Free Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) by Melissa Tagg Page B

before jumping out of a plane—sang through Miranda. “You’re a clown.”
    “Shh, this is a serious occasion. Now, do you, Randi Woodruff, take me, Blaze Hunziker, to be your imaginary husband, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you need me for your show?”
    “I—”
    “Randi! Good, you’re still here.” Brad burst into the room. “I’ve just been showing Matthew Knox around, and—” His voice clipped as his eyes swept over Miranda and Blaze, standing hand in hand in the center of the room. He tossed Miranda a mocking grin. “Well, isn’t this a sweet moment.”
    It was then Miranda noticed Matthew standing behind Brad, jeans still wet around his ankles, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. And curiosity, plain as the white walls of the meeting room, spelled out in his raised eyebrows and tilted head.
    Miranda dropped her hands, flush warming her cheeks.
    “Rand, don’t you want to introduce Blake and Matthew?” Brad prodded.
    “I, uh . . . I do.” Eyes to Blaze. His wink did nothing to quell the butterflies ramming into her stomach. God, help me. And this time she didn’t take back the prayer. “Matthew, this is . . . my—” deep breath—“husband.”
    Let the farce begin.

Chapter 4
    Sunlight streaked through the curtains of Miranda’s bedroom window, spotlighting a trail across the redwood floor and over the quilt tangled around her legs. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms and breathing in the morning air breezing into the room from the window she’d kept cracked open last night.
    She sank back against her heap of pillows. Not too many more nights and temps would dip below freezing. But she’d cling to autumn as long as she could, drinking in its color and tasting its mountain chill. The air smelled of pine and leaves and . . .
    Burning?
    Miranda sniffed, nose crinkling and the last clutch of sleep releasing as she realized the distant scent of smoke came from her own house. “Blaze!”
    She jerked to her feet, toes connecting with the cool wood floor before tripping over the blanket wound around her legs. She kicked herself free, then reached for the green fleece robe draped over her bedpost.
    “Ooh, if that man is burning down my home, I’ll . . .” She’d fake-divorce her fake husband—that’s what.
    She crossed the room in quick strides and barreled down the stairs. On a different day she’d have stopped to gulp in thesunrise still caressing the morning, its pinks and oranges cascading through the lanky windows fronting the house. But not with that man somewhere in the place, probably the kitchen. She passed a mess of sheets and blankets strewn across the living room floor.
    Oh yes, she’d abandoned him to the couch last night, their first night, for all intents and purposes, as husband and wife. Maybe he’d tossed and turned all night. Maybe that’s why he was playing arsonist in her kitchen now.
    “Blake? Er, Blaze?” She thudded through the dining room, skidding to a halt in the opening to the kitchen. He stood shirtless over the stove, sinewy muscles threading down his arms and back. She felt the warmth spread over her cheeks even as she exhaled.
    “Morning, sunshine. Thought I’d make you breakfast. I hope you like your flapjacks well done.” The words rolled lazily from his tongue ahead of a yawn as he ran a hand through his floppy mop of black hair.
    At least a frilly apron covered his torso. She cinched the belt of her robe, did not even want to think about what her own hair looked like. Or her face. Had she even washed off her makeup last night? They’d rolled in so late, and she’d had to find sheets for the bed in the cabin—
    The cabin, the reporter! She slapped a hand to her forehead. She’d been so exhausted last night, she hadn’t even checked out the condition of the cabin first. Just pointed it out and left Matthew Knox to explore it in all its neglected glory on his own.
    “Hey, you okay,