The bank teller’s smile disappeared the instant she swiped the card my husband had given me. Then she checked my driver’s license, leaned over the marble counter, and whispered, “You really didn’t know who you married?”
Three days earlier, I had become Mrs. Daniel Mercer.
At thirty-eight, I had long stopped believing in dramatic romance. I had dated ambitious men who lied beautifully, wealthy men who treated waiters like furniture, and one surgeon who proposed while secretly still married.
Daniel was different.
Quiet.
Forty-one.
Widowed.
He lived with his eight-year-old
