A Wife for One Year Page 3
“But we’ve already established that this isn’t like most marriages,” he said, unwilling to let her dodge the topic. “So what happened?”
She picked up her fork and poked at her fish. “Do you really want to talk about my failed relationships?”
He was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question, but he found that he did. He’d been so grateful when she’d agreed to marry him that he hadn’t let himself question the fact that she was a beautiful, intelligent twenty-six-year-old woman who not only didn’t have a steady boyfriend but very rarely went out on dates.
“I’m just realizing that you’re probably as much of a commitment-phobe as I am,” he told her.
“I don’t know that any husband has ever spoken such romantic words to his wife.”
The dryness of her tone made him smile as he cut into his steak. “I thought you were unhappy about being with me because you were thinking about him.”
“Harrison and I broke up three months ago,” she told him.
“But you thought he was the one.” He popped a piece of sirloin into his mouth, chewed.
Kenna shook her head. “Not really. I wanted him to be the one, and then I realized that he wasn’t.”
“So you weren’t thinking about him?”
“No,” she said. “I was thinking—hoping that this marriage won’t jeopardize a decade of friendship.”
“It won’t,” he promised.
Yes, they were legally married, but that was just a piece of paper. And her new status as his wife aside, the woman sitting across from him was still the same woman he’d known for more than ten years, his best friend and most trusted confidante. There was no need for their altered marital status—or one little kiss—to change their relationship.
But they did have to do something about their living arrangements. “I’ll ask Nate if I can borrow his truck when we get back.”
She picked up her wine. “Why do you need his truck?”
“To move your stuff.”
She set down the glass without drinking. “I’m not moving into your place.”
He popped a shrimp into his mouth and wondered why she sounded genuinely startled by the idea. “My condo’s bigger than your apartment,” he said logically. “And I have two bedrooms.”
“I know, but...” Her protest trailed off.
“But?” he prompted.
She just shook her head. “Obviously I didn’t give the details of this arrangement enough thought,” she admitted.
“What did you think—that we’d continue to live as we have been?”
“Of course not,” she denied, but the color that filled her cheeks confirmed to him that was exactly what she’d thought.
“I agreed to separate bedrooms, not separate addresses,” he said.
“But you don’t have a bed in your second bedroom,” she pointed out.
“We’ll move my desk out and your bed in. If anyone asks why, we’ll explain that we wanted to have a guest room for your sister when she comes to visit.”
She considered this and finally, reluctantly, nodded. “But what if she really does want to come for a sleepover?”
“How often does she stay at your place?”
“Hardly ever,” she admitted, stabbing a piece of cauliflower with her fork.
“Then we’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”
She nodded, although not entirely happily, as she nibbled on the tender-crisp vegetable. “Your condo is almost a half-hour drive from South Ridge High School,” she pointed out. “I can be at work from my apartment in less than ten minutes.”
“So you’ll have to get up a little earlier in the morning,” he acknowledged.
“I’m more concerned about how long my car will last with the extra miles I’ll be putting on it every day.”
“We’ll get you a new one.”
She frowned. “You’re not buying me a new car.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
He lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes. “What kind of an answer is that?”
“A valid one,” she said stubbornly.
“Are you forgetting that I’m rich now?”
“I didn’t marry you for your money.”
“Actually, you did.”
She flushed. “Okay, I did. But only for a small part of it and only for Becca.”
“Because she needs the surgery,” he acknowledged. “Just like she needed new shoes when you took that fifty bucks off me back in high school.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. “She’s a kid from a single-parent family in the wrong part of town—I just want her to have a chance.”
“And she does,” he told her. “Because she has you in her corner.”
“And you,” Kenna said. “You were the one who found Dr. Rakem.”
“I just made some inquiries.” He opened the folder the waiter had left on the table, added a tip and signed the tab.
“And then checked his references and arranged the consult.”
He just shrugged, because it really hadn’t been the big deal she was making it out to be.
“I don’t know how to express how truly grateful I am,” Kenna said softly.
“Getting naked might work,” he said, because the mood had become entirely too serious and he wanted to see her smile.
Her lips did curve, even as she shook her head.
Then her gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about our wedding night...”
His brows rose along with his interest.
“...and I decided it might be fun to strip—I mean, see the Strip.”
And that quickly, his hopes were dashed.
“You want to play tourist, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” she agreed.
He pushed his chair away from the table and offered his hand. “Then let’s do it, Mrs. Garrett.”
* * *
Seeing Las Vegas through Kenna’s eyes was like seeing it for the first time all over again. She gaped at everything, from showgirls in glamorous costumes to working girls in almost nonexistent costumes; she paused to admire landmarks of famous hotels and the wares of unknown street artists; she sighed over a diamond bangle in the window display of Cartier but bought a rope-and-bead bracelet from a young boy’s folding table.
She seemed as wary of the casinos as she was fascinated by them. When he fed a fifty-dollar bill into a slot machine and told her to pull the handle, she shook her head and tucked her hands behind her back, as if she was afraid to touch it.
He thought he understood her reticence. She’d grown up in a home where money had always been in short supply, so to feed it into a machine for the thrill of watching the drums roll and the lights flash and possibly—although not likely—hearing the bells clang was completely foreign to her.
“The key to gambling—whether it’s slot machines or roulette wheels or card tables—is to never bet more than you can afford to lose.”
“But a lot of people forget that, don’t they?”
“Some get caught up in the excitement of the game,” he acknowledged. “They forget that they’re putting their money down for entertainment rather than an investment, and they get frustrated by their losses, certain their luck will change with the next hand, spin of the wheel or pull of the handle.” He took her hand from behind her back, unfurled her fingers and wrapped them around the knob. “I promise I won’t let you get carried away.”
She looked at him and nodded, her fear of the machine outweighed by her trust in him. That unfailing trust was the double-edged sword that had kept him from acting on his feelings for her for the past decade, because he would never forgive himself if he hurt her. He pushed those thoughts—and his wants—aside and, keeping his hand over her
s, pulled down the lever.
She held her breath as the reels spun, slowed and finally settled.
“I got a lemon, cherries and a bunch of grapes—what does that mean?”
“It means you lost.”
“Oh.”
“To win a single-coin bet on this machine, you need three matching symbols on the center line.”
He prompted her to pull the lever again.
“Two oranges and a banana.”
This time, she started the machine spinning on her own.
Cherries. Banana. Banana, cherries, grapes, orange, lemon.
The machine spit out five coins.
Her eyes lit up, and her obvious joy speared straight into his heart.
“What happened?”
“The fruit salad—” he pointed to the third icon “—is like a wild card that pays out every time.”
“So I won.”
“If you consider five coins winning,” he said. “Actually, most slot machines don’t even use coins anymore—they just keep track of credits and give you a receipt when you want to cash out.”
“How much of your money am I losing every time I pull down this handle?” she asked him.
“Twenty-five cents.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “You can afford that.”
He got a kick out of watching her watch the machine. The pulse in her throat would speed up as the drums spun around, her hands would clench into fists. He found himself mesmerized by that pulse point, tempted to touch his lips to it, to savor the warmth of her skin and taste her excitement. How would she respond if he did? Would her breath catch? Would her heart race? Would she realize she wanted him as much as he wanted her?
The drums stopped spinning and the excited light in her eyes dimmed just a little when the symbols didn’t match.
She got a couple more payouts of five coins, but grew increasingly disheartened as his initial fifty dollar investment whittled down to forty, then thirty.
“You just keep pulling this handle until you run out of money?” she asked.
“Only if you want,” he told her. “Some people believe certain machines are lucky, and if one they’re playing doesn’t pay out within a few spins, they move on.”
“Maybe we should move on.”
“Other people worry that, as soon as they walk away from a machine, it will pay out big on the first spin to the next player.”
“Those are the ones who bet more than they can afford to lose,” she guessed.
“Sometimes,” he agreed.
She looked at the machine, considering.
“Three more spins,” she decided.
The first spin earned her five more coins, the second nothing.
“Last one,” she said, and pulled the handle.
Cherries. Cherries. Fruit salad.
The lights on top of the machine started to flash and bells and whistles sounded as the machine didn’t just spit but spewed coins into the tray.
“Ohmygod. I won.” She looked at him as if she wasn’t quite sure she believed it, and her radiant smile wrapped around his heart.
“You did,” he agreed.
Her eyes grew wide as the coins kept coming. “How much did I win?”
“$432.50.”
“On a twenty-five-cent bet?”
“On a twenty-five-cent bet,” he confirmed.
“Wow.” That beautiful smile spread even wider. “Is this what they call beginner’s luck?”
“Since the machine can’t know you’re a novice, I’d say it’s more like lady luck.”
“So the machine knows I’m a woman?”
He chuckled as he started to scoop the coins into a plastic bucket for her. “Touché.”
When he was done, she stared at the coins that filled not just one bucket but three.
“Do you want to try another machine?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I just want to try the bed upstairs now.” Then, realizing that he might interpret her words as an invitation—and although he knew better, he really wished they were—she hastened to clarify. “I mean I’m tired and want to call it a night.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to give baccarat, poker or pai gow a go?”
“The only one of those I’ve even heard of is poker,” she told him. “And yes, I’m sure.”
He showed her where the cashier’s window was so she could trade in her coins. When she walked away again, she had $451.75 in her hand—her winnings plus the remainder of what he’d put into the machine—and a jubilant smile on her face.
In the elevator on the way back up to their room, she peeled a fifty-dollar bill from her stack of money and handed it to him.
He didn’t need the money, but he knew Kenna needed to not be indebted to him, so he took it from her and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I feel as if I’ve been on my feet all day,” Kenna said, kicking off her shoes inside the door.
“Or at least the past ten hours.” He couldn’t help but notice that she had sexy toes, perfectly shaped and painted with shiny pink polish.
“I think I’m going to soak in that enormous tub for a while before I crawl into bed,” she said.
He definitely didn’t want to think about her in the tub—or be anywhere in the vicinity while she was. “In that case, I think I’ll wander back down to the casino and see if I can lose some money at the blackjack tables.”
“It’s almost midnight,” she pointed out.
“It’s not even midnight and it’s Vegas,” he countered.
She shrugged. “Just as long as you don’t lose my hundred grand.”
“I won’t lose your hundred grand,” he promised.
But as he walked away, it occurred to him that they’d already thrown the dice and risked something much more valuable than money—the status quo.
* * *
Kenna was rummaging through her overnight bag for her pj’s when her cell phone chimed to indicate a text message. A quick glance at the screen revealed a brief note from Becca.
Can u take me to library 2morrow?
She could have texted back, but she decided to call her sister instead. She wanted to hear her voice, to remind herself of the primary reason that she’d become Mrs. Daniel Garrett.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries that warned Kenna her sister wasn’t in a pleasant mood, Becca repeated her request.
“So can you take me tomorrow or not?” the teen demanded.
“Why do you need to go to the library?” Kenna asked.
“Research for a history paper.”
“Don’t you do your research on the internet?”
“Miss Roberts wants us to cite at least three hard-copy sources.”
“What’s your topic?”
“Revolution and Nationalism.”
“That’s a pretty broad subject.”
“I’m supposed to pick one specific country as my focus,” Becca admitted. “But I want to see how much material is available before I decide.”
“When’s the paper due?”
“Wednesday.”
Kenna didn’t even bother to sigh.
There was nothing she could say that she hadn’t already said numerous times before, to no avail. Her sister was a smart kid who got decent grades without even trying, which frustrated Kenna because she had no doubt that Becca would be a straight-A student if she applied herself. Of course, every time she tried to talk to her about college, her sister brushed her off with a dismissive, “I’m not thinking about college yet.”
Kenna knew that if she didn’t start thinking about it, and seriously, it wouldn’t ever happen. But that was a topic—and a battle—for another day. All she said now was, “You might want to ask
Mom to take you to the library in the morning so that you can get started on the paper, because I won’t be back until later in the afternoon.”
“Where are you?”
“Out of town.”
“That’s an uncharacteristically vague answer,” Becca noted.
“I’ll fill you in on the details later.” When she’d figured out how—and how much—to tell her sister.
“Oh.” Her sister sounded intrigued. “Did you run away for the weekend to have wild monkey sex with a stranger?”
She decided that outrageous question didn’t even warrant a response. “Can you ask Mom to take you to the library?” she prompted instead.
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“Sue Ellen’s got a new boyfriend,” Becca told her. “She hasn’t been home in three days.”
Kenna forced herself to blow out a deep, calming breath. “And you’re only telling me this now?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” she insisted. “You’re only fourteen—”
“Almost fifteen,” her sister interjected.
Which was still too young to be on her own for three days. And three nights.
“You know you can always come and live with me.” She made the offer automatically, as she’d done several times before. Only when the words were out of her mouth did she realize that living with her now meant living with her and Daniel—and his condo didn’t have enough bedrooms to make that work.
“I don’t need a babysitter—just a ride to the library.”
The dismissive response both relieved and frustrated Kenna. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way, but it probably won’t be until about three o’clock.”
“That’s fine.”
“You could get started on your internet research before then,” she suggested.
“Sure,” Becca agreed, without much enthusiasm.
Kenna said goodbye to her sister and disconnected the call.
She hadn’t asked about the origin of Becca’s bad mood. That the teen had asked her sister instead of her boyfriend for a ride to the library was enough of an indication that the on-again, off-again relationship with Todd Denney was currently off. And Kenna wasn’t disappointed about that at all.