Miranda needed to win the Giving Heart Award—that’s all there was to it. That would be worthy of the cover. And he could write a nice, happy story. It wouldn’t earn him big bucks. He’d have to find another way to help Jase and Izzy afford the surgery. But after seeing Cee with Miranda, he knew he couldn’t write an exposé.
Of course, there was always the possibility of there being a story behind that rival show. He’d made a few calls, poked around enough to get a few details on the new pitch. All he had was a name, but maybe there was enough of a story there to satisfy Dooley.
But for now, Matthew had something else to focus on.
The porch steps creaked as he climbed to the front door. Blaze’s relaxed grin greeted him on the other side of the screen door. “Dude, what’s up? How was your trip? Miranda headed out for the day, and I’m bored to death.”
Matthew pocketed his phone, forced himself to forget Dooley’s insistence.
“Well, say good-bye to boredom. Because I need a little help.”
Sunset danced in a whirl of pale color as Miranda turned Grandpa’s truck toward home. Cotton-candy pinks and blues hovered over the mountain horizon, fading into purple overhead. She hadn’t planned to spend so much time at the church. But she’d run into Joni Watters again and ended up helping her paint the basement Sunday school rooms as the woman spoke of the daughter she’d lost.
How different it’d felt listening to someone else’s hurts—and joys, too—rather than dwelling on her own. She rolled around the pastor’s wife’s stories in her mind, tasted Joni’s vulnerability for the gift it was. People usually came to Miranda for advice on stripping paint and weatherizing their deck, not to bare their hearts.
Except for Matthew. When he’d spoken of his damaged relationship with his father, he’d let her see inside. Yesterday, he’d further opened the door to his personal life with their brief trip to Minneapolis.
And look what she’d done with his trust. Trampled all over it with lies.
It had been nice to spend time with Joni. Miranda’s only fumble had come when her new friend invited her to church on Sunday.
“I—I don’t think so. But thank you.”
Joni didn’t dig for the reason. But why did Miranda get the feeling the pastor’s wife guessed more than mere reluctance kept her away? She probably even knew Miranda had been coming by the church on Sunday afternoons for months now.
She pulled into her driveway, gaze immediately moving to Matthew’s cabin. Yes, she’d begun to think of it as his. With a heavy breath, she trudged to the house, up the porch steps.
Strains of an orchestra waltz drifted from the house. She pulled open the front door. And gaped.
Blaze and Matthew stood in the middle of her emptied living room—the couch pushed up against the east wall, the fuzzy rug that usually decorated the floor in front of the fireplace rolled up and standing in the corner. Streamers dangled from the corners of the room.
Blaze stabbed a thumb in Matthew’s direction. “His idea.”
End tables, leather recliner, and floor lamp, all huddled by the staircase.
“What’s the deal?”
Matthew stuck his hands in his back pockets. “Well, see, I had this idea.”
“To make over my living space?”
“To teach you to dance. And, um, give you the prom you never had.”
Oh. “Matthew, you don’t have to—”
“I might have overheard you telling Izzy you’re worried about the dancing at the gala. Izzy begged Jase to take dancing lessons before their wedding, and Jase coerced me into going along.” He swung both hands up and down in front of him. “So what you see before you is an expert dancer.”
No, she saw the reporter who could topple the very thing she was desperate to save if he spilled her secrets to his drooling editor. And he wanted to dance?
“Just so you know, muffin, I could totally pop-n-lock like a blinged-out rapper if my arm didn’t weigh ten pounds in this cast,” Blaze said, dropping onto the out-of-place recliner. Now that Matthew knew the truth about them, they were able to drop the “couple” act at home.
“I appreciate this. I do. But . . .” She looked from Blaze to Matthew. “Don’t we need to talk?” Even with all the time they’d spent together yesterday, her revelation still hung between them.
“Believe it or not, it’s possible to dance and talk at the same time. Now shrug out of your jacket.” He walked to the iPod dock on her fireplace mantel. “What’s your preference? Old Blue Eyes or Bing Crosby?”
A tinge of enthusiasm tickled through her. “Who’s the easiest to dance to?”
“Either’s great, but for starters, we’ll go with Bing. The first step I’m going to teach you is the box step, because you’ll use it in all kinds of ballroom dances: waltz, rumba, foxtrot, quickstep. We’ll start with the waltz.”
“Lame,” Blaze said as he pulled the lever for the recliner. He leaned back, amusement dripping from his voice.
“Should I make him leave?” Matthew asked Miranda, taking a step closer to her.
“No. He’s forgetting I know where he sleeps. Behave, Blaze. Matthew’s trying to help me.”
He crossed his arms behind his head. “Relaxing. Zipping my lips. Minding my own business.”
“That’s better. So, what do we do, Matthew? Aren’t you going to start the music?”
“Uh-uh, I was just getting it ready for later. You learn the box step, then we add music. So . . .” Discomfort flickered through his eyes but disappeared before it had a chance to spread. “I’ll place my right hand on your waist.” He did. “You put your left hand here.” He pointed to his right shoulder. “And with your right hand . . .” His fingers closed around hers.
He smelled like soap and fabric softener. Stubble shadowed his cheeks and jaw. And did his eyes ever stop shifting colors?
Close quarters.
Why? Why was he doing this for her?
“Now, on the first beat, I’ll step forward with my left foot. You step back with your right.”
He stepped forward. She didn’t step back. And her chin bumped against his shoulder as a nervous giggle pushed past her lips. “Sorry.” Warmth flashed up her neck.
“It’s okay. Let’s try again.”
This time she remembered to shift her foot back. Then followed as Matthew taught her the rest of the moves. She caught on quickly after the first couple attempts.
“See, nothing to it, Miranda.”
“Maybe there’s hope for me. Though, that was only one step.”
Matthew clicked on the iPod. “Never you worry. I’ll turn you into Grace Kelly yet.”
“You mean you’re going to dye my hair blond and send me off to marry the prince of Monaco?”
He took his place in front of her, hand settling on her waist, and rolled his eyes. “I mean, you’ll feel graceful.”
Bing Crosby’s crooning floated through the room.
“Now, just follow me.”
Did he notice the callouses toughening the skin of her palms? Or the freckles Whitney always attempted to hide under a layer or five of makeup?
“You’re doing well.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls you teach to dance.”
“Only the ones wearing work boots,” Blaze called.
“Can it, Casty,” she shot back.
“Now, that wasn’t very graceful.” The recliner creaked as he leaned back.
“Ignore him,” Matthew said. “Just focus on me.”
But, see, that’s what got her into trouble. For days, she’d focused on Matthew—started to like the way he tagged along, drew her out, made her feel important by taking notes when she talked. She’d forgotten why he took the notes. His assignment.
“I follow through on my assignments. You’re my assignment.”
At the memory of his bitter words, she stumbled, dropped her hand from his shoulder.
“Something wrong?”
She met his eyes. “We’re pretending.”
br />
His glance darted to the side, to Blaze now fiddling one-handed with the iPod dock remote. “I . . . I know. You already told me.”
“I mean us, you and me. I dropped a bombshell on you, and there’s this crater of emotion underfoot and we’re still tiptoeing around it. I appreciate this lesson. But please tell me what you’re going to do.”
At some point during her pleas, he’d released her waist. Blaze, oblivious to the conversation, rose. “Stupid arm is itching again. I need something to do. Who’s hungry? I’m cooking. One armed, that is. This’ll be fun.”
He left the room without waiting for an answer. Matthew kept his eyes on her face.
“Whatever you think of me, I understand. I do,” she said. “I don’t think a whole lot of myself these days.”
Matthew stepped an inch closer. Why didn’t he say something?
“I’m not going to beg you to keep my secret anymore. You’re a reporter, and you’ve got a job to do. But if you could just let me know—”
Suddenly he lifted his hands to her cheeks, and before she knew what was happening, he lowered his head, cut her off just like that, and kissed her—kissed her as if she hadn’t made a royal fool of herself, as if he hadn’t seen her ugliest side. And just as she warmed to the idea—closed her eyes, leaned into him—he broke away.
“What,” she gasped, breathy, flustered, “was that?”
He’d dropped his hands but still stood only a breath away. “I . . . I . . . don’t . . .”
Oh, for crying out loud. She threw herself at him, arms around his neck, and kissed him just as she’d ached for the day of their hike. Before everything went so wrong. She felt his hands on her back, tucking her into an embrace full of promise and warmth and . . .
The doorbell rang, and they sprang apart. She lifted her eyes to meet his. What now?
“Fireworks,” he said.
She pulled together a half grin as the doorbell sounded again. “What? That kiss or the way we popped apart?”
“Both, I think.” His cheeks were so red they could have planted him on a street corner with the word STOP painted in white.
What was that? He’d kissed her. And then she’d kissed him. And . . .
“Who’s at the door?” Blaze called, coming in from the kitchen.
Legs good and wobbly, Miranda made it to the front door, flung it open.
And her world tilted once more.
“Randi.”
Just like always, in just one word, he completely undid her.
“Robbie?”
Chapter 14
Robbie was standing in her kitchen.
Robbie was standing in her kitchen pouring muddy black coffee into her favorite mug.
Uncertainty and confusion hardened through her like plaster, leaving Miranda an unmoving statue in the doorway. Robbie lowered the mug before drinking, eyes traveling the length of her, pausing on her fuzzy slippers. He smiled.
“That’s my cup.” She should’ve made him leave an hour ago. Should’ve closed the door in his face.
Robbie blinked. “Oh, sorry.” Pause. “Here, I’ve not taken a drink yet.” He offered the mug like a peace offering as he spoke with that familiar hint of accent in his voice. Robbie had dual citizenship. He’d spent most of his school years living with his father in South America, summers in the U.S. with his mother. With all the back and forth, he’d acquired the vocal flavor of a world traveler.
He shouldn’t be here. Not now, not after all this time.
She’d hoped to emerge from her bathroom to find the evening’s events only a dream. Well, not all of them. The moment in the living room with Matthew, his kiss, her kiss. The feeling of his arms around her. Didn’t want to forget that.
Should. But didn’t.
Then Robbie had shown up. Knocked the wind out of her and replaced it with tension, thick and heady.
“I am sorry to show up so suddenly,” he’d said, moonlight framing his form in her doorway. “I’ve always been spontaneous. You remember, yes?”
“I remember a lot.”
The music from Matthew’s iPod had faded as the song ended, only silence draped in awkward strain filling in. Finally Robbie spoke again, “I was in the area. I thought it might be nice to visit you. I . . . missed you.”
Words, reason, common sense, they’d all fled together. And she had followed suit, whirling on her heels, climbing the staircase as if it led to a safe haven where her past couldn’t intrude. She’d heard a knock minutes later, Matthew’s soft voice at her door.
“You all right, Miranda? Do you want Blaze and me to send him away?”
She’d creaked open the door. “No, I guess not. But I’m tired and I smell like paint. I’m going to shower. Tell him I’ll be down in a while.”
Matthew had nodded slowly, as if he wanted to argue, but hesitated.
“And . . . you and Blaze . . . maybe you could grab supper in Pine Cove while Robbie and I . . . talk.”
The unmistakable hurt in his eyes at that last part had been palpable. “Are you sure . . . ?” he began but left the question dangling, finally nodding and turning.
Now here she stood, against her better judgment, wearing comfortable purple fleece pants and a white cotton shirt. Too comfortable. If only she’d pulled on her work pants and boots, she might feel a little more in control. Tool belt, too. A hammer might come in handy.
Oh, why had she suggested Matthew and Blaze leave?
Robbie studied her through cocoa-bean eyes from his spot beside the kitchen sink. Hands hidden in his pockets, one leg crossed over the other. He didn’t move, as if wary that she might spring into attack.
She lifted the mug he’d handed her, gulped the coffee like water. The liquid scalded her throat on the way down, and she sputtered. Hot. Too much. Choking. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Randi, you all right?” Robbie unfroze, moving to her side, patting her back.
One more cough and she could breathe again. Only instead of coffee, now Robbie’s palm burned her back. She jumped, the remainder of her coffee splashing over the edge of her mug. And those tears, why couldn’t they leave her alone?
Desperation formed words. “Wh-what are you doing here?” The question came out a feathery whisper. No. No, she wouldn’t play the stuttering weakling.
“You’re strong, unbreakable.” Robbie’s own words, once jarring and grim in the letter he’d left her, filled her now with a resolute energy. He’d wounded her enough. “Talk.”
He raked a hand through his wavy hair and opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened. “I rehearsed this. Lot of good that did.”
Miranda’s hands found their way to her waist. She wasn’t about to make this easy for him. “Maybe I can help you start. Where have you been the past three years?”
He leaned against the sink. “I went back to Brazil, at first. Spent time with my family. Then I went to work with a contractor friend of my father’s. Now I live in California.”
She used to imagine this conversation, grilling him about his life since leaving her. She would picture the emptiness in his eyes, the loneliness, the regret. And she’d always wavered in imagining her reaction. Would she comfort herself with his misery or let herself be swept away by a tide of sympathy?
Turned out it was neither.
All she felt was an incredible emptiness. And cold, inside and out. She balled her fists up into the sleeves of her shirt.
“Do you have to look at me like that?” he finally said.
“Like what?” She cocked her head.
“Like I just sawed off your right arm.” Something close to challenge brimmed in his eyes.
“You left without a word.” She paused between each syllable, tone heavy with accusation.
“I left a note.”
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice rose decibels. “Well then, that makes everything a-okay. Thanks so much for that heartfelt notice that our time together had come to an end.”
He looked away, lips pressed, then found he
r eyes again. “So, we are going to do this now?”
“Well, what else did you come here for, Robbie?”
The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyes remained hard. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me Robbie.”
“Roberto, I moved on. I’m not above admitting you broke my heart, but I moved on. I don’t know why you had to come here. I’m in a better place. If you take this from me, too, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Too? I did not take anything you didn’t willingly give. Do not put that on me, Miranda.”
He has no idea. Had he ever watched her show? Did he know how she’d gushed about him in those early episodes? And did he have any clue what she’d suspected in those last days before he left? Had he even noticed her giddiness?
The words gummed up in her throat, sticky and scorching. In slow motion, she lowered to a chair at the kitchen table. “I just don’t understand why you had to come here. I mean, you stayed away for three years and—” She stopped when she saw him shaking his head. “What?”
“I did not stay away for three years.”
Surprise silenced her. What did he mean by that? He’d been back?
“I returned six months after I left,” he said, head lowered. “I felt horrible. I wanted to apologize. To see if . . .” He looked up. “To see if we might still have a chance.”
No, that couldn’t be true. If he’d returned, why didn’t he see her? Why hadn’t he sought her out? Oh, Lord, what if he had? Would she have . . . would they have . . . ? And all of this with Blaze, the show, none of it would be a problem now.
And Matthew? “I don’t understand.”
“I found your journal. You were not home. I still had a key to the cabin. Inside, I found a box, and the journal was there. I read it, and I knew there was no place for me here anymore. At least I thought so.”
Realization descended. Oh, God, help me. He did know. He knew about . . .
Now his words came out in a flood, rushing over her, drowning her in the kind of hurt she couldn’t outswim. “You must understand, you asked me to sleep at the house instead of with you in the cabin. You became secretive. You were always at work. I thought . . . you were pulling away from me. I had no idea you thought you were . . .”