Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (4 page)

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.

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.