The Perfect Christmas. Debbie Macomber
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are you asking about him?”
He lifted his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “It’s my experience that most women want to marry a man just like their father.”
“Not me. Pete’s a poor excuse for a father. I want as little to do with him as possible.”
Simon immediately made a lengthy notation on a pad in front of him.
Cassie moved to the edge of the cushion. “What did you write?”
Simon looked up, a frown darkening his face. Clearly she’d offended him. She could only suppose he wasn’t accustomed to anyone questioning his actions. “What did you say?” he said frostily.
“I asked if you’d tell me what you wrote down.” She pointed at his notepad. “It was about me and my non-relationship with my father, wasn’t it?”
He flattened his hands on the desk. “These are my notes. I don’t share them with clients.”
The urge to stand and simply walk out the door was nearly overwhelming. Gritting her teeth, she said, “Has anyone ever told you you’re rude?”
He grinned as if the comment pleased him. “As a matter of fact, yes. Several people have taken delight in revealing their opinions.” He shook his head. “It has more to do with them and their hurt feelings than with me.”
“What others think doesn’t bother you?”
He gave a bored sigh. “Not particularly. Why should it? Now listen, Ms…?.” He glanced down at the application in an apparent effort to locate her name.
“Beaumont,” she supplied.
“Ms. Beaumont,” he said impatiently. “This is my office and I ask the questions here. Kindly refrain from interrupting me.”
She leaned back in the chair. “By all means, ask away.” She waved in his direction as though granting him permission to continue.
He narrowed his eyes. “In as few words as possible, explain to me why you aren’t married.”
That was easy enough to answer. She thought of what Angie had said a few days earlier. “I’ve been told my standards are too high.”
He raised his eyes from the page, his expression startled.
“I guess you could say I’m choosy,” she amended. “I’m looking for a perfect match. Someone who’s just right—for me. The perfect man, the perfect marriage…and,” she added, almost in a whisper, “the perfect Christmas.”
He didn’t respond. “You’re how old?” he asked, instead. He ran his finger down the application.
“Thirty-four. How old are you?”
He exhaled. “As I requested earlier, kindly refrain from asking questions. My age is not your concern.”
“Answer me one question, and then I promise not to ask anything else.”
He glared at her.
“Just one,” she cajoled. “You can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is to sit here and have you scrutinize me. It’s only fair that I should know something about you.”
Sighing, he set the application aside, but before he could speak, she blurted out, “Are you married?”
His eyebrows arched. “That’s your one question?”
“Yes, and it’s important.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, first, if you haven’t been able to find yourself a wife, what qualifies you to find me a husband?”
“All I will say is that a doctor doesn’t need to have a disease in order to cure it. I’m good at what I do. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be willing to offer a refund if I’m unsuccessful in locating a husband for you.”
“Are you always so stiff and formal—as if your underwear’s been starched?”
He stood abruptly. “I believe that will be all for this afternoon.”
“You’re sending me away?” She blinked, disappointed. Cassie was just starting to enjoy this. His typical clients were probably more respectful, if not downright obsequious.
“This interview is over.”
“Did I pass?” She’d rather know now than be left hanging. She guessed not. She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t take her on. And yet, disagreeable though he was, Simon Dodson intrigued her.
He hesitated. “I’ll be in touch later this week.”
This was a line Cassie had heard before. “In other words, don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Precisely.”
Cassie recognized her marching orders. She bent down for her purse and reluctantly stood.
As she drove back to her condo, she tried to make sense of her short interview. On her way up, she collected her mail and noticed once again that the Tuesday paper was missing. Mrs. Mullinex, no doubt.
She ran for the elevator and saw Mr. Oliver, who lived on the same floor, standing inside. Looking her right in the eye, he let the doors close instead of holding them for her. This wasn’t the first time, either. He was an unsociable man; the most she’d been able to coax out of him was a muffled greeting, as if he begrudged every word he was forced to speak.
When she got to her condo, she saw that she had company.
“Shawn!” Her brother had made himself at home and was wolfing down a sandwich while standing over her kitchen sink.
“Hey, it’s about time you got home. Where were you?”
Rather than explain, Cassie walked over and hugged her big brother. “I had an appointment. How long are you here?” she asked.
“Two days, maybe three.”
Shawn often had only a few days’ rest before he flew to some other town where another commission awaited him. She knew he was headed to Phoenix, Arizona, next. He had his own home in Portland, but every now and then he dropped in on her. In an effort to encourage his visits, she’d given him a key to her condo.
“I take it you’re hungry.”
“Starved.”
“Let me fix you something decent.” Cassie checked the contents of her refrigerator, then reached for a frying pan. She loved to cook and had a small repertoire of favorite dishes. This was one. “How does taco salad sound?”
“Like ambrosia from the gods.” He sat on the stool and watched her move about the compact kitchen. “You’re going to make some man a wonderful wife.”
She whirled around to face him. “Funny you should say that.”
Shawn went still. “You’ve met someone?”
“I would’ve told you!” They weren’t in the habit of keeping secrets from each other. “My appointment this afternoon was with a professional matchmaker.”
Her brother’s head went back as if the announcement had shocked him. “Get out of here! A matchmaker?”
“I had my first appointment with the great and mighty Dr. Simon Dodson.”
“How’d it go?”
Cassie set the onion on the chopping board and paused. “I’m not sure. Simon’s pretty rude, but apparently he knows his stuff.”
“Simon, is it?”
In her mind it was. “Yeah. He’s not a medical doctor, even though he has a bunch of letters behind his name.”
Her brother looked unconvinced. “You checked his references?”
“I did. I spoke with