A Wife for One Year. Brenda Harlen

       Chapter Two

      Daniel had made reservations for dinner after the ceremony at Prime—a signature Courtland Hotel restaurant that specialized in steak and seafood. The decor was simple but elegant: leather armchair seating around square tables set with pristine white cloths, gleaming silver and crystal stemware all subtly illuminated by candlestick lamps.

      Before they’d even opened their menus, the hostess returned to their table with a slim glass vase to keep Kenna’s bouquet fresh. She was followed by the sommelier bearing a half bottle of champagne “compliments of the management” for the happy couple.

      “To day one,” Daniel toasted.

      Kenna lifted her glass to tap against his. “Only three hundred and sixty-four more to go.”

      Maybe he should have been insulted that she was already so eager to end their marriage, except that he understood the circumstances of their union weren’t what either of them would have chosen. All things considered, however, he knew he was a lucky man to have married the woman who wasn’t just his best friend but one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known.

      He looked at her now—at the pale blond hair that fell in gentle waves to her shoulders with a fringe of bangs above deep blue eyes. At the delicate shape of her face, the flawless complexion, and lips that were temptingly shaped and softer than he could have imagined. If he’d let himself imagine, which he definitely and absolutely had not until the minister had told him to kiss her. She was at least eight inches shorter than his six feet four inches, with a slender but undeniably feminine physique. And although she looked slight, he knew that she was strong and stubborn, genuine and loyal.

      If he could choose to fall in love with anyone, he would choose Kenna. Instead, they’d chosen to follow the path of friendship, and falling in love now would force a detour from that path and ruin everything.

      When the waiter came to their table, Daniel ordered the peppercorn steak with shrimp skewers, truffle mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. Kenna selected the pan-fried sole with crispy fingerling potatoes and roasted cauliflower.

      They chatted about inconsequential topics while they waited for their food, and while Kenna responded appropriately, she seemed more than a little distracted, and he couldn’t help wondering if she already regretted her decision.

      “If you’re disappointed that Elvis didn’t perform the ceremony, we can probably catch him on stage somewhere,” he told her.

      She smiled. “I’m not disappointed, and I thought the ceremony was lovely.”

      “Just not what you’d envisioned for your wedding day?” he guessed.

      “Truthfully, I’d given up thinking that I’d ever get married.”

      “Why?” he asked, as the waiter approached with their meals.

      “Too many frogs, not enough princes,” she said, after the server had gone again.

      “What about that guy you were dating from school? The gym teacher? You never did tell me why you broke up with him.”

      “While this marriage is a first for me, I’m pretty sure most husbands don’t bring up the topic of their wives’ ex-boyfriends on their wedding night.”

      “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