The Bachelor Meets His Match. Arlene James

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СКАЧАТЬ She hazily recalled undressing in front of the Chatam sisters, and a little shiver of foreboding went through her. Her secrets, she feared, were no longer entirely her own.

      Returning to the outer chamber minutes later, dressed and clean, she felt strong but starved. The sight of Hypatia fussing over a heavily laden round tray was welcome indeed. Simone gave her short hair a final rub before draping the towel over the back of the nearest chair. She plopped herself onto the seat and surveyed the contents of the tray in wonder. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, toast, fruit salad, apple juice, a pot of tea and two cups, butter, jelly and—unless her nose and memory deceived her—Aunt Hilda’s famous ginger muffins, warm from the oven.

      “I hope you didn’t carry this upstairs yourself,” she declared, quickly filling one of a pair of delicate china plates.

      “No, no. We are blessed with a dumbwaiter just along the landing,” Hypatia told her. “When you are done here, we’ll send everything back downstairs, and anytime you want anything from the kitchen, all you have to do is call down.” She pointed to the bedside table, where she had laid a paper with telephone numbers written on it. A sharp rap on the door had her bustling in that direction. “That will be Morgan,” she said over her shoulder. “He was already on his way when I phoned.”

      As Simone realized for whom that second plate was intended, her stomach fluttered. She told herself that it was hunger, but she was not as good at lying to herself as she had used to be. Morgan came through the door wearing khakis and a collared knit shirt about the same color of rusty brown as his eyes. He carried a disposable cup of coffee in one hand and seemed as cheery and robust as it was possible to be before seven in the morning.

      “Good morning, all.” He bent to give his aunt a kiss on the cheek before nodding to Simone. “You look well rested.”

      She touched her damp hair self-consciously, murmuring, “I should.”

      He chuckled as his aunt reached for the extra teacup. “Since you brought coffee,” she said, “I’ll just help myself to some tea, if you don’t mind.”

      “Please do,” Simone replied.

      At the same time, Morgan pulled out the other chair, saying, “Allow me.”

      Hypatia waved away the chair, chose a muffin and wandered toward the sofa, teacup and saucer in hand. “No, no, don’t mind me. I’ll just relax over here while the two of you enjoy your breakfast.”

      Morgan waited until she had lowered herself onto the couch, then he parked himself on the chair, rubbed his hands together enthusiastically and dove in. “Good thing I brought an appetite.”

      Simone gave him a noncommittal “um” and began to eat. The eggs were delicious.

      “Sour cream,” he said.

      “What?”

      “Hilda whips them with a dollop of sour cream,” he explained, as if reading Simone’s mind, “and parsley. I stole the recipe ages ago. At home, I add a touch of paprika and garlic powder.” He winked, deepening his voice to add, “More manly that way.”

      Simone laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Don’t let Hilda hear you say that. She can’t abide garlic powder.” He straightened at that. Realizing what she’d let slip, she hastily added, “I imagine. Most real cooks can’t.”

      He looked down at his plate. “Your family has cooks, do they?”

      A heartbeat too late she said, “The Guillands keep three cooks, one for weekdays, which is four days a week, another for weekends, which is three days a week, and the third for special occasions.” It wasn’t a lie. The Guillands did have three cooks, and she hadn’t said that they were her family. Not anymore, anyway.

      “They sound prosperous.”

      She nodded, smiling slightly. He put down his fork, staring at her openly until she reached up a hand to smooth her hair again.

      “You look fine,” he told her, trying to read her mind again. “The short hair becomes you.”

      “Thank you. I—I sometimes think it makes me look too much like a child.” She shook her head, wondering why she’d told him that. “I, ah, used to wear it long.”

      He looked down, picked up his fork again and said very casually, “Lost it to the chemotherapy, I suppose.”

      And there it was. Big secret number one exposed.

      She gulped, made herself stay calm and waited until he looked at her. “Yes.”

      He sat back, touched a napkin to the corners of his mouth and asked, “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

      “I was afraid the college would deny my admission application if it became known that I was recovering from cancer.”

      “But you’re cancer free at this time, or so I assume.”

      “Yes, and I have been for nearly six months.”

      “But you’re still weak and vulnerable.”

      She quietly said, “I’ve had a lot of upheaval in my life.” Clamping her lips together, she looked him squarely in the eye. If he wanted anything else out of her, he’d have to pry it out with a crowbar and a scalpel. She’d said—and been through—enough. His cinnamon eyes plumbed hers for several seconds until finally he chuckled and shook his head.

      “All right. Keep your own counsel. After breakfast, I’ll drive you to class, and after class, I’ll take you to the boardinghouse to pack your belongings.”

      “That isn’t necessary,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine now. You said yourself how well rested I look.”

      “And I intend for you to stay that way until you’re fully recovered.”

      “But—”

      “No buts, Simone,” he told her firmly. “That’s my price for keeping your health issues between us. You move in here until you are fully recovered, according to Dr. Leland and myself, or I go to the BCBC administration with a recommendation that your studies be delayed for at least a semester.”

      She gasped. “That’s blackmail!”

      “That’s my considered judgment as your faculty adviser.”

      Curling her fists against the urge to throw something at his handsome head, she huffed out a calming breath, saying bitterly, “You leave me no choice.”

      “None at all,” he admitted shamelessly. Sitting forward, he covered her hands with his much larger ones, saying, “Simone, I’m trying to help you.”

      Heat rolled up her arms, melting her fists into compliant little curls and filling her with an urgent need for...comfort, protection...something. That something felt alarmingly dangerous, like every mistake she’d ever made. She pulled her hands free, sitting back and folding her arms. Frowning, he blinked at her as if trying to decide what had just happened.

      Picking up his fork again, he all but growled at her, “Eat your breakfast.”

      Her appetite had gone, СКАЧАТЬ