Page 27 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"If I don't marry within that time frame, I lose everything. The school goes to a board-appointed successor. Eloise loses her place at Hawthorne."
He met my eyes directly.
"I need a wife, Miss Quinn. And I'm hoping you'll consider the position."
The coffee shop seemed to fade around us as his words sank in.
I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again, unable to form a coherent response.
If I hadn't set my mug down previously, I was sure the hot black liquid would be staining my slacks right now.
I must've looked stupefied because he continued without letting me speak.
"I know how this sounds," he continued, "but I can offer you stable housing, health insurance that would cover you completely—your mother too. You live with her, right? You'd have financial security and in return, I need a real marriage. Legal and binding. Five years, no divorce, no separate lives. The will requires proof that the marriage is genuine."
"My mother?" I asked, my head spinning.
How did he know about her?
"This is a joke," I managed, now certain this was a huge mistake.
I looked around, staring blankly at people whose lives seemed to march onward without the same shock I felt coiling through my chest.
"I wish it were." His expression remained completely serious. "I don't want the money or the estate. But I need to protect Eloise's future and prevent the board from turning Hawthorne into something unrecognizable."
I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath my chair.
"You want me to marry you?"
"I'm asking you to consider a mutually beneficial business exchange."
Harrison's eyes were wide open, dead serious, and I was feeling sick to my stomach.
The rational part of my mind screamed that this was insane, that I should stand up and walk away immediately.
But another part, the part that had been worried about my mother's latest drinking episode and the stack of overdue bills on my kitchen table, was listening.
"Uh, wow. This is insane. I need time to think," I said.
"Of course."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card.
"My personal number is on the back. Take whatever time you need, but?—"
"Seventy-four days," I finished.
How did my brain pick that number out and latch on to it with the shock of such enormous proportions?
"Yes."
I took the card and slipped it into my purse, my hands surprisingly steady.
"I should go."
"Sadie."
The use of my first name stopped me as I began to rise from my chair.
