skirted around a camera to meet Whitney, pasting on a grin about as plastic as the lighted Ficus trees hedging the patio. Only one more sequence to shoot, and then they could call this week’s taping of her show, From the Ground Up, a wrap.

Whitney reached her, disapproval tugging her face into a frown. “What’s with the cookie crumbs all over your shirt, girl?”

Busted. “Got a secret stash of Chips Ahoy! in the truck.” Along with enough Coca-Cola to de-corrode a few car batteries. The stuff of emotional self-medication.

“Let’s see, we’ve covered your season finale, plans for next season. Now I’d like to get personal for a moment.” Hours later, that reporter’s nasally voice still played on repeat—accompanied by a feeling so achingly routine it barely stung.

Fine, not true. A dozen raging wasps couldn’t do to her what today’s interview did.

“What do you have to say regarding the rumors about your marriage?” Miranda’s shoulders stiffened all over again at the memory of the reporter’s averted eyes as she posed the question—the subtle-as-a-foghorn interest edging her words, the disappointment when Miranda’s underwhelming answer fell flat. “I’m sorry. I don’t talk about my personal life to the media.”

“You know everybody’s curious about where you disappeared to today.” Whitney brushed the crumbs off Miranda’s white V-neck tee.

And probably annoyed, too, since her last-minute appointment with the magazine journalist meant taping would run late tonight. “One of those spur-of-the-moment interviews. Brad coerced me.”

“We need this, Rand.” Why the worry in her manager’s voice as they’d spoken over the phone? Surely after their third season finale her homebuilding television show had finally hit its prime. “Is the crew mad?”

Whitney stepped back, glance darting from Miranda’s boots and denim up to her signature tee. “Not mad. A tad irked, maybe. No one likes to stay late. Might’ve helped if you’d hit the catering table with everyone else. You always eat with the gang.”

Except on October 4. But none of the studio bunch knew the gut-punching significance of the date. And she’d just as soon keep it that way. Otherwise there’d be no holding it together through tonight’s taping. “Needed a little quiet. That’s all.”

“Well, let’s hope the break has you in top form so we can close this in one take. That dark sky won’t hold out forever.” A spotlight snapped on as the set hummed into post-break activity. Whitney pulled a tube from her pocket. “Now, pucker up.”

“Right, because a girl can’t build a house without lipstick.”

“Correction: lip gloss. Now get out there and do the Home Depot thing.”

As Whitney pranced away, Miranda turned her eyes to the green ridges peeking through dusk’s fog. Those paunchy clouds did promise rain, and soon. They just needed to get through this taping. . . . Correction: she needed to.

And she would. Always did—on all four October 4ths since he left.

Robbie.

But she couldn’t let her mind wander there—to Robbie, the anniversary. She needed to ditch thoughts of that prickly interview, too.C’mon, think favorite things. Real Sound of Music–like. Bubble baths. Bonfires. Ooh, or how about the new Powermatic 2000 3HP table saw? Now, there was something to put a little spring in a girl’s step.

“Oh, please tell me that grin means what I think it means.”

Her focus slid to the right. Brad Walsh. Yup, there he stood in all his hair-gelled, leather-shoed, this-century’s-William-Holden glory.

“And what do you think it means?” And why in the world did her manager have to pick today of all days to visit the set?

“That you’re happy to see me,” Brad said, sweeping his arms wide. “That you realize, after years of my devotion, you’re finally ready to make the move from client to dinner date.” He honed in on her mouth.

Don’t even think about it, Walsh.

“Kid, you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.”

She brushed a finger over her front teeth. “Uh-uh, lip gloss. And thanks. But no dice on the dinner date. We’ve had this chat a thousand times.”

Brad rolled his chocolate-brown eyes. “I know . . . I’m city, you’re country. Hogwash.”

Despite the blues she’d lugged around all day, giggles pushed out now. “Hogwash? Is that your way of trying to fit in down here in backwoods-ville? Nice attempt, but you need a debutante, an urbanite. Maybe a ballerina. I’m too . . . flannel and scrambled eggs.” Seriously. He should see her at breakfast.

She stepped away from Brad, nodded at the head cameraman as he settled in his perch at the Panasonic, and found her own spot behind a granite-top island.

“You’re hardly a lumberjack, Rand.” Brad moved beside her. “You’re television’s tomboy darling. So said TV Guide last week.”

She surveyed her props for the closing how-to segment: pitcher of water, steam iron, oak slab. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“Lincoln called, said we needed to talk.”

Sure enough, the show’s producer strode across the set now. He stopped, exchanged words with the director, and then angled for Miranda and Brad.

“He looks intense,” Miranda said.

“Always does.”

Lincoln reached them, held out a hand to Brad. “Good to see you, Walsh. Randi, I need a few minutes with the two of you.”

Oh, please don’t let it be bad news. Anything else today and she’d need a bucket of ice cream to go with the rest of her cookies. “Should we sit?” She gestured to the rattan furniture positioned on one side of the porch set.

Lincoln leaned against the island counter. “Actually, let’s make this a standing meeting. I’ve got to run in a sec. Here’s the thing: I’ve got good news.”

Miranda tasted relief, syrupy sweet.

“And some bad.”

Good-bye, Aunt Jemima. “I vote for the bad first.”

Lincoln folded his arms over his black sweater, which matched his wide-rimmed glasses. “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight: Season four of From the Ground Upis on shaky ground.”

Was it just her, or were those heavy clouds sagging even lower in the sky? “Well, we knew the network was looking at fiddling with our time slot, right?”

Lincoln was shaking his head before she even finished. “I’m not talking a time-slot switch up. We may be on the chopping block.”

Which explained the ripples of anxiety in her manager’s voice when he’d called about the interview. Brad must have sensed this coming. “Doesn’t compute,” he said now. “The show’s done well for three seasons. Randi’s as popular with viewers as ever.”

“And we’re half done filming season four,” Miranda added.

“I know it’s unpleasant to hear, but if you look at last season’s ratings and future projections, it’s not entirely unbelievable. But nothing’s certain. We have time to make our case to the network before they settle on the spring lineup. Which brings me to the good news.”

Lincoln straightened his glasses and leaned forward. “I’ve had the best publicity brainstorm of my life. I have a plan to save the show and up your celebrity status by the zillions, Randi, dear.”

Why did that sound more foreboding than hope inspiring? “Whatcha gonna do? Parade me in front of every grocery-aisle tabloid?”

Lincoln’s smug smile stretched his cheeks. “Not just you.”

Brad’s sharp intake of breath signaled his realization. She met his eyes, read his “stay calm” expression. What had he just figured out that she hadn’t? “Who else?” A niggle of alarm slipped under her skin.

“Drum roll, please. . . . Your husband.” Lincoln’s words rushed like the breeze now rolling into a steady mountain wind. “You know, the unseen character on your show. The one who taught you all you know.”

Oh. Oh no. Disbelief crowded out the elation of only seconds earlier. He couldn’t be serious. Lincoln Nash didn’t know what he was asking.

Except that he did. And somehow that made it worse. Miranda hugged her arms to her body. “That’s impossible. You know I’m not . . . never was.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “You know Robbie left before the wedding.” The one that would’ve happened three years ago today.

“What I know is you talk about him in every show.”

“Because of you, the audition, the pilot. Because while we taped the first season, I naïvely believed I’d be married by the time it aired. Because my contract stipulates . . .” And then there was the little matter of her guilt. She shot Brad a pleading look, swallowing sour desperation. Say something!

But Lincoln spoke first. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the fan websites, tabloid headlines—‘Who is Randi Woodruff’s mystery man?’ Not naming the guy was the best decision we ever made. Especially since, well . . .”

He didn’t have to finish. They hadn’t named her husband because the man who should have filled the role had ducked out early. She’d shielded that truth from her fans, even most of the crew, citing her desire for privacy. Up until now it had worked.

“Anyway,” Lincoln went on, “you finally give people the peek they want, and you’ll save your show. Be sure of it.”

“The only thing I’m sure of is”—pain latched itself to her shell-shocked words—“I don’t have a husband.” She felt Brad’s palm on her arm, the chill of the coming storm.

Lincoln only shrugged. “So we get you one.” He checked his watch. “Gotta run. We’ll chat more.”

And before she could hurl even one of the arguments clogging her throat, Lincoln was off.

“He’s dead serious, isn’t he.” She slumped against the island counter.

“Like Colonel Sanders in a chicken coop.” Brad’s eyes were pinned on Lincoln’s retreating form.

“And I’m the chick with her head on the chopping block.” As Brad placed his arm around her shoulder, grumbling clouds drew her gaze. And suddenly all she wanted was escape. She itched for the comfort of the mountains, her workshop. The heady smell of sawdust, the feel of wood underneath her fingers, glass-smooth and waiting for her magic. Home.

Where her lies couldn’t find her.

Well, apparently, until today.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“This is officially the stupidest thing you’ve ever talked me into.”

The click of Matthew Knox’s shoes echoed on the heels of his brother’s hissed words, the empty, dark hallway stretching before him like a cave. Only a slit of light beckoned from under the closed door at the end of the corridor. On the other side of that door, a journalist’s treasure trove.

For real—he’d hit the jackpot this time. Political favors, special-interest pandering. The evidence was at his fingertips. As long as he didn’t get stuck with one leg into this gaping window of opportunity.

Matthew paused. This was the direction he’d seen the former politician walking, right?

Behind him, his brother heaved a sigh. “Dude, did you even hear me? I’m talking epic proportions of stupid.”

So his older brother didn’t approve. So what was new? “Voice down, camera ready. Is that so much to ask?” The story hovered so close, he could feel it. Surely it completely justified breaking into the zoo’s administration building.

No, not breaking in. After all, he and Jase hadn’t busted any locks or climbed any fences. They’d only followed ex-Senator McKee in. From a safe distance. When no one was looking.

“What about Margaret McKee?” Jase whisper-shouted. “She’s the celebrity. Your article’s supposed to be about her. You asked me to come to take pictures of her and the glamour crowd. Instead we’re sneaking around an empty building while she’s out dazzling the masses. You know Delia Jones is out there, too, right?”

“’Course I do. And Jones is going to throw up when she realizes she spent the night buddying up to the senator’s daughter when the senator himself was playing dirty politics right under her nose.”

Yes, it was a departure from his assignment—to write a feature on recent acting phenom Margaret McKee, daughter of the former senator—but surely the editor of Today would forgive him. And, oh, how spicy the taste of victory when he beat Jones to the story.

It was his nemesis, Delia Jones herself, who’d let it slip that the real news of tonight’s gala at the zoo was the former senator’s plans. “Rumor is McKee’s stepping back into the political boxing ring with a little prompting from Shawn Keegan.”

Keegan was not only the zoo administrator but also an investor with fingers in no less than a dozen corporations and foundations in the Twin Cities . . . and whose underground influence in politics was the stuff of electoral legends. It would make sense the man would want a friend in the State Senate.

And while a local political scoop wouldn’t normally be of much interest to a national magazine like Today,surelythe fact that the ex-senator happened to be the father of celebrity up-and-comer Margaret McKee would help Matthew’s case.

Finally a hard news break. Good-bye fluffy human-interest pieces, hello nitty-gritty reporting.

“Come on, Jase, this is my chance. Besides, you should be thanking me. With business slow at the gallery, I’d think you’d appreciate picking up a photo sale to Today.” Anyway, he hadn’t asked Jase to join him for this extracurricular portion of the evening. Jase could’ve stayed outside with the rest of the Twin Cities’ fancy-schmancy types.

He just wants to make sure I don’t get into trouble. And considering Matthew’s recent history of botched freelance gigs, could he blame him? Still. “Don’t mess this up for me, Jase.”

Jase sighed. “You’re that convinced?”

Matthew squinted in the dark. “Would I have rented a tux, endured this whole hoity-toity fund-raiser, if I wasn’t?” He raked his fingers through his short brown hair. He’d sacrificed his shaggy look in favor of a close cut for tonight’s gala, had even gotten reacquainted with his razor—no hint of his usual five-o’clock shadow. Anything for the story.

And the good senator’s daughter seemed to like the change, too. Two days ago, during their initial interview, Margaret McKee had been about as attentive as a narcoleptic. Tonight she’d hovered at his side, claiming his arm at every dance.

Too bad he was out to dig up her father’s wrongdoing. Rumors of the senator’s up-for-grabs votes—for the right price, of course—had dogged McKee throughout his two terms. Now he was meeting behind closed doors with one of the state’s biggest financial tycoons. Oh yeah, there was a story here.

Jase switched his camera bag from one shoulder to the other. “You better be right. How many times have we gotten into scrapes over your hunches? Oh, right, not hunches. Journalistic instinct. I’m just surprised your ‘instinct’ hasn’t landed us in jail.”

“Yet.” Matthew grinned and continued down the hallway.

“That’s not funny.” Jase shuffled behind him. “You can James Bond it all you want, but I’ve got a wife and daughter.”

Matthew only waved Jase on. The faint strains of the orchestra’s music glided in from where the city’s movers and shakers mingled over hors d’oeuvres and champagne. He reached into his coat pocket, clasped his digital recorder.

“What if you’re wrong?” Jase’s whisper filled the silence.

Polite of Jase not to tack on the obvious: Wouldn’t be the first time. “Then we shrug and say we got lost looking for the restroom.”

“You always do this, Matt.”

Seriously, did Jase have to be so talkative tonight? He clearly didn’t get covert. “Do what?”

“Dig for something that’s not there. What happened to my trusting kid brother?”

Disappeared the same night Dad did. Matthew sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m not wrong this time. I saw the senator and Keegan sneak off. Considering what Delia told me—”

“And that’s another thing. Why, of all people, would she tip you off?”

Fine, so that question had poked at Matthew all night, too. The woman despised him. “Maybe she didn’t realize what she was giving me, or maybe she’s finally forgiven me.”

He could practically hear Jase’s eyes roll. Right. Not likely. But Delia’s reasons didn’t matter right now. He stopped outside the office door. Recorder on. Hands sweaty.

“Now what?” Jase whispered.

“Um, truthfully? I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He fingered his collar, loosened the strangling bow tie.

“Perfect. What do you think we’re going to find, anyway? Two men smoking cigars, inking a contract with the mafia?”

“Jase, I just need you to trust me.” Even as the words left his lips, he gulped for their return.

“Son, I just need you to trust me.”

Trust. Yeah. Right.

A laugh boomed from the other side of the door. Matthew pushed his ear to the wood. The senator’s muffled voice leaked from the room, words tinged with reluctance. “I don’t know about this. But a deal is a deal, I suppose. Perhaps it is best I lay low.”

“The things we do in the name of elections, eh?” This from Keegan.

Matthew held his breath. Keep talking, Senator.

“You think there’s really a shot with a write-in campaign this late in the game?” Keegan.

Ah, there it was. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Jase,” he spoke in a hush. “We wait here until they leave. Soon as they open the door, you snap a photo.”

Jase grunted. “Nothing doing. They’ll call Security and have us arrested.”

“So what do you suggest? Busting in on them?”

“Hey, you’re the captain. Lead away. For the record, I still think this is—”

“I know, I know. The stupidest thing we’ve ever done.” But it was possibly the best career move of his life. If he could only land something concrete. Allegations alone did not an ethical article make.

Like trespassing and eavesdropping are ethical?

“All right. New plan.” He lifted a fist, knocked.

The voices on the other side of the door silenced. Another knock, and the door swung open. Matthew grinned as the ex-senator’s burly form filled the doorframe. He had a few inches on Matthew’s six feet three, and his shoulders suggested a past career in the NFL rather than the statehouse.

“Uh, if you’re looking for the restrooms—” McKee began.

“Actually, no. The name’s Matthew Knox, and I’m here to talk to you and Mr. Keegan.”

“Party’s outside,” Keegan called from inside the room.

“Yes, but—”

“And you’re trespassing,” the zoo administrator finished.

Matthew would have pushed past McKee if the man didn’t look poised for a takedown. Instead, grasping at confidence, he folded his arms. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I know you’ve got an announcement to make soon, maybe even tonight. I know you’re planning a late entry into the election, and I can write an article hinting at your plans and thus fizzle your big PR splash, or you can let me in on it. What do you say?”

The senator raised an eyebrow as Keegan joined him in the doorway. Jase coughed.

“So you’re paparazzi, are ya?” Keegan’s eyes pressed into slits.

“We’re not paparazzi!” Matthew blurted. “Are you kidding?”

“Dude, I don’t think you’re the one who should be offended here,” Jase muttered.

“I promise, you won’t be sorry,” Matthew gushed. “Just talk to me.” Way too close to begging. Why did his voice sound so tinny? And why were both McKee and Keegan smiling all eerie-like? Not good.

McKee chuckled. “Oh, I know I won’t be sorry, son.”

Matthew angled to see Jase swiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

“You see,” McKee continued. “That big announcement you’re talking about . . .” He lifted his hand, checked the watch on his wrist. “I’m guessing it’s going down right now. And you, my friend, are missing it all.”

“So you’re not . . .” And just like that, it made sense. Delia’s divulging what she knew about McKee’s plans. No, what she’d concocted. She’d planted the idea in his head knowing he’d bite, knowing he’d go and do something stupid. And now she was out there with the real story while he faced the fiery amusement in McKee’s eyes.

“We should go, Matt,” Jase urged.

“Yes, do.” Keegan poked a finger at Matthew’s chest. “’Else I’ll arrange for an escort.”

Matthew whirled on his heels after Jase, the back of his neck burning with heat. Jase stalked ahead, spine rigid.

“I can’t believe you!” Jase called over his shoulder as they burst outside. “We could’ve been arrested.”

Strings of light decorated the zoo’s courtyard, enveloped in late-summer warmth. A server walked past with a tray, trailed by the scent of shrimp. Maybe whatever announcement McKee had alluded to hadn’t happened yet. Maybe Matthew hadn’t missed it.

Maybe he hadn’t royally screwed up just yet. Again.

He scanned the crowd for Delia.

“I’ll never be able to bring Celine to the zoo,” Jase said, stopping, yanking on Matthew’s arm.

“There are other zoos—”

“You just couldn’t let it go, like always. You’re wasting your talents.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“It’s because of Dad and that article, isn’t it? You’re trying to prove something.”

Music, dancing, it all faded as dark hurt snaked through him. “Don’t go there, Jase.”

His brother trapped him in an angry stare until the blare of his cell phone broke the moment. Jase exhaled and pushed past Matthew, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Matthew turned, gaze falling to the ground, where his shoes glowed against overhead lights. Alone in a glitzy crowd. Frozen by humiliation.

And the truth of his brother’s razored words.

“Matthew?”

And the hits just kept on coming. Not Margaret. Not now, with that pouncing smile.

“Matthew Knox, you missed my announcement.” She slithered an arm through his elbow.

And there was Delia. Watching from the crowd, grinning as if she’d nabbed a trophy. Ever the rival, ever a step ahead. The realization thudded through Matthew.

“You mean you’re the write-in candidate?”

Margaret’s confirming nod jabbed the final stake in this failure of a night. “I purposely waited until my father disappeared for a few minutes. I want people to vote for me as me, not just as ‘the senator’s daughter.’ People think I’m only into the acting scene, but I’ve always intended to make a difference in a bigger way. And since I’m convinced our current pool of candidates don’t cut it, I decided to jump in.”

And Today could’ve had the story ahead of everyone if he hadn’t ignored his assignment. Done for. So completely done for.

A yank on his arm jerked his attention from Margaret.

“Whoa, bro, what’s the hurry?”

“It’s Celine. She’s in the hospital. Bike accident.” Jase shoved his camera bag at Matthew, his cell phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear. “Honey, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

And in the time it took Jase to clamp his phone shut, all thought of Margaret McKee and his repeat failure fled. In its place, the kind of pulsing dread he hadn’t felt since . . .

Since the day everything fell apart.

x

“Listen, we’ll figure this out. I’ll talk to Lincoln.”

Miranda pulled away from Brad’s hold. No amount of her manager’s optimism could erase the suffocating truth: When Lincoln Nash made his mind up, he was as immovable as the Smokies.

“I don’t have a husband.”

“So we get you one.”

Like men waited in droves to stake a claim on a woman more comfortable in Levi’s than lipstick. Catching her director’s impatient glare—right, there was still tonight’s taping to finish—she moved into place behind an oak two-by-four balanced over two sawhorses. “Tell Lincoln husbands—pretend or otherwise—don’t grow on trees.” And that even if they did, it was just too easy for a restless wind to blow them
away.

Brad’s chuckle defied her morose words. “You know, if you think about it, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

The sounds of the set crew filled the air—voices, footsteps on the patio, cameras rolling into place. “It’s a horrible idea. It’s bad enough I’ve gone along with a lie for three seasons straight, all because it supposedly cutes me up.” But she had to admit it had worked. She’d protected her privacy, holed away in the mountains, drew a strict line between her public persona and personal life. “Now you want me to bring the lie home by playing house with a pretend husband? And what about Robbie? He’s out there somewhere and—”

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried if you do this, Robbie will catch wind of it, maybe think you’re really married, and never come back.”

With her back to Brad, she ran a hand over the oak slab. Smooth and unmarred, perfection. But why hadn’t someone from props dented the wood already? The whole point of this episode’s how-to was to highlight her repair techniques. Couldn’t do that with a pristine piece of lumber.

Brad stepped closer, spoke over her shoulder. “Robbie’s still got a clutch on you.”

She pulled out her hammer, poised to do the job herself. “Don’t start. Not today.”

“Three years and an ocean. And you’re still holding on.”

Grip tight around the hammer, she faced him. Overhead, cumulus clouds rolled and growled. “Stop. Don’t you dare come here and Dr. Phil me. You’re not my therapist. You’re not my friend. So just . . .” She whirled, raised her arm with hammer held high, and pounded into wood, a lightning-like crack echoing over the set. The slab rattled and stilled.

“Rand.” Brad’s clipped word punctured the now-quiet set as a wave of mountain air scraped over her cheeks.

She couldn’t look at him. Not her friend? What was she thinking? He’d found her a wallowing mess three years ago on her bathroom floor. He’d answered every single middle-of-the-night call those first few months. He might be her manager now, but they’d been college pals first. And if he wasn’t her friend—being one of the few who knew . . . all of it—then who was?

She ran a hand through her curls and turned on her heels, hammer swinging. “Brad—” And hit a wall. A soft, growling wall. And what was that warm . . . ? Oh, swell. Coffee, hot and oh-so-brown against the white of her shirt.

“Good evening to you, too, Randi,” Tom Bass, the show’s director, spoke in monotone.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “And sorry for the holdup.” She peered around Tom to see Brad’s retreating form. I didn’t mean it, Brad. It was just this brutal day.

Eyes back to Tom, her gaze traveled from his gray whiskers to his dusty and now coffee-covered jeans. “I, uh, had an accident with the wood.”

He folded his arms. “I see that. It’s cracked.”

Possibly along with her mental health. Someone handed her an apron, and she slipped it over her shirt, covering the coffee stain. She had to focus. You’re Randi Woodruff, homebuilder extraordinaire, tool-belt-wearing how-to girl.

“Tell props we need a new two-by-four,” Tom barked at a passing crewman. “Look, I know you don’t like our show closers, but don’t go around breaking stuff. Thing is—”

She held up a palm. “I know. Viewers love the cutesy how-tos. Endears me to them.”

Tom patted her cheek. “That and your good looks and charming personality. Now, I don’t know what you, Brad, and our illustrious producer were chatting about—”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Or what’s been bothering you all day. But we’ve got work to do and an impatient crew. Think you can pull yourself together for one more segment?”

She nodded, then breathed in deeply as Tom left the spotlighted patio, the scent of coffee mixing with pine and heat from the lights. Brad met her eyes from where he’d taken up residence by the picked-clean food table, hopefully catching the apology in her wave.

She could do this. Finish the taping, then escape to the mountain. Drag herself through one more episode ending, try to ignore the guilt these closing segments always caused. Like sandpaper scratching her heart each time she forced the words.

You made your bed . . . Yeah, sure, a bed of nails.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tom boomed from off set.

Focus. She tucked a runaway curl behind one ear and stepped to the patio table in the corner of the set, connected with the camera.

Three, two . . . “I don’t know about you, but sometimes no matter how careful I am, I end up with dents in my wood.” Cue cute pout followed by we’re-all-in-this-together expression. See, easy.

If she could only silence her conscience.

“But most dents are fixable. All you need are two things: water and a steam iron.” She picked up the iron posed atop the table, then walked over to the newly placed board, practiced grin still in place. “Now, some people would be too impatient for this repair technique.”

This was it. The line the whole sequence hinged on. Don’t think about what you’re saying. The glare of the set lights whited out her scenic surroundings, the faces of the crew. Just her and the camera. And the lie.

“My husband, for instance, bless his blasted heart, is so impatient he eats TV dinners half frozen.” My husband. Sandpaper. Scratching. Scraping. I’m sorry, God.

“He may have taught me everything I know, but if it were up to him, we’d throw out this damaged slab. But I say, don’t be so quick to pitch a good thing.” Oh, if ever words held such layers. She hid a grimace, gestured to the lumber. “Now, with softwoods, like pine or cedar, just wet the dented area to swell and raise the sunken wood. But for hardwoods, you need an iron.”

Her eyes landed on the groove in the oak board, a blight on an otherwise perfectly usable piece of wood. And suddenly all she could see was her own heart. Dented. Damaged. She closed her eyes against forming pools. She hadn’t made it all day only to fall apart now with cameras rolling, everyone watching.

Quick, do the Maria von Trapp thing. Sleeping in, feather pillows, maple syrup . . .

But it didn’t stop the screeching of her conscience, the emotions swirling inside her. The interview, Lincoln’s news . . . the anniversary.

And then, movement. A flash of orange as a man strode along the side of the set. That profile! Crooked nose, high forehead, floppy hair. So like . . .

The pang in her heart pushed out a gasp as a whoosh of mountain wind painted goose bumps over her arms. The first raindrops spattered on the wooden slab. She dropped the iron.

“Robbie?”

Chapter 2

“You call this a story?”

Editor Greg Dooley’s words bulleted through the phone line, a mixture of incredulity and anger. Matthew stifled a groan, pushing away from the table, wooden chair scraping over the laminate flooring of Jase and Izzy’s kitchen.

He’d known, even as he stayed up typing into the middle of the night, waiting for the sound of Jase’s car coming up the drive, his article couldn’t hope to live up to Dooley’s expectations.

And he had no one to blame but himself, letting Delia Jones get the best of him like he had. Besides, how was he supposed to write when all he’d been able to think about was Celine in the ER? I should’ve been there. They’d always had a special bond, he and his niece.

Instead, he’d spent the night playing baby-sitter for the neighbor kid his sister-in-law had been watching at the time of the accident. Jase dropped Matthew at the house before whisking off to the hospital to be with Izzy and Cee. While the neighbor kid slept, Matthew had slumped on the couch, worrying, plunking out an article he’d have been ashamed to show his high school journalism teacher.

“I don’t know what to say, Dooley.”

“We don’t even have a single photo of the announcement.”

Only a bird chirping outside the window interrupted the morning stillness of the house. The rest of the family still slept after their early-dawn return from the hospital, when Jase had carried in a bruised but otherwise okay Celine. Too beat to drive home, Matthew had crashed on the couch.

Now he moved aside his glass of orange juice and tortured himself with another look at the newspaper.Actress Announces Late-race Write-in Campaign. The blaring headline mocked him, and Jones’s byline under the lead article—front page, top of the fold—blew the last of his dignity to bits.

He had to admit, Delia Jones had done okay for herself since he’d gotten her fired from the Star Tribune.

Matthew’s stomach pinched. “I confess. I messed up. But I was so sure. I heard this rumor about Senator McKee, and I had to follow up on it. For the good of the magazine! I was only—”

“You were only playing Superman when all I ever asked for was Clark Kent.”

Matthew stilled in his chair, the force in Dooley’s voice blasting any attempt at argument. I really messed up this time.

He stood, carried his empty cereal bowl to the dishwasher. Sunlight so bright the kitchen’s white cupboards glowed against pale yellow walls splashed into the room from the window over the sink. A thunderstorm would’ve been a better match for his mood, complete with hail and howling winds and brooding clouds.

“You used to have a nose for news like no one I know, Knox. But you spent an entire week hounding Margaret McKee. You should’ve sensed this story long before the actual announcement.” Dooley’s sigh spoke frustration. “At the very least, you should’ve turned in a story that made everyone else’s look like bare bones. We should’ve read about who she had lunch with and how often she checks her e-mail and who painted her stinkin’ nails!”

Matthew caught his reflection in the window—stubble-shadowed face, wrinkled tee borrowed from Jase, circles around his eyes. He turned, reached for the pitcher of juice to return to the refrigerator. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . sorry.” Why did the apology fall so flat when honest-to-goodness regret clamored inside him?

“And I’m sorry I keep letting an old college friendship cloud my common sense. I tossed you the story because my best reporter went on maternity leave before McKee agreed to our interview and I know the freelancing thing hasn’t paid off for you lately—especially after . . . well, you know. But I guess you’re still the same old Knox.”

Matthew opened the fridge door with a heavy exhale, head dropping as Dooley’s words found their mark, his sore spot still bruised from five years ago . . . or maybe fifteen.

Yes, that’s right. It wasn’t enough that life—no, Dad—played him for a fool once. The first time tore apart their family. The second, his career.

And the consequences clawed at him still.

“You let your father’s past actions cloud your reporting.”

“The article had ‘conflict of interest’ written all over it.”

“You tried, convicted, and sentenced him in one headline. All because of what? His long-ago Houdini-dad act?”

As the cold of the refrigerator crept over his face, the voices from his past played one after another. Together they added up to one heaping reminder of just how far he’d fallen—from one-time Pulitzer finalist to local disgrace. Freelance writing for a national magazine that was barely a step up from a gossip rag.

“Still the same old Knox.”

“You still there, Knox?” Dooley’s voice, the humming light from the back of the fridge tugged him back to the present. One hand still gripping the door handle, he raised his head and heaved the door closed. As he did, his fingers brushed a crinkled piece of notebook paper stuck to the refrigerator with a Snoopy magnet. Two stick figures—the tall one holding a kite, the short one smiling. Underneath, scribbled in his niece’s nine-year-old scrawl, the words: Uncle Matt and Cee fly a kite.

Best thing his brother ever did, bringing Izzy, a single mother, and her daughter home from his teaching stint at Texas A&M. Celine was only five at the time, still recovering from her bout with meningitis.

Jase didn’t have to play at the Superman thing. He just plain lived a heroic life.

“Knox?”

He blinked, turning from the fridge. “LucyLu’s,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Her nails, Margaret got them done at this froufrou place in downtown St. Paul called LucyLu’s. She ate lunch at Periano’s yesterday, and as far as checking her e-mail, she looks at her iPhone at least once every five minutes.”

“Now you tell me.” Something close to amusement tinged Dooley’s words.

Matthew dropped back into his chair and flipped the newspaper over. Couldn’t look at Delia’s headline anymore. “Listen, don’t pay me for the article I turned in. I blew it, and I don’t blame you for being angry.”

The pause on the other end of the line stretched, the sound of Dooley tapping his keyboard coming through the line. And then, “Fine, I can’t believe I’m going to offer you this after you just blew the biggest scoop this side of Watergate—”

“Slight exaggeration, maybe?” Matthew cut in.

“You are in no position to mock my hyperbole. Listen, about six months ago, Lisa, my reporter who’s out on maternity leave now, came to me with an idea for a new story. Not a print article, mind you—at least not right away.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the tabletop. “Tell me more.”

“We proposed a serial blog on the Today website, pitched it to the subject’s manager over five months ago but never heard a thing. And then, a couple of days ago, he contacts me out of the blue, says they would like to make it happen. But it would require travel to North Carolina.”

Matthew reached for the Cheerios box. “A serial blog?” Like, a daily journal or log of activities? Okay, so it wasn’t Woodward and Bernstein material. And he’d promised himself when he accepted the Margaret McKee assignment it’d be his one and only foray into celebrity reporting. But if this interviewee was interesting . . . “Who’s the subject?” He chomped on a handful of cereal.

“Randi Woodruff.”

A Cheerio lodged in his throat, and he sputtered. “That woman from that home makeover show?” What was the show called? Izzy and Celine had a standing Sunday night date to watch it. Cee loved it so much she’d taken to saying she wanted to be an architect when she grew up. “You want me to interview a reality TV star?”

Dooley chuckled. “You say it like she’s one of those girls from The Bachelor. Not the same thing, Knox. From the Ground Up is a legit home-repair show. And she builds homes for low-income people, does all kinds of charity work on the side. She’s a do-gooder.”

“Right, a regular Mother Teresa.” Minus the habit, plus a tool belt. He’d caught the show a couple times and wondered if the perky star with the smoky eyes actually knew her stuff or if she was simply a pretty face playing This Old House.

“I can’t pay much, either,” Dooley went on. “But I can promise you readership. Though her show’s ratings haven’t been impressive lately, there’s been a burst of interest about Randi Woodruff herself. Lots of curiosity about the husband she always talks about—the one no one’s ever seen.”

Tabloid speculation at its best. And Dooley was asking him to join the silly fray. Not a chance. “Look, I appreciate the offer, especially considering last night and all. Generous of you, really. But I don’t think it’s my thing.” Definitely not the heavyweight material he needed to make his career comeback.

Matthew dropped his feet from the tabletop as Celine padded into the room, her hair mussed and a line of stitches over one eyebrow. He offered his niece a smile as she settled in the chair across from his, sleep still tugging at her features. He lifted his right hand to tap his chin, then his open left palm, and finally his elbow.

American Sign Language for Good morning.

With both index fingers, she signed, “Hang up.”

In a minute, he mouthed.

“This could be a big story,” Dooley continued. “Yes, we’ve got the blog thing to do, but I’m still hunting for January’s cover, if you catch my drift. So do what you do best: sniff. See if there are any skeletons in the closet. By the rumblings going around the entertainment media world, I think you might find some.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not an entertainment reporter. We all know that after the McKee fiasco. I think I’ll hold out for something a little more meaty.”

He felt the familiar attention of Celine’s eyes on his face as he spoke. She read lips like a master, her way of “listening” since the meningitis stole her hearing.

“That’s some pride you’ve got going, Knox. I know you’ve got Walter Cronkite aspirations, but even Walt had his fluff years.”

“I’ll consider it. All right?” About as seriously as he’d consider piercing his nose. But he owed Dooley at least a show of gratitude.

“Consider quickly. If I don’t hear from you by tonight, I’m moving on.”

They hung up and Matthew turned his full attention on Celine. “How do you feel today?” he said aloud, signing at the same time.

The look in her eyes was like a kick in the gut—hurt and a hint of lingering fear. His heart lurched for the hundredth time since last night. “Why didn’t you come?” she said, voice low and with her familiar blending of words. Because she’d been speaking long before losing her hearing, she still used her voice.

“To the hospital? I wanted to, but Jase asked me to stay here with your friend from next door.”

Celine slid out of her chair and rounded the table to stand in front of him. “You should’ve come.”

He latched gazes with her and nodded. “I know. And I’ll make it up to you.”

Hands to her hips, she stuck her bottom lip out in a playful pout. “How?”

Love for the kid feathered through him. Forget Dooley and a story in North Carolina. This is where he belonged.Here with family, and with his niece, the one person who never failed to see past his screw-ups.

x

This is where Miranda belonged. Tucked in a hidden nook in the Smokies, away from the hurried pace of television taping. From the crazy ideas of her crazy producer. From the humiliation.

She’d actually believed it was him. Someone ought to tattoo the word naïve on her forehead.

Miranda’s arm moved at rapid pace, prodding the sand­paper under her palm back and forth. The motion soothed, the scratching of the wood her lullaby. Long windows paneling her woodshop’s west wall invited in the colors of the sunset, spilling oranges and reds against the opposite wall. A buzzing light bulb dangling overhead provided the shop’s only other light.

At the tightening in her wrist, Miranda stilled. She moved from her kneeling position beside the antique chest of drawers to sit cross-legged, wood shavings and abandoned scraps of sandpaper blanketing the woodshop floor.

Up here, there was no probing into her privacy. No Robbie look-alikes, either. Last night’s embarrassing episode still harassed her—the way she’d fastened her gaze on the man strolling along the edge of the set. How she’d called out his name. The circus of thoughts crowding in . . .

It can’t be him . . . unless . . . he remembered the date! Unless Robbie, too, had woken up squeezed by the grip of unwelcome memories. It would’ve been our anniversary. Three years. We would’ve celebrated with a vacation. Or maybe they would’ve simply stayed home, enjoyed breakfast in bed, and then tackled a house project together. Working side by side the way they had when they first met.

Miranda blinked and pulled open the bottom chest drawer, resumed sanding its base. “Forget yesterday. Forget all of it.”

“That easy, huh?”

A screech exploded from her at the surprise sound of a male voice in her workshop, and in one fluid movement, she reached for her hammer and lurched to her feet.

“Easy there, Mighty Mouse.” Brad Walsh stumbled backward, knocking into her table saw, hands raised in surrender. “It’s just me.”

Miranda’s heart pounded as she lowered the hammer. “Sheesh, Walsh, what were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?” She leaned over, hands on her knees. “I think I’m having a heart attack. My arm hurts. Aspirin.”

“I read somewhere the pain-in-the-arm symptom doesn’t happen for women. So if your arm is hurting, it’s only ’cause of how furiously you were sanding. Like someone’s life depended on how smooth you got that drawer.”

She lifted her head. “Someone’s life is going to depend on how quickly he explains his presence in my shop.”

Brad folded his arms over his navy blue polo. “Two things: first, an apology.” He lowered onto a workbench, voice turning serious. “It didn’t hit me ’til I got home last night. The date, I mean. The anniversary. Things make a little more sense now.”

She dropped beside him on the bench. “You mean the way I lit into you yesterday?”

“I mean the way your eyes were devoid of anything close to happiness. Sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. I should’ve supported you instead of pushing your buttons.”

She released her hammer, and it clinked to the floor. “Wasn’t just the anniversary. There was the news about the show, Lincoln’s crazy plan, and the interview earlier in the day. They asked such personal questions.”

Brad patted her knee. “And the Robbie twin?”

She offered a shrug in place of an explanation. What must the crew think of her? When she’d seen the stranger on set during taping last night, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from propelling forward. In the time it had taken to reach the patio’s edge, the sky finally broke open in a blitz of pounding rain, moisture hammering Miranda’s face, running in rivulets down her cheeks. She’d sidestepped a camera, ignoring her director’s chiding and the sudden hustle of the crew. Had to know. Had to see the man’s face.

She’d said his name once more, approaching from behind, damp clothing clinging to her skin and sending shivers throughout her body. She’d raised an arm, tapped his shoulder.

He’d turned. And the chill darted into her heart.

Not him. Of course. It never was.

“I could’ve sworn it was him.” She shook her head as Brad stood and reached for her hands. “Guess I had Robbie on the brain.”

He tugged her up from the bench. “Could’ve happened to anybody. C’mon. There’s another reason I drove up tonight. I’ve got a surprise.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me you brought me a dog.” She nudged the dresser drawer closed with her foot.

“Say what?”

She yanked on the light bulb string and the light blinked off. “Every year for the past three years, when my anniversary-that-almost-was rolls around, you suggest I get a dog. And while I’d love one, I’m not home enough to be a good owner.”

Brad latched on to her arm, tugging her toward the shop door. “No dog, I promise.”

Outside, the fiery hues of the sky washed her mountain clearing in a blaze of color. The leaves on the trees circling her property were just starting to turn, green fading into the promise of a colorful autumn. The home she’d begun building nearly three and a half years ago, when she still wore Robbie’s ring and believed their love unbreakable, rose from the clearing—one half finished, livable; the other half nothing more than foundation and frame.

Fitting, really.

She stopped halfway to the house and blinked at the figure sitting on the front steps. “Liv? What are you doing here?” She turned to Brad, swatted at his arm. “And here I thought you brought me a sheepdog.”

Miranda’s best friend rose and gathered her into a hug. “Actually, he was leaning toward a mastiff. I talked him out of it.”

Brad’s nervous chuckle sounded from behind her. Liv released Miranda and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket, breath visible in the chill of the evening.

“So you’re the surprise,” Miranda said, stepping back.

“Half the surprise,” Brad corrected. “I’ve got awesome news. We’re going to celebrate.”

“Sounds good, but please tell me y’all brought sustenance. Pretty sure the only food in my kitchen is a box of Pop-Tarts and some beef jerky that’ll break your jaw.”

Brad moved to his car, ducked in, and then returned with two paper bags. “The woman can build a house but has the nutritional habits of a toddler,” he muttered, passing the women and climbing the porch.

“Can it, Walsh,” Liv called after him. She tucked an arm through Miranda’s. “We brought all the fixings for homemade pizza. And Brad didn’t notice, but I also stuck in a package of Peanut Butter M&M’s.”

“My hero.”

They entered the house, greeted by the sound of Brad already unloading groceries in the kitchen. Liv paused in the living room. “Hey, before we join Chef Walsh, you okay? You know, I’m still so mad at Robbie, I could rearrange his teeth.” Twin strawberry-blond braids framed Liv’s face, and feisty anger leaked from her voice.

Miranda burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? You have trouble slapping mosquitoes. And you’ve never even met Robbie.” Liv Hayes ran Miranda’s favorite charity, a shelter in Asheville for orphaned children with special needs. She’d befriended Miranda during her “dark days” after Robbie left, encouraged her to volunteer at the shelter as a healthy distraction.

“But seriously, how are you? Brad filled me in on your mother of all bad days yesterday on the way up. You could’ve called me, you know.”

Miranda’s gaze roamed the room as she considered Liv’s question. Overhead, thick redwood beams crisscrossed, and soft light gleamed from a hanging fixture. During the day, tall windows tugged in the colors of the outdoors, dramatizing the otherwise muted hues of Miranda’s furniture. A fireplace and mantel edged one wall, and an open stairway lined the other. The opposite side of the room opened into the dining room. Beyond that, a kitchen and the unfinished portion of the house—what would’ve been a master suite.

Instead, Miranda slept in the small bedroom at the end of the otherwise incomplete lofted second floor.

This was supposed to be her and Robbie’s dream house. After Robbie had woken up, she’d never quite had the heart to finish building.

“Yesterday was rough,” she confirmed as they continued to the kitchen. “But you and Brad are here now. And you brought M&M’s. Friendship and sugar—best therapy there is.”

They walked in on Brad dumping a packet of yeast into a bowl, Miranda’s ruffled apron tied around his waist. “Nice, Brad.” Liv giggled. “So how long are you going to make us wait for your big news? You getting married or something?”

“Very funny.” He wiped his hands on his apron and faced Miranda. “You, Miss Woodruff, have been nominated for the Giving Heart Award.”

Miranda froze. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t think so,” Liv countered. “This is Brad, remember. He can’t even tell knock-knock jokes.”

Brad draped a towel over the bowl of dough and set it aside. “Completely serious. The foundation is making the announcement next Wednesday. And if ever a celebrity deserved an award for her charitable contributions, it’s you, kid.”

Liv squealed and threw her arms around Miranda. “Ah, see, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. You’re so going to win! Didn’t Audrey Hepburn win the Giving Heart way back when?”

Brad chuckled. “You look shell-shocked, Rand.”

“I’m flummoxed.” A delayed grin finally spilled over her face. “Always wanted a reason to use that word.”

“And what better reason!” Liv declared. “Let’s get cracking on that celebratory pizza.”

Miranda pulled a cutting board from the cupboard as Liv lined up toppings—onion, green pepper, jar of olives, fresh mushrooms. The Giving Heart Award. Who would’ve thought? The award had snowballed into a high level of prestige in the past few years. How in the world had the host of a little sleeper of a homebuilding show made the list of nominees? Especially one in danger of cancellation?

“You remember the prize is $100,000 to your favorite charity, right?” Brad asked as he kneaded the pizza dough.

“How awesome would it be to give that to Open Arms?”

Liv flipped the oven to preheat. “Very. We’re in need of roof repairs.”

“Oh, I could help you with that, silly. I’ll get a few guys from the crew and—”

“Girls, at the moment, I’m the one who needs help.” Brad lifted his hands, dough clinging to his fingers. “This is too sticky.”

“You need more flour. Here, let me.” Miranda relinquished her knife to Liv. “Brad, this is good news for the show, right? The network’s not going to axe a show whose host is up for the Giving Heart. Maybe I can even talk Lincoln into dropping the husband thing.” Hope slid in as she worked her fingers into the dough.

“That’s not exactly the case,” Brad said over the sound of running water. He rubbed his hands together. “Lincoln’s the one who was notified about the nomination. He called me. He thinks this is more reason than ever to come up with a husband to parade in front of the press.”

“He’s crazy!” Exasperation pushed Miranda’s words out in a huff. “I can’t conjure up a husband from thin air.” She pounded a fist into the dough, knuckles connecting with the bottom of the mixing bowl. “I won’t do it.”

“Linc thinks viewers, and the foundation board, need to see your softer side—and that we need to quell the rumors that your mystery husband doesn’t exist. After all, if you win, you’ll be more popular than ever. Which means curiosity will rise to new levels. Either way, in his eyes, the husband scheme is how we’ll save the show.” He took a breath. “Which is what you want to do, right?”

Her fingers curled around the dough. He knew she did. Because somehow saving the show meant saving herself, her identity. Without From the Ground Up, who was Miranda Woodruff, anyway? Nothing but a jilted, practically family-less woodworker with half a house in the mountains. “Of course I do,” she said in a whisper.

“Then the husband reveal could give you just the push you need.”

Sure, right over a cliff.

Oh, how she wished, for the thousandth time, she’d never brought up Robbie’s name back when she auditioned for the show. Wished she hadn’t mentioned her post-college years in Brazil, hadn’t told the panel of execs about constructing homes in Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s urbanized slums. About the schools they’d built in rural communities. About the mission team leader, Roberto “Robbie” Pontero, who had pulled from her an architectural creativity—and a passion—she hadn’t known she possessed.

“And who is this Robbie?”

She’d blinked when the executive asked the question during the audition. The words had slipped out of their own accord: “My husband.”

Such a stupid lie, prompted solely by the guilt she’d felt at going against the convictions her grandparents had tried so hard to instill in her—living with a man she wasn’t married to. And once the lie was out there, it stuck. Because the panel latched on immediately to the novelty of her foreign romance. She hadn’t known the story would become such a part of the show, had told herself it was a harmless fib since she planned to marry within months anyway.

What was it Grandma Woodruff used to say? “Best way to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.”

Only in Miranda’s case, God probably wasn’t laughing. Not when she’d made such a mess of things. Maybe it would’ve been better if she’d never auditioned in the first place, never beat out that other girl—Hollie Somebody—for the hosting spot.

“Let her be, Walsh,” Liv piped up, edging into Miranda’s wandering memories. “We came to have fun tonight, didn’t we?”

Miranda lumped the dough into a rounded ball. “Liv’s right. I’m starving. I’ll think about the show and Lincoln and Robbie . . . tomorrow.” Limp smirk. “At Tara.”

“All right, Scarlett O’Hara. So you got any soda in the fridge?”

Brad nudged her arm as Liv crossed the kitchen. “Just consider it,” he said gently. “Remember when one of the biggest show sponsors dropped out and you took charge and found an even bigger one? Remember how you fought the network execs so you could build in poorer areas of the country? Be that Randi Woodruff again. You’ve invested too much in this show to let it sink.”

If only Robbie had thought the same about their relationship, she might not be in this situation.

But as Brad’s words pricked her insides, a new ribbon of energy needled through Miranda. He was right. She’d spent far too long in the clutches of the past, determination lost to a pelting ache.

No more. The show needed a savior. And she needed the show. It was time to make a power play.

And unlike Robbie, she played for keeps.

x

Matthew swung his right arm back and then forward, fingers releasing the bowling ball into a thud and roll. The embarrassingly pink ball took its sweet time covering the distance of the lane. One measly pin down.

Par for the course these days. Wrong sport, but still. At least Izzy and Jase weren’t there yet.

“You’re really bad at this, Uncle Matt.” His niece peered up at him from innocent blue eyes.

“It’s the ball, Cee. If you would’ve let me use the red one like I wanted—”

“No,” she cut in, pigtails swinging as she shook her head, hands signing along with her spoken words. “You’re no good.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’ve got incredible tact?” He ruffled Celine’s bangs and reached for his ball when it spit out of the machine track.

“I don’t know what tact is.”

“My point exactly.”

The smell of grease from the snack bar in the corner permeated the bowling alley. Neon lights rimmed the walls, and music thrummed through the speakers overhead. Too bad he hadn’t been able to talk Cee into the aquarium instead. But she had insisted on bowling. And uncles were supposed to give in.

Just like journalists were supposed to write.

Sure, but did kitschy celebrity pieces even count? Throughout the day, he’d given Dooley’s assignment offer its obligatory consideration, but he kept coming back to the same conclusion: too humiliating. Did blogging even count as journalism?

Matthew approached the lane, released his ball again, and for a moment things looked good. Straight down the middle until a last-minute curve sent it into the gutter.

“Like I said, you’re really bad.” This time giggles punctuated Celine’s words.

Though Celine’s eyes were on his face, he signed as he spoke. “Just you wait, Cee. When we get home we’re playing Candy Land, and I’m gonna whomp you.” Maybe no one would pay attention to the electronic scoreboard announcing his lack of skills.

“Matthew!” Izzy’s call rose over the clutter of voices and falling pins in the bowling alley.

He handed Celine her purple ball, signed “Your mom’s here,” and then turned. His sister-in-law bounced toward him, blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, bowling shoes slung over her shoulder by the laces.

“Where’s Jase?” he asked as Izzy reached them.

“Doing some after-hours work at the gallery. Besides, things were decidedly cool between the two of you before you left this morning. Care to explain? Jase sure didn’t.”

Matthew turned to Celine, evading Izzy’s question. “Need help, Cee?”

“I think not.” Her latest phrase of choice. She sashayed up to the lane, bowling shoes tapping against the wood floor. She threw a near-perfect roll. Nine pins.

“Getting beat by my daughter,” Izzy said from behind him. “Wow.”

“Just having an off night.”

Izzy plopped onto the bench behind the ball track while Celine lined up for her second throw. “So tell me, why are you hanging out with Cee instead of on a date? It’s Saturday night.”

He cast her a glare, then sat beside her. “Know what I love about you, Iz? Your kind respect for boundaries and privacy.”

“What kind of sister-in-law would I be if I didn’t pry?”

Celine hit her last pin and jumped up, clapping her hands. Matthew waited until she turned, eyes on him, to lift and twist his own hands in silent applause.

Izzy leaned in. “You’re a good uncle, Matthew. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“And I’m lucky Jase brought you two cowgirls back from Texas.”

Izzy chuckled. “Yeah, I’m still a little mad about that during the fifth or sixth blizzard each Minnesota winter.”

And then Celine stood in front of them, hands moving as she signed. “I’m hungry. You said we’d get pizza.”

He nodded. “Right. Can you order for us, Iz? We’ve got one frame left each. We’ll meet you over at the tables. Or did you want to play?”

Izzy shook her head. “Nah, I only paid for the shoes so they’d let me on the floor.”

He glanced down at Celine as Izzy walked off. “Maybe I’ll get a strike this time.”

“I think not,” she repeated.

She thought right. Another gutter ball. “Don’t you dare laugh, Cee.”

Minutes later their game ended. He didn’t even bother looking at the score as they left the floor to join Izzy. “Man, the guy behind the counter just told me to go back to the ranch,” Izzy drawled as they sat, drumming her nails on the tabletop.

Matthew eyed her Cowboys jersey. “I’ve been telling you for years, you’re in purple-and-gold territory. Flashing your Dallas duds ain’t the best way to make friends up here.” Matthew dropped a straw in Celine’s glass and handed her a napkin, making sure her eyes were on his lips before speaking. “Pizza for the big winner, as requested.”

“Maybe you should take bowling lessons, Uncle Matt. Then you wouldn’t lose so bad.” Izzy snorted at that, and Matthew tossed his straw wrapper at her.

He dished up a cheesy slice for Celine, then plopped a slice on his plate. “Pepperoni and mushroom, my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Celine added.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, kiddo,” Izzy instructed before biting into her own slice. “So did you two have a good afternoon?”

Matthew studied Celine while she chattered about the day they’d spent at the park. Bangs hid the stitches over her eye, and with no visible bruises, no one would know she’d been in an accident the night before. Izzy told him earlier today the man who clipped Celine’s bike had honked before making his turn. Of course, she hadn’t heard.

Could’ve been so much worse.

“Iz,” he blurted suddenly, swallowing a bite of pizza. “Have you scheduled the surgery yet?”

Jase and Izzy had been talking about cochlear implants for six months now. Because of the circumstances of Celine’s hearing loss, she was a perfect candidate for the surgery, which could help her regain at least a degree of hearing. And after yesterday . . .

Izzy met his eyes over the rim of her soda glass. She lowered the glass to the table. “Cee, you want another piece of pizza? Or are you ready for a couple arcade games?”

Celine practically jumped out of the booth. “Games. But save me a piece.”

Matthew dug into his pocket for a handful of change and passed it off to Celine. “Win me a teddy bear, all right?”

“You’re too old for stuffed animals,” Celine said before trouncing away.

Matthew turned to Izzy, forked in another bite. “What’s up? Why’d you send Cee off?”

Izzy dropped a pizza crust onto her plate and pushed her plate away. “The surgery. It’s not happening anymore. At least not anytime soon.”

Matthew paused mid-chew. Not happening? But if it could help, if it meant Celine could hear honking cars . . . bowling pins knocking down . . . “Why? I thought you were only waiting for the insurance company.”

Melancholy played over Izzy’s face. “We got a letter from the company yesterday. They’re declining coverage.”

“That’s ridiculous. The doctor said insurance usually covers cochlear implants.”

“Usually was the operative word, I guess. And with things so bad at the gallery and my hours cut at the school, we don’t have the money.”

Matthew lowered his arm from the back of the booth, tense with disbelief. “Does Cee know?” Just the thought ripped at his heart.

Izzy shook her head. “Not yet. We’re trying to believe for the best. Maybe if we save for a couple years, if things turn around . . . And the social worker at the hospital said we could file an appeal to the insurance company.”

“But if you wait too long, isn’t there a chance the surgery won’t do as much good?”

Izzy pushed her empty glass to the middle of the table. “We’re trusting God. It’s all we can do at this point.”

No, not good enough. And it wasn’t all hecould do. Resolve expanded inside him as cheers erupted from a nearby lane. “I have some savings, Iz. Not a lot, but it could help.” And if nothing else, he’d downsize from his townhouse to a smaller apartment. Lower rent meant more money to push their way.

The dejection in Izzy’s eyes softened into gratitude. “Not gonna happen, Matt. Jase would never—”

“Do you have any idea how many times Jase has been there for me over the years? It’s about time I did something for him.”

“What I really wish you’d do is take that story assignment in North Carolina. Go meet Randi Woodruff. Do you know how many people would kill for a chance like that? Have some fun.” Her expression intensified. “Be an example to Celine of someone who doesn’t give up just because they’ve hit a rough patch.”

Izzy paused, then picked up her fork. “Besides, if Celine finds out you had the chance to interview her hero and didn’t take it, she’d never forgive you. Have you seen the From the Ground Up poster she has in her bedroom? The tool set she insisted we buy her for her birthday?”

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.”

x

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 going 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.

“Just a sec, Miss, uh, Mrs. . . . Randi?” He knelt to untie his Converse shoes and roll up his pant legs.

“I’m Randi on set,” she said out the truck window. “But I prefer Miranda.”

He stood, met her eyes. “Miranda.”

Laughter rang from the driver’s seat as Miranda took in his rolled-up jeans. “Nice look, Huckleberry Finn.”

“Funny. Mock all you want, but I’m not the one who drove my truck into a flooded roadway.”

“I was daydreaming, all right?”

He stepped up to her open door. “About what?”

Her gaze shifted to the view outside her windshield. “Taking an entire month off work. Expanding my workshop. Buying a new cabinet saw with chrome-plated surfaces. Woodworking to my heart’s content.” She straightened in her seat, facing him once again. “Probably sounds silly.”

He shook his head. “Not silly. Just not much like an ordinary vacation.”

“Well, I’ve never been all that ordinary.” Her comment hovered between nonchalant and something more. “All right, let’s do this.”

He pushed her door shut, then dipped a toe into the river. The cold sent shivers up his leg. She started the engine. He forced his other foot into the water and, standing knee-deep in the river, braced himself against the hood of her truck.

“Ready?” she called out the window.

“Stick it in Reverse and go for it.”

He threw his weight into the vehicle, pushing until his back strained, mud squishing between his toes. The vehicle barely budged, and as soon as he let up, it settled back into its mud bed. He took a breath, pushed again, swallowing the taste of humiliation.

He felt the jerk of the truck as Miranda shifted into Park. She jumped down from the truck. “New plan. Why don’t I put it in Neutral? I’ll help push and as soon as it’s out, one of us can hop in and steer.

He shrugged. “All right.”

She reached inside to shift into Neutral, then padded around to the front of the truck. She didn’t even flinch as she waded into the water. They stretched their arms beside each other, palms atop the hood. He slid her a glance. “Why do you drive such a beast anyway?”

“It was my grandpa’s. So sentiment or stubbornness, I don’t know, but I love this rusting heap.” She paused, eyes gazing past the truck to the winding stretch of tree-lined road, then shook her head. “Can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

As cold numbed his feet, sympathy heated his heart. He’d done his cursory research about Randi—enough to know she’d lived with her grandparents for most of her childhood years while her parents did some kind of missionary work in South America.

“Well, let’s save your truck before the murky river eats it.”

She nodded.

But instead of pushing the truck, he slid his hand over hers. “Hey, what you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.” What are you doing, Knox?

Her eyes climbed from her covered hand to his face. “Um. Thanks?”

Celine. He’d said it because of Celine. Because she, too, lived with that sense of being unordinary. Because it’d become second nature to voice his reassurance. He pulled his hand back. “On the count of three?”

She nodded again. “One . . . two . . . three—”

“By the way, I’m Matthew, the reporter from Today. I hear you have a cabin—”

At his words, she whipped her head in surprise, slipped while he pushed. And as mud sprayed up into the air and the truck inched backward, he heard the “Oomph” as she landed in the water.

Oh man. Perhaps not the best timing for the introduction. “I’m sorry. I’m really—”

“My truck!” she sputtered through dripping hair.

The apology would have to wait. He hopped over Miranda—So getting kicked off this story!—jumped into the driver’s seat, and yanked the truck into Reverse. Backing up beside his Jeep, he parked . . .

And watched through the windshield as Miranda rose from the water, dress clinging to her body, hair a dripping frame around her face.

“I’m sorry,” he called again as he fumbled out of the car. “Sorry! Let me help—” He held out an arm.

She ignored it, lifting a hand instead to push the hair out of her face. “Oooh, Whitney’s going to kill me.”

He stood at the edge of the flooded portion of the road, creek water syruping over his toes. “Your dress—”

She waved off his worry with a fling of her hand. “I hated it the second I squeezed into it.” She hugged her arms to herself as she plodded from the water and came to stand in front of him. She poked a dripping finger at his chest. “But you . . . I don’t appreciate you waiting so long to tell me you’re the reporter.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You let me go on about Grandpa’s truck. You could’ve at least identified yourself before starting the interview. And you think you’re going to weasel your way into free lodging in my cabin?”

He’d laugh at her wrinkled nose if not for the fierce look in her eyes. “I’m not trying to weasel my way into anything. Your manager offered the cabin, and—”

She stomped her foot, water and mud spraying. “I know he did. Rat.”

“Would it make you feel better if I fell in the water, too?” Stupid thing to offer. Like he had any desire to go swimming in icy water.

But she smiled at his offer. Very possibly a bad sign. “It just might, at that.” She stepped forward, a gleam replacing the annoyance in her eyes.

“I was mostly kidding, you know.”

She reached out. “Oh, really?”

He inched backward. “Miranda, please. I’m a journalist, a professional. I’m on the job right now.” At least until she canned him.

“You did say you were here to shadow me. I was in the water, therefore—”

He ducked just as she lunged forward, but lost his footing in the process. Water splashed over his face as his backside settled into the flooded mud floor, Miranda’s laughter following him down. “You’re right. I do feel better!” She reached down and sent a wave of icy water toward him.

“Why, you . . .” He splashed her back and scrambled to his feet.

“Randi Woodruff, you get out of that water this instant!”

They froze in sync at the yell from the water’s edge. Busted. And by a guy who, if he were a cartoon, would have had steam coming out of his ears about then. Matthew leaned toward Miranda. “Uh, I think we’re in trouble.”

“We? I have a television interview to do, and between my dress and the water, I look like a jaundiced river rat.”

Angry Dude crossed his arms, eyes shooting darts at Matthew as he stalked forward to pull Miranda from the creek.

“Now, Brad, don’t freak out,” she consoled.

“In the truck.”

Miranda offered Matthew a shrug, then climbed into her truck. The guy named Brad dropped into his own car, glared once more at Matthew, and motored off behind Miranda.

Matthew lifted an arm in a frantic wave, creek water dripping from his shirt. “Wait, I need to know how to get to—”

But they were already gone, with only the sound of Miranda’s muffler trailing behind. Mud slicked around Matthew’s ankles as he trudged from the creek. “Well,” he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Welcome to North Carolina.”

x

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s all I had in the truck, Walsh. Didn’t have time to raid the dressing room.” Head high, Miranda strode past a slack-jawed Brad, away from the studio porch where moments ago she’d sacrificed her last vestige of freedom from public scrutiny. A foundation spokesperson had made the award nomination announcement on the national morning news show. After a commercial, the show went to a live-feed interview with Miranda, staged in front of the set house.

“It’s bad enough you decided to have a water fight before appearing on TV. Did you really have to make it worse with that?” Brad pointed to her long-sleeved T-shirt, the words Harry’s Fingerlickin’ BBQ splashed across the front.

“Hey, Harry’s a friend of mine. He’ll appreciate the pub­licity.” At least she’d kept her left arm tight to her side during the interview, hiding the barbeque sauce stain from her last tangle with Harry’s tangy ribs.

“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Come on, Lincoln’s waiting to introduce you to your new hubby.”

She groaned through clenched teeth. “I feel like a teenage bride being led to meet the groom my parents arranged. What kind of dowry did you and Linc offer him?”

“Couple cows and a hundred bushels of grain.”

Brad ushered her to the side door, but she stopped him with her hand on his arm. “This is crazy. How do we even know we can trust this guy? What would make him agree to do this?”

“Money? Fame? We’ll take care of all his living expenses, plus pay him a great wage—as well as a tidy bonus if he sees this thing through. Apparently, he needs it. Appears to be a regular prodigal son—spent five years traveling around the world until he emptied his bank account.”

“And that’s who we’re trusting?”

Brad pressed his lips together, pausing before answering. “Rand, we’ve interviewed him. We’ve done background research. We feel confident this is our guy. But at the end of the day, it’s your call. Just meet him, okay?”

The sound of tires on gravel cut her off from answering. She recognized that Jeep and the guy behind the wheel. “Hey, that’s the reporter.”

“You mean the Marco to your Polo? Sure knows how to start things off on the right foot.”

“The river incident wasn’t entirely his fault.” After all, Matthew Knox had only been trying to help. Kind of nice, actually. With her handy-girl skills, she hadn’t had a man offer to help her out with so much as a light-bulb replacement since . . . she didn’t even know when.

And then there’d been that moment, standing knee-deep in river sludge. “What you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.”

A reporter’s ploy, right? Hone in on the interviewee’s insecurity, then coddle her into emotional goo. And yet, his voice, his expression, his hand on hers, all added up to some pretty convincing sincerity.

“Listen,” Brad said. “I’ll stall the reporter while you go meet Blake. Lincoln’s waiting with him in the meeting room.”

She nodded and entered the building, casting off thoughts of Matthew Knox. She stopped in front of the meeting room door. “For the good of the show,” she muttered and swung the door open. “Hey, Linc.”

“Ahh, Randi!” He stood, arms folded, in front of a white marker board covered in Lincoln’s scribble. Born in Charlotte, no siblings . . . college at Duke . . . three years in South America after college . . . met in Brazil . . . thirty years old.

Ladies and gentlemen, her life condensed into dry-erase board notes.

“I caught your interview,” Lincoln said. “Nice job. Though, interesting choice of attire. I especially liked the stain on your arm.”

Oy, and she’d thought she’d been so careful.

“Randi Woodruff, meet Blake Hunziker.”

Miranda barely heard Lincoln’s voice as the figure rose from a chair at the head of the conference room table. The same face she’d seen last Friday, deep-set, dark eyes, mop of black hair, square shoulders—all uncanny in their resemblance to Robbie. But the likeness stopped at this man’s carefree grin flanked by twin dimples.

He sidled around the table and held out his tanned arm. “Hi, um, honey. Darling. Sweetheart. Which do you prefer?” The man’s dimples deepened with his teasing, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Randi will do,” she said wryly, accepting his handshake.

“Really, this is all too perfect,” Linc declared, clamping one hand on Miranda’s shoulder, the other on Blake’s. “You look good together.”

Miranda stepped back. For the good of the show. If she just kept telling herself that . . .

“I go by Blaze, by the way. So how long have we been married?” Blake asked. He ran a hand through shaggy hair, the lazy smile never leaving his face, and then tucked his hands into the pockets of his board shorts. Wasn’t it a little chilly to be dressing like a surfer?

“A few years, right, Rand?” Linc looked to her.

“Three as of last Friday,” she said on autopilot. Couldn’t take her eyes off Blake. It was like staring at a hologram of Robbie. Freud couldn’t have deciphered the emotions twisting inside her at the moment.

It’s only temporary. You can do it. She ripped her gaze from Blake. “For the record, Lincoln, I have serious reservations about this.”

He nudged his glasses. “But you’ll do it, right? I’ve already filled Blake in on everything.”

“And I’m perfect for the job,” Blake offered. “My parents are on a three-month safari in Africa—no joke. And I’ve spent the last five years country-hopping on one adventure after another, haven’t kept in good touch with anyone. So friends, hometown folks, they won’t have any reason to doubt this thing.”

In other words, no ties, no one to question the logistics of their marriage.

“Siblings?” she asked.

For the tiniest moment, a shadow flickered over his face. “Not anymore.”

She’d have stopped him right there if she could have, at that first glimpse of vulnerability from her husband-elect, but he’d already continued. “And another thing: I can cook like no one’s business. You will be one well-fed wife during our little marriage, pumpkin.” He fiddled with the zipper on the sweatshirt he wore over a bright orange T-shirt.

“Call me pumpkin again and our marriage won’t make it past the honeymoon.”

He donned a properly chagrined expression and dropped into his chair. “So, where do we go from here?”

Lincoln pulled out his cell phone. “I go to a meeting with the publicity team. You two lovebirds can take a few minutes to get to know each other.”

Miranda’s eyes pressed into slits. She ought to whack Linc.

No, she ought to about-face and leave the room, the surfer dude, and Lincoln’s smug expression behind. But resolve anchored her in place. As much as she hated it, this was the best plan to save her show, her career . . . her identity.

As Lincoln exited, she lowered onto the chair at Blake’s right. “So, uh, Blaze. That’s an interesting nickname.”

He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Yeah, little incident with a metal travel mug in a microwave. Then there was the time I singed off my eyebrows roasting marshmallows. Oh, and the fireworks seven, no eight, Fourth of Julys ago.”

“Suddenly I’m worried about welcoming you into my house.”

Blake grinned. “Don’t. It’s been three and a half years since my last fire. Hot air balloon. Operator error. In Switzerland. Ah, that was a doozy.”

Apparently Jack London had nothing on this guy.

He rubbed his palms together. “So, look, this is a wild situation. One minute I’ve got a part-time stint with a catering company, the next I’m talked into my first acting gig in a role as your husband. But I like helping people—which, from the sound of it, is exactly what you need.”

“I need some normalcy, that’s what.” Something told her this guy was anything but.

He leaned back in the couch, chuckled. “I can’t promise that. But I can promise to stick to whatever story you want, play the perfect husband. You totally have my word.”

For just a moment, a new thought teased her: This could be fun. Would it be so bad to show up at some glitzy restaurant on the arm of this, uh—fine, she’d admit it—hunk? To put up with his dimpled grins and crinkled, marble eyes?

Would it be so painful to act out the happy marriage she’d always dreamed of? “Why are you really doing this, Blaze?”

He must have recognized the imploring tone of her voice for what it was—a plea for assurance, for some kind of serious answer to convince her she wasn’t about to make the mistake of her life. “When your manager approached me, at first I thought, ‘Dude, I’ve spent a good deal of my life in someone else’s shadow. This is my chance for the spotlight.’ May not be noble, but it’s a reason, right?” He shrugged, then softened. “But the truth is, I had a chance to help someone once, and I . . . failed. Ridiculous as it sounds, this felt like a second chance. A slightly insane one, but . . . Well, anyway, the paycheck’s good, too.”

Miranda studied him. He may brush off his own words, but she’d seen a spark just then, something honest and generous. He genuinely saw this as a noble cause, didn’t he? “And y-you really think we can pull this off?”

“Babe, I once bungee-jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I think I can manage a few weeks of wedded bliss.”

He propped his feet on the conference table, flip-flops in place of shoes, not even a hint of concern on his face. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from the man. “You don’t think we’re crazy trying to pull the wool over a whole country’s eyes?”

“Oh, I think you’re crazy, all right. I just happen to like crazy.”

Oh, Lord, help me. But the prayer had no business flitting through her mind. She couldn’t ask God to help her lie.

Not lie. Pretend. Remember what Brad said: “ . . . just another character on the show.”

Somehow the thought didn’t ease her conscience. Someday when this is all over, God, I’ll be the obedient, meek and mild woman I’m supposed to be. The person Mom and Dad always wanted me to be. Maybe she’d go to church again, too. Rekindle the faith that had burned down to barely a flicker of late.

But for now, she had to do what she had to do.

“All right, Blaze. Consider yourself fake-married.” She stood and reached behind her head to loosen her ponytail.

“Not so fast.” Blake rose, mischievous smile in his eyes. “Shouldn’t we say our vows?”

“Excuse me?”

He extended his arm. “Hand, please.”

She complied, solely out of amused interest.

“I, Blaze Hunziker, take you, Randi Woodruff, to be my imaginary wife. For richer or for poorer—though I prefer richer; in sickness and in health—I never get sick; for as long as that guy named Lincoln shall order.”

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.

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.”

x

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 going 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.

“Just a sec, Miss, uh, Mrs. . . . Randi?” He knelt to untie his Converse shoes and roll up his pant legs.

“I’m Randi on set,” she said out the truck window. “But I prefer Miranda.”

He stood, met her eyes. “Miranda.”

Laughter rang from the driver’s seat as Miranda took in his rolled-up jeans. “Nice look, Huckleberry Finn.”

“Funny. Mock all you want, but I’m not the one who drove my truck into a flooded roadway.”

“I was daydreaming, all right?”

He stepped up to her open door. “About what?”

Her gaze shifted to the view outside her windshield. “Taking an entire month off work. Expanding my workshop. Buying a new cabinet saw with chrome-plated surfaces. Woodworking to my heart’s content.” She straightened in her seat, facing him once again. “Probably sounds silly.”

He shook his head. “Not silly. Just not much like an ordinary vacation.”

“Well, I’ve never been all that ordinary.” Her comment hovered between nonchalant and something more. “All right, let’s do this.”

He pushed her door shut, then dipped a toe into the river. The cold sent shivers up his leg. She started the engine. He forced his other foot into the water and, standing knee-deep in the river, braced himself against the hood of her truck.

“Ready?” she called out the window.

“Stick it in Reverse and go for it.”

He threw his weight into the vehicle, pushing until his back strained, mud squishing between his toes. The vehicle barely budged, and as soon as he let up, it settled back into its mud bed. He took a breath, pushed again, swallowing the taste of humiliation.

He felt the jerk of the truck as Miranda shifted into Park. She jumped down from the truck. “New plan. Why don’t I put it in Neutral? I’ll help push and as soon as it’s out, one of us can hop in and steer.

He shrugged. “All right.”

She reached inside to shift into Neutral, then padded around to the front of the truck. She didn’t even flinch as she waded into the water. They stretched their arms beside each other, palms atop the hood. He slid her a glance. “Why do you drive such a beast anyway?”

“It was my grandpa’s. So sentiment or stubbornness, I don’t know, but I love this rusting heap.” She paused, eyes gazing past the truck to the winding stretch of tree-lined road, then shook her head. “Can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

As cold numbed his feet, sympathy heated his heart. He’d done his cursory research about Randi—enough to know she’d lived with her grandparents for most of her childhood years while her parents did some kind of missionary work in South America.

“Well, let’s save your truck before the murky river eats it.”

She nodded.

But instead of pushing the truck, he slid his hand over hers. “Hey, what you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.” What are you doing, Knox?

Her eyes climbed from her covered hand to his face. “Um. Thanks?”

Celine. He’d said it because of Celine. Because she, too, lived with that sense of being unordinary. Because it’d become second nature to voice his reassurance. He pulled his hand back. “On the count of three?”

She nodded again. “One . . . two . . . three—”

“By the way, I’m Matthew, the reporter from Today. I hear you have a cabin—”

At his words, she whipped her head in surprise, slipped while he pushed. And as mud sprayed up into the air and the truck inched backward, he heard the “Oomph” as she landed in the water.

Oh man. Perhaps not the best timing for the introduction. “I’m sorry. I’m really—”

“My truck!” she sputtered through dripping hair.

The apology would have to wait. He hopped over Miranda—So getting kicked off this story!—jumped into the driver’s seat, and yanked the truck into Reverse. Backing up beside his Jeep, he parked . . .

And watched through the windshield as Miranda rose from the water, dress clinging to her body, hair a dripping frame around her face.

“I’m sorry,” he called again as he fumbled out of the car. “Sorry! Let me help—” He held out an arm.

She ignored it, lifting a hand instead to push the hair out of her face. “Oooh, Whitney’s going to kill me.”

He stood at the edge of the flooded portion of the road, creek water syruping over his toes. “Your dress—”

She waved off his worry with a fling of her hand. “I hated it the second I squeezed into it.” She hugged her arms to herself as she plodded from the water and came to stand in front of him. She poked a dripping finger at his chest. “But you . . . I don’t appreciate you waiting so long to tell me you’re the reporter.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You let me go on about Grandpa’s truck. You could’ve at least identified yourself before starting the interview. And you think you’re going to weasel your way into free lodging in my cabin?”

He’d laugh at her wrinkled nose if not for the fierce look in her eyes. “I’m not trying to weasel my way into anything. Your manager offered the cabin, and—”

She stomped her foot, water and mud spraying. “I know he did. Rat.”

“Would it make you feel better if I fell in the water, too?” Stupid thing to offer. Like he had any desire to go swimming in icy water.

But she smiled at his offer. Very possibly a bad sign. “It just might, at that.” She stepped forward, a gleam replacing the annoyance in her eyes.

“I was mostly kidding, you know.”

She reached out. “Oh, really?”

He inched backward. “Miranda, please. I’m a journalist, a professional. I’m on the job right now.” At least until she canned him.

“You did say you were here to shadow me. I was in the water, therefore—”

He ducked just as she lunged forward, but lost his footing in the process. Water splashed over his face as his backside settled into the flooded mud floor, Miranda’s laughter following him down. “You’re right. I do feel better!” She reached down and sent a wave of icy water toward him.

“Why, you . . .” He splashed her back and scrambled to his feet.

“Randi Woodruff, you get out of that water this instant!”

They froze in sync at the yell from the water’s edge. Busted. And by a guy who, if he were a cartoon, would have had steam coming out of his ears about then. Matthew leaned toward Miranda. “Uh, I think we’re in trouble.”

“We? I have a television interview to do, and between my dress and the water, I look like a jaundiced river rat.”

Angry Dude crossed his arms, eyes shooting darts at Matthew as he stalked forward to pull Miranda from the creek.

“Now, Brad, don’t freak out,” she consoled.

“In the truck.”

Miranda offered Matthew a shrug, then climbed into her truck. The guy named Brad dropped into his own car, glared once more at Matthew, and motored off behind Miranda.

Matthew lifted an arm in a frantic wave, creek water dripping from his shirt. “Wait, I need to know how to get to—”

But they were already gone, with only the sound of Miranda’s muffler trailing behind. Mud slicked around Matthew’s ankles as he trudged from the creek. “Well,” he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Welcome to North Carolina.”

x

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s all I had in the truck, Walsh. Didn’t have time to raid the dressing room.” Head high, Miranda strode past a slack-jawed Brad, away from the studio porch where moments ago she’d sacrificed her last vestige of freedom from public scrutiny. A foundation spokesperson had made the award nomination announcement on the national morning news show. After a commercial, the show went to a live-feed interview with Miranda, staged in front of the set house.

“It’s bad enough you decided to have a water fight before appearing on TV. Did you really have to make it worse with that?” Brad pointed to her long-sleeved T-shirt, the words Harry’s Fingerlickin’ BBQ splashed across the front.

“Hey, Harry’s a friend of mine. He’ll appreciate the pub­licity.” At least she’d kept her left arm tight to her side during the interview, hiding the barbeque sauce stain from her last tangle with Harry’s tangy ribs.

“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Come on, Lincoln’s waiting to introduce you to your new hubby.”

She groaned through clenched teeth. “I feel like a teenage bride being led to meet the groom my parents arranged. What kind of dowry did you and Linc offer him?”

“Couple cows and a hundred bushels of grain.”

Brad ushered her to the side door, but she stopped him with her hand on his arm. “This is crazy. How do we even know we can trust this guy? What would make him agree to do this?”

“Money? Fame? We’ll take care of all his living expenses, plus pay him a great wage—as well as a tidy bonus if he sees this thing through. Apparently, he needs it. Appears to be a regular prodigal son—spent five years traveling around the world until he emptied his bank account.”

“And that’s who we’re trusting?”

Brad pressed his lips together, pausing before answering. “Rand, we’ve interviewed him. We’ve done background research. We feel confident this is our guy. But at the end of the day, it’s your call. Just meet him, okay?”

The sound of tires on gravel cut her off from answering. She recognized that Jeep and the guy behind the wheel. “Hey, that’s the reporter.”

“You mean the Marco to your Polo? Sure knows how to start things off on the right foot.”

“The river incident wasn’t entirely his fault.” After all, Matthew Knox had only been trying to help. Kind of nice, actually. With her handy-girl skills, she hadn’t had a man offer to help her out with so much as a light-bulb replacement since . . . she didn’t even know when.

And then there’d been that moment, standing knee-deep in river sludge. “What you said about not being ordinary—I think that’s a good thing.”

A reporter’s ploy, right? Hone in on the interviewee’s insecurity, then coddle her into emotional goo. And yet, his voice, his expression, his hand on hers, all added up to some pretty convincing sincerity.

“Listen,” Brad said. “I’ll stall the reporter while you go meet Blake. Lincoln’s waiting with him in the meeting room.”

She nodded and entered the building, casting off thoughts of Matthew Knox. She stopped in front of the meeting room door. “For the good of the show,” she muttered and swung the door open. “Hey, Linc.”

“Ahh, Randi!” He stood, arms folded, in front of a white marker board covered in Lincoln’s scribble. Born in Charlotte, no siblings . . . college at Duke . . . three years in South America after college . . . met in Brazil . . . thirty years old.

Ladies and gentlemen, her life condensed into dry-erase board notes.

“I caught your interview,” Lincoln said. “Nice job. Though, interesting choice of attire. I especially liked the stain on your arm.”

Oy, and she’d thought she’d been so careful.

“Randi Woodruff, meet Blake Hunziker.”

Miranda barely heard Lincoln’s voice as the figure rose from a chair at the head of the conference room table. The same face she’d seen last Friday, deep-set, dark eyes, mop of black hair, square shoulders—all uncanny in their resemblance to Robbie. But the likeness stopped at this man’s carefree grin flanked by twin dimples.

He sidled around the table and held out his tanned arm. “Hi, um, honey. Darling. Sweetheart. Which do you prefer?” The man’s dimples deepened with his teasing, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Randi will do,” she said wryly, accepting his handshake.

“Really, this is all too perfect,” Linc declared, clamping one hand on Miranda’s shoulder, the other on Blake’s. “You look good together.”

Miranda stepped back. For the good of the show. If she just kept telling herself that . . .

“I go by Blaze, by the way. So how long have we been married?” Blake asked. He ran a hand through shaggy hair, the lazy smile never leaving his face, and then tucked his hands into the pockets of his board shorts. Wasn’t it a little chilly to be dressing like a surfer?

“A few years, right, Rand?” Linc looked to her.

“Three as of last Friday,” she said on autopilot. Couldn’t take her eyes off Blake. It was like staring at a hologram of Robbie. Freud couldn’t have deciphered the emotions twisting inside her at the moment.

It’s only temporary. You can do it. She ripped her gaze from Blake. “For the record, Lincoln, I have serious reservations about this.”

He nudged his glasses. “But you’ll do it, right? I’ve already filled Blake in on everything.”

“And I’m perfect for the job,” Blake offered. “My parents are on a three-month safari in Africa—no joke. And I’ve spent the last five years country-hopping on one adventure after another, haven’t kept in good touch with anyone. So friends, hometown folks, they won’t have any reason to doubt this thing.”

In other words, no ties, no one to question the logistics of their marriage.

“Siblings?” she asked.

For the tiniest moment, a shadow flickered over his face. “Not anymore.”

She’d have stopped him right there if she could have, at that first glimpse of vulnerability from her husband-elect, but he’d already continued. “And another thing: I can cook like no one’s business. You will be one well-fed wife during our little marriage, pumpkin.” He fiddled with the zipper on the sweatshirt he wore over a bright orange T-shirt.

“Call me pumpkin again and our marriage won’t make it past the honeymoon.”

He donned a properly chagrined expression and dropped into his chair. “So, where do we go from here?”

Lincoln pulled out his cell phone. “I go to a meeting with the publicity team. You two lovebirds can take a few minutes to get to know each other.”

Miranda’s eyes pressed into slits. She ought to whack Linc.

No, she ought to about-face and leave the room, the surfer dude, and Lincoln’s smug expression behind. But resolve anchored her in place. As much as she hated it, this was the best plan to save her show, her career . . . her identity.

As Lincoln exited, she lowered onto the chair at Blake’s right. “So, uh, Blaze. That’s an interesting nickname.”

He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Yeah, little incident with a metal travel mug in a microwave. Then there was the time I singed off my eyebrows roasting marshmallows. Oh, and the fireworks seven, no eight, Fourth of Julys ago.”

“Suddenly I’m worried about welcoming you into my house.”

Blake grinned. “Don’t. It’s been three and a half years since my last fire. Hot air balloon. Operator error. In Switzerland. Ah, that was a doozy.”

Apparently Jack London had nothing on this guy.

He rubbed his palms together. “So, look, this is a wild situation. One minute I’ve got a part-time stint with a catering company, the next I’m talked into my first acting gig in a role as your husband. But I like helping people—which, from the sound of it, is exactly what you need.”

“I need some normalcy, that’s what.” Something told her this guy was anything but.

He leaned back in the couch, chuckled. “I can’t promise that. But I can promise to stick to whatever story you want, play the perfect husband. You totally have my word.”

For just a moment, a new thought teased her: This could be fun. Would it be so bad to show up at some glitzy restaurant on the arm of this, uh—fine, she’d admit it—hunk? To put up with his dimpled grins and crinkled, marble eyes?

Would it be so painful to act out the happy marriage she’d always dreamed of? “Why are you really doing this, Blaze?”

He must have recognized the imploring tone of her voice for what it was—a plea for assurance, for some kind of serious answer to convince her she wasn’t about to make the mistake of her life. “When your manager approached me, at first I thought, ‘Dude, I’ve spent a good deal of my life in someone else’s shadow. This is my chance for the spotlight.’ May not be noble, but it’s a reason, right?” He shrugged, then softened. “But the truth is, I had a chance to help someone once, and I . . . failed. Ridiculous as it sounds, this felt like a second chance. A slightly insane one, but . . . Well, anyway, the paycheck’s good, too.”

Miranda studied him. He may brush off his own words, but she’d seen a spark just then, something honest and generous. He genuinely saw this as a noble cause, didn’t he? “And y-you really think we can pull this off?”

“Babe, I once bungee-jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I think I can manage a few weeks of wedded bliss.”

He propped his feet on the conference table, flip-flops in place of shoes, not even a hint of concern on his face. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from the man. “You don’t think we’re crazy trying to pull the wool over a whole country’s eyes?”

“Oh, I think you’re crazy, all right. I just happen to like crazy.”

Oh, Lord, help me. But the prayer had no business flitting through her mind. She couldn’t ask God to help her lie.

Not lie. Pretend. Remember what Brad said: “ . . . just another character on the show.”

Somehow the thought didn’t ease her conscience. Someday when this is all over, God, I’ll be the obedient, meek and mild woman I’m supposed to be. The person Mom and Dad always wanted me to be. Maybe she’d go to church again, too. Rekindle the faith that had burned down to barely a flicker of late.

But for now, she had to do what she had to do.

“All right, Blaze. Consider yourself fake-married.” She stood and reached behind her head to loosen her ponytail.

“Not so fast.” Blake rose, mischievous smile in his eyes. “Shouldn’t we say our vows?”

“Excuse me?”

He extended his arm. “Hand, please.”

She complied, solely out of amused interest.

“I, Blaze Hunziker, take you, Randi Woodruff, to be my imaginary wife. For richer or for poorer—though I prefer richer; in sickness and in health—I never get sick; for as long as that guy named Lincoln shall order.”

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.

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