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

weren’t.”
    “But I could’ve been.” With a stubborn flounce of her handkerchief-covered ponytail, she crossed her arms.
    Fine, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at the woman when she’d tripped down the porch steps this morning. No, not tripped—flailed her way down. He’d been pressing Blaze for an interview, when Miranda had burst out of the house. Halfway down the stairs, her feet knotted and she skated on her backside to the ground.
    He hadn’t been able to contain his laughter.
    “Miranda, I’m sorry I laughed when you fell down the steps.” He spoke in measured tones now, forcing his mouth into a straight line. “And I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
    “Why? Because if I was, it might ruin your blog series?” Her bottom lip turned out in a pout.
    “That’s not the only reason. I also happen to be curious about where we’re going this beautiful Friday morning—and why you were in such a hurry to stop me from talking to Blaze earlier.”
    “I wasn’t—”
    “Oh, yes you were. I know alarm when I see it.”
    She bit her lip, which he already recognized as her pondering look. “Um, what were the two of you talking about?”
    “Nothing much. I was on my way to the house when he ran up behind me. Told me he’s training for a marathon—barefoot.”
    “Brilliant idea, yeah?” Blaze had asked.
    “S-sure. Brilliant.” Or a symptom of a brain injury.
    When Matthew asked Blaze if he could interview him for the blog, the man had turned all sorts of skittish—fidgeted with his stopwatch, swiped dots of sweat from his brow, mumbled something about a splinter in his foot.
    And then Miranda had launched from the house.
    Was there some reason Miranda and Blaze were nixing his attempt at an interview with Blaze?
    “Did you happen to read my first blog post? It went live today.”
    Her shoulders relaxed as she uncrossed her arms. “No time, actually. I accidentally slept in. Took forever to fall asleep last night.”
    Her too? He’d lain awake long past midnight thinking about Miranda Woodruff’s past, the hurt she thought she hid. Buthe’d also wondered whether or not, when it came time to write that January cover story, he’d have the necessary coldness to publicize her pain.
    “My editor texted me it had thirty thousand hits in the first twenty minutes.” A bona fide hit. Celine would have her surgery by year’s end.
    They motored around the ridge with the windows open, wind whipping the wooden cross hanging from the rental car’s rearview mirror. A present from Celine. Never failed in its murmuring admonishment—for skipping church, losing his way . . . but most of all, for forgetting what it was like to open himself to God’s presence.
    “There it is, the lane for Jimmy and Audrey’s.” Miranda pointed.
    “And they are . . . ?” He’d assumed they’d spend the day on set again, but she’d guided them the opposite direction of Pine Cove.
    “Friends.”
    He steered onto the gravel, followed the bumpy road into a thick stand of trees, and slowed to a stop. The house in front of them, if it could be called that, was made up of ramshackle walls propping up a sagging roof and planks of wood jutting from the floor of the porch. The scent of cedar and pine, the trickling of what must be a nearby creek, drifted through his open window. None of that fit with the scene before him: dingy blanket abandoned on the porch steps, spindles missing from the railing, a shutter dangling from one window.
    “It’s not much to look at,” Miranda conceded as she hopped to the ground. “But it’s their home. Come on.”
    She took the stairs two at a time, sidestepping a loose board as she navigated the deathtrap of a porch. Matthew followed and waited behind her as she knocked on the rickety front door.
    “Hello, Audrey? You home?”
    The tapping of footsteps sounded from the house and the door swung open. “Randi?” Before he could catch a glimpse of the woman, she threw her arms