The Bachelor Meets His Match

Chapter Four

An itch pulled her out of a dense fog and into a feeling of light. Only as she stirred in an effort to reach that place between her shoulder blades where the skin begged to be scratched did she come to realize that she was awakening from sleep. Rolling onto her back with a little noise of exasperation, she wiggled her shoulders to alleviate that bothersome niggle once and for all, only to find herself assailed with a fearful disorientation.

This was not her bed, not the too-hard mattress in the boardinghouse, not the thin, lumpy pad in the hospital, not even the cool, impersonal guest bed at the Guilland house in Baton Rouge. This was the warmest, softest, most comfortable bed she’d ever known. Simone sat up and opened her eyes in the same swift movement, and found the creams and gold and royal-blues of Chatam House all around her.

Memory came rushing back, how she had fainted at the coffeehouse, been rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance, drugged by that nice Dr. Leland and then bullied into coming here by Morgan Chatam. She vaguely recalled her aunt bringing in a tea tray at some point and gobbling down those delicious ginger muffins that had been such a highlight of her childhood, and she vividly remembered being carried up the stairs by Morgan Chatam. College professors weren’t supposed to be that strong and fit, that masculine. They were supposed to be bookish and stuffy and...not wildly attractive.

She flopped down onto the pillows with a huff. Her life wasn’t going at all according to plan. When had it ever?

No matter. She felt fully recovered now. In fact, she felt wonderful. And ravenous. It was time to go home and back to work. Or possibly to class.

She looked around for a clock and found the backpack that she carried in lieu of a handbag on the nightstand next to the four-poster bed. Evidently, someone had fetched it from the coffeehouse. Reaching inside the partially unzipped front pocket, she pulled out her seldom-used cell phone and flicked the screen with her thumb. Six a.m. Oh, my. Apparently she had slept nearly around the clock. No wonder she was so hungry. A casual glance at the calendar icon brought her bolt upright in bed again.

Monday! Monday? How could it be Monday? That would mean that she’d slept completely through Saturday and Sunday.

“You were more tired than you thought,” said an amused voice.

Simone jerked to her right. At the same time, she grabbed for the covers, yanking them up around her throat. Hypatia Chatam smiled at her from the wing chair at her bedside. Garbed in a white silk dressing gown piped in navy and matching pajamas, she had caught her long, silver hair at the nape of her neck with a narrow white ribbon.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you. We were concerned because you slept so long and thought someone should sit with you.”

Clapping a hand over her galloping heart, Simone huffed out a relieved breath. “I’m so sorry to have worried you.”

“It’s of no matter. You look much refreshed. I’ll have your breakfast sent up. You can shower and dress whenever you like, and Chester will drive you over to the rooming house to pack your belongings.”

“No!” Simone insisted automatically. The last thing she wanted was for her uncle to drive her around town. “That is, I—I should be going to class. Dr. Leland said particularly that I am able to attend school a-and master my studies.”

Hypatia inclined her head. “In that case, I’ll call Morgan.”

Simone opened her mouth to protest but could think of no better option, so she closed it again.

“Your clothing has been laundered and put away,” Hypatia informed her, rising from the chair. “You’ll find toiletries in the bathroom. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

Escape, Simone thought. She said, “No, thank you.”

Nodding, Hypatia moved toward the foot of the bed. “As you’ve been working in a coffeehouse, I take it you drink the stuff.”

“Yes, of course, but if you don’t mind, I prefer tea this morning. My stomach’s been empty too long, I think, for coffee.”

Hypatia beamed at her. “I prefer tea every morning. It is more soothing, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Simone said.

“I’m sure you would know,” Hypatia told her kindly before turning away.

That comment seemed a little odd, but Simone put the thought aside for the moment. Slipping from the high bed, she padded on bare feet to the antique dresser, surprised to find her legs a little shaky. A few moments later, as she undressed to shower in the small but richly appointed bath, she glanced up into the mirror and saw the many scars that she bore on her too-thin body. 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, but she cleaned her plate anyway. The sooner she regained her strength and put on some weight, the sooner she could get out of here. Hopefully that would happen before she stumbled across her sister. Perhaps, if she kept to her room here, she could avoid everyone who had any reason to know her.

Oh, Lord, let that be enough, she prayed desperately. I just can’t face Carissa now, not after everything that’s happened. Please, just give me some time to get my strength back, at least. Then...then if she hates me, maybe I can bear it.

Tears filled her eyes at the thought, but she willed them away, dug down deep for the strength that the hospital chaplain had told her was now hers and repeated silently one of the verses he had taught her from John 16.

“I have told you these things so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

Those words of Christ calmed her. She recalled how far she had come, off the streets and out of bad relationships, through life-threatening disease to earn a degree and press on for another. One day in the not-too-distant future, she would do something real and significant with her life to make up for all the pain, sorrow and foolishness of her past. Then maybe she could approach what was left of her family, confess all and show them that she could be trusted to take part in their lives once again. Then, maybe, Carissa could forgive her and they could be the kind of sisters they always should have been. But if not, Simone would have something to return to, something to give her life to, something worth laying at the feet of Christ when she joined her father in Heaven one day.

That was all she wanted now, and no handsome, overbearing, if well-meaning, college professor was going to get in her way.

* * *

Clearly, Morgan had misread Simone at their first meeting. She wasn’t interested in him. Far from it. With every door that he opened for her, every hand of assistance that he offered, she gave a twitch of her chin that practically shouted, “Stay clear! Back away!”

He’d have happily obliged her if he could have, but for some reason he felt literally compelled to watch over her. Much thanks he received for his trouble. She grumbled and groused like the petulant child he was increasingly aware she was not.

“I don’t see why I should take ski clothes to Chatam House.”

“Why leave them here when you’re not going to be staying here?”

The boardinghouse was even more shabby than Morgan recalled, but Simone’s room was as neat as a pin, perhaps because most of her clothes were of the winter variety and remained packed away in boxes.

“Why do you have so many ski clothes anyway?” he asked. “I can’t imagine that snow skiing is a big pastime around Baton Rouge.” But then, she had done most of her undergraduate work in Colorado. He wondered if she would own up to it. She did and more.

“It is possible to travel outside of Louisiana, you know,” she told him haughtily, “but as a matter of fact, I used to work on the ski slopes in Colorado. That’s where I met my husband.”

“Your husband!” Morgan yelped the words, feeling pricked and, oddly enough, betrayed.

She went pale as a sheet. “My ex-husband,” she hurriedly amended, “or whatever you call him when the marriage is annulled.”

Annulled! Morgan didn’t think he’d ever heard of an annulled marriage in this day and age. The woman was a puzzle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma. She put trembling hands to her head and sighed.

“Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done.” Dropping her hands, she stared at him accusingly. “There was no reason anyone had to know about that.”

“There’s nothing saying anyone does,” he told her. Anyone else, that was. Folding his arms, he prepared to wait the rest of the day for the story, if necessary.

Recognizing his resolve, Simone stamped a foot. He thought for a moment that she would explode, but she glanced at the open door—a house policy, and a wise one—and instead sighed, throwing herself down to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. Morgan pulled out the desk chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the top edge of the back.

She made a face and said, “He’s an only child from a wealthy family, used to getting his way, frankly, and...well, we had fun, so when he asked me to elope with him, I agreed. He told me up front that his parents, who were older, wouldn’t approve but that they’d change their minds when we presented them with their first grandchild.” She looked away, adding, “I actually thought I might be pregnant right away, but a routine physical exam turned up something else altogether.”

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