A Wife for One Year. Brenda Harlen

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