Keeping my eyes fixed toward the ocean, I asked, “You have used the word offer twice. Do you really see this as an offer?”

“What else would it be?”

I shrugged, turning back toward her and fighting the impending tears. “I guess, technically, it is an offer. But I feel like I’m agreeing to a sale, not a proposal. I mean, if I understand all that I’ve read, and I agree.” I rephrased. “If I agree, I’m in essence accepting money, housing, the repayment of my parents’ debt, and Stewart’s name in exchange for my life. M-my body… m-my future.” I lost the fight with the emotions as a few renegade tears cascaded from my still-painted eyes.

“In essence, isn’t that the way it is with every marriage proposal?” Lisa asked. “In marriage, doesn’t the woman give herself over to her husband in exchange for his protection? When she does that, doesn’t she usually choose to take her husband’s name and financial support?”

I nodded. “Yes, but…” The next words sat heavily on my chest. “…most women marry for love. I never imagined marrying anyone, but if I ever entertained those fantasies, I imagined candlelight dinners and walks on the beach. I assumed I’d know—really know—my husband, and he’d know me. I never, in a million years, imagined a fifteen-page contract and a twelve-hour deadline.”

Lisa looked down. There truly was no answer. No one imagined his or her life would be orchestrated the way I found mine to be. Well, no one in the twenty-first century. Maybe as Stewart said, kings, queens, and nobility did it in the sixteenth century, but not today.

I continued, “This isn’t even like an online dating service. With that I’d at least be able to look at his profile.”

A spark of excitement came to Lisa’s light blue eyes. “Did you Google him?”

My nose wrinkled. “No. I guess I’ve been a little busy with these contracts.”

“Do that, dear. Google him. Learn all you can.”

“What can you tell me?”

She shifted in her seat. “I’ve worked for him for over ten years.” She didn’t offer any more.

“And?” I asked when the silence began to loom.

“The death of Mr. Harrington’s father was difficult for him on many levels. By the time I was employed his father had passed, and he’d taken over Harrington Spas and Suites, International; however, I heard things. I knew that assuming responsibility for his father’s business presented him with many challenges. During that time, Mrs. Harrington was the light of his life, and he was a devoted husband.” A shadow cast over Lisa’s features as she looked toward her lap. “Her death changed him in more ways than I can say. In the time since, he’s different.”

I didn’t like the foreboding feeling I felt from her words. “What do you mean more ways than you can say? Are there restrictions on what you can tell me?”

Her bright eyes looked up. “No, not at all. Mr. Harrington implored me to be honest with you, and I am being honest. He’s a private man. Even after all of these years, I know that there are sides to him that I know nothing about.”

“Like at his work?”

She shook her head. “That, but something else. I know that he has another apartment, one he sometimes frequents. I don’t know why he has it or what he does there. I just know that he doesn’t talk about it. I inquired a few times, but was told that it didn’t concern me.”

I sat with a huff. “I’m nuts! I’m absolutely crazy for even considering this.”

“Miss Conway, I’ll always be honest with you. I don’t know what I’d do in your situation. I know that there could be worse offers from far worse people. I believe that Mr. Harrington is seeing his youth pass by. I believe that in you, he hopes to recapture some of that. I also believe that the person with whom you should be discussing this is him.”

She went on, “You’re right, there isn’t love, but there can be respect. The best way to facilitate that is honesty. I know Mr. Harrington expects and respects honesty. In return, he’ll be honest with you.”

You won’t be a whore, but you will be my whore. If those words were spoken in honesty, what did they mean?

As I contemplated, Lisa stood. “It’s getting late. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, thank you. Thank you for talking with me.”

She squeezed my hand. “Anytime. I’ll admit, for selfish reasons, I hope you agree.”

I didn’t answer, but raised my brow.

“Ever since Mrs. Harrington died, the house has been quiet and often boring. I’m excited to have someone else to care for and talk with.”

Her smile warmed me. When had someone wanted to take care of me? It was another emotional question I wouldn’t allow myself to contemplate.

“Thank you, Lisa. I’ll start my Google search right away.”

“If you want anything to eat, there’s plenty in the refrigerator. Help yourself.” With that, she was gone, and I collapsed on the bed with my phone. Opening the browser, I entered Stewart Harrington into the search engine. Most of the recent findings were business related. It wasn’t until I searched further back that I found anything personal. It seemed that before he married Lindsey Harrington and after her passing, he went through a rather wild time. There were pictures and articles about his escapades. As time passed, I kicked off the yoga pants, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and climbed under the incredibly soft covers.