The Bachelor Meets His Match. Arlene James

jumped up, a short, almost silent laugh escaping her. “No.”

      He considered, relaxed, dropped his hands and finally reached up for the plate of food. “You won’t mind eating this, then.”

      She was hungry, so she didn’t argue. Taking the plate warily, she relaxed somewhat when Hilda, who happened to be her aunt by marriage, turned away without so much as a second glance. Not recognized, then. She supposed she had changed a good deal in the past nine, almost ten, years, and given the ravages of cancer... Simone sometimes wondered which was worse, the disease or the cure. She turned off the thought and smiled her thanks at those around her.

      “This is exactly what I need.” She picked up the burger and bit into it. “Mmm.” After chewing and swallowing, she touched her fingertips to the corners of her mouth and said, “I prefer my cheeseburgers with mayonnaise.”

      Chuckling, Morgan Chatam pushed up to his full height. “Mayo coming up.”

      “And a napkin, please.”

      “And a napkin.”

      While he went off to fetch those things for her, she turned to sit sideways on the chaise. Her uncle Chester handed her a soft drink, nodding and moving off without so much as a glimmer of identification. Simone felt a pang of disappointment, but perhaps it was for the best. She couldn’t think of that now. The Chatam ladies stayed with her until Morgan returned with his own meal in hand. As they moved off, he sat down beside her, placed his drink on the ground and handed her a plastic knife, indicating the glob of white on his plate.

      “Mayonnaise.” While she slathered the condiment onto her hamburger bun, he plucked paper napkins from a pocket and dropped several into her lap. “And napkins.”

      “I thank you.” She bowed her head at him, adding, “And I apologize. I forget to eat, and I don’t always get as much sleep as I should.”

      “And that’s all it is?”

      “It’s certainly not an eating disorder,” she said with a wry chuckle, adding, “It probably didn’t help that I walked over here in the heat.”

      “In that case,” he said, “I’ll be driving you home.”

      “Oh, that’s not nece—”

      “I’ll be driving you home,” he repeated, making it clear that the matter was not open for discussion.

      She subsided at once, but it rankled. At twenty-six, Simone had been on her own for almost a decade. If anyone could claim the title of “adult,” then she could. She certainly wasn’t proud of being the black sheep of the family. She had run away from home at the tender—and stupid—age of sixteen, but she had survived. It had been a near thing at times, and she wasn’t always proud of how she had managed, but no one at the college needed to know that. Her family was another matter.

      She’d intended to confess all to her dad and hope, trust, that he could forgive her. He’d been good like that, always willing to extend another chance. Her mother had seen that as weakness, and to her shame, Simone had, too, but she’d learned otherwise over the years. Now that it didn’t matter.

      Grief loomed. She shoved it away. She had no right to it. Later, she would decide what to do.

      After eating most of the food she’d been given, she shook her head and handed over the plate. “That’s all I can manage.”

      Morgan Chatam stacked the plate atop his empty one and set both on the end of the chaise. “Good enough. Perhaps you’d like to go inside where it’s cool now and rest for a bit.”

      “That sounds great.”

      She got to her feet, as steady as could be. He lifted a hand and she preceded him back to the house, saying, “About that cousin of yours, the one who married the widow...”

      “Phillip? What about him?”

      “You said something about a business.”

      “That’s right. Smartphone apps.”

      Simone couldn’t help smiling. Yes, that sounded like her sister, Carissa. Tom, Carissa’s husband—first husband—had studied computer science, and Carissa had always been fascinated by the subject. Poor Tom. It was hard to believe that he, too, had died.

      “And do they live around here? Phillip and...his wife?”

      “They do. They bought a house and set up an office less than a mile away.”

      “That’s nice.”

      She and Carissa had never been the closest of sisters, but Simone was glad to know that Carissa was doing well. Now that their dad was gone and Carissa had married into the Chatam family, however, she wasn’t likely to want her black sheep little sister around, especially if her full history should be uncovered. And it surely would be. The Guillands, her in-laws, had uncovered it quite easily.

      After that, nothing could convince them that she was good enough for their precious son. “A diseased street kid” who could not even give them the grandchild they so desperately wanted was not a fit wife for the Guilland family heir. Simone didn’t really blame them for having her marriage to their son annulled, any more than she would blame her sister for turning away from her in shame. So why even give Carissa the chance? Why put Carissa through that?

      It seemed to Simone that even her dreams of home and reconciliation had died.

      Chapter Two

      Morgan reached around Simone to open the sunroom door. “Let me show you someplace comfortable to wait out of the heat.”

      “All right.”

      He led her through the sunroom and down a darkened back hallway to a large room filled with comfy overstuffed furniture and a large flat-screen TV.

      “The family parlor,” he said. “There are video games, if you’re interested.”

      She cut a glance at him, quipping, “That’s not what I expected to hear. Then again, you’re not exactly the typical college professor.”

      He laughed. “You just haven’t seen me in my tweed jacket with the suede patches on the elbows.”

      She smiled at that. “Sounds rather old school. Seems to me that college professors these days are either eccentric or ultraprofessional types.”

      “Well, history professors are a different breed.”

      “Yes, but you don’t fit that mold, either.”

      He grinned and for some reason that he couldn’t explain even to himself, he prodded her for a personal opinion. “No?” He spread his arms then folded them. “How would you label me, then? Be kind, now.”

      She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to size him up, and he was aware of his heartbeat beginning to accelerate. “If I didn’t know and had to guess, I’d say...race car driver.”

      His jaw dropped, but he quickly snapped it shut again. She had to be putting him on, of course. His predilections were well-known around campus.

      “That’s funny.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “But it’s motorcycles. Not race cars.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      He didn’t appreciate her attempt to play stupid. Oddly disappointed, he turned and walked out. Everyone knew that speed was his greatest weakness, his great indulgence. Sports cars, motorcycles, fast boats, even roller coasters were his idea of FUN, writ large and in capital letters. Some of his family gave him a hard time about it, but he was skillful, careful and respectful of the laws, saving his true exploits for the racetrack. Next to moving fast, he liked tinkering and kept a fleet of vehicles, one for every purpose. More than one young miss had tried to use his fascination with horsepower to spark a more personal fascination. That this one appeared to take the opposite approach somehow unnerved him.

      Then