Kate Hardy - Six More Hot Single Dads!

“Yes, I know. Oh, so well,” Brandon couldn’t resist adding.

“That’ll be enough out of you,” his mother declared with an air of finality. She left no room for even the slightest argument. That done, the woman turned her attention to her physical therapist.

“Go, get some fresh air. Renew your ‘juices,’ or whatever it is that you call them,” Anastasia ordered, waving her hand toward the doorway. “You’re of no use to me if you’re exhausted when we start out.”

Isabelle wasn’t sure what the actress was talking about. She had certainly never approached their sessions together with anything but bright enthusiasm and energy. It was one of her work principles to always be upbeat and positive with a client and to never allow them to become discouraged or, worse, to allow herself to behave in a discouraged manner around them. She was getting paid to help, not to whine.

“Brandon,” she called, summoning him as she held out her hand in a gesture that was nothing short of regal. “Be a good boy and help your mother off the table.”

“Now there’s a line I hope no one ever overhears,” he quipped to Isabelle. Coming to his mother’s side with sure, strong hands, he bracketed her body on either side. The next moment, he was scooping her off the tale as if Anastasia weighed perhaps fifty pounds.

Upright and on her feet again, Anastasia slowly released her grip on the back of Brandon’s neck. “Thank you, dear. Now run along, both of you. I have some lines to run.”

He looked at her suspiciously. His mother was a notoriously social creature who rarely did anything alone. “By yourself?”

“No,” Victoria said, coming into the room to see if her grandmother was ready yet. “Gemma asked me to cue her.”

Brandon pretended not to care for the idea. “You’re just trying to brainwash my very levelheaded daughter and secretly turn her into an actress wannabe. Isn’t one in the family enough?”

Anastasia merely shook her head, as if pitying someone who was so suspicious. The truth was, if her granddaughter wanted to follow in her footsteps, she would have happily moved heaven and earth to make it happen.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re babbling about, dear,” she told Brandon. “I have always been more than enough for my audiences and Victoria’s just helping me out by cuing me. Now go, shoo. You’re distracting me. Both of you.”

Using the hand-carved cane that Brandon had gifted her with just before she came home from the hospital, Anastasia took small baby steps toward her granddaughter. Draping one arm a bit more heavily than she would have liked to over the girl’s slender, sturdy shoulders she asked, “Ready to run through those lines with me?”

Victoria had a smile that lit up a room. Anastasia liked to say the girl got it from her. “Absolutely, Gemma.”

“Well, I’m set for the afternoon,” Anastasia pronounced. She looked at her son and Isabelle. “Now, go, both of you.” As they began to leave, Anastasia raised her voice and called out after Brandon, “Maybe she can help you with your writer’s block.”

Stunned, Isabelle looked at him. This was something new. Brandon Slade was regarded as exceedingly prolific and never at a loss for either ideas or words. “You have writer’s block?”

“I do not have writer’s block.” The strongly voiced denial was aimed at his mother, not Isabelle. His tone softened as he walked out of the gym and addressed her. “It just hasn’t come all together for me yet,” he allowed evasively. “Doesn’t mean that it won’t,” he added quickly.

Isabelle nodded. There was no reason to believe that it wouldn’t. “And you’re hoping if you see the right locale, the story will start falling into place for you.”

“Exactly.” There was gratitude in Brandon’s eyes when he looked at her just as they reached the front door. “You understand.”

“I do a lot of that in my line of work. Understanding,” she clarified when he continued regarding her, looking just the slightest bit baffled. “I understand what they’re going through. I understand the frustration when their progress isn’t going as fast as they would like it to. And I understand why they resort to procrastination when they should be pushing forward.” He opened the front door, waiting for her to walk out first. But she remained standing where she was. “Listen, you don’t need me to tag along. I understand that you agreed just to humor your mother—”

“Then maybe you’re not as ‘understanding’ as you think,” he contradicted. “I really would like the company,” he assured her, adding, “and you could give me another take on the location.”

She doubted he needed anyone else’s input. At least, not hers. “Isn’t writing really the ultimate intimate experience? You dig into yourself to get the story, the emotions, the specific characteristics of your people—”

“All true,” he agreed. But she was overlooking something. “The bottom line is that I do it to entertain my readers and to bring in a few thousand more. In other words, the general public.” Very gently, he ushered her out the door and closed it behind him. “You could be my public—unless you have something else to do,” he interjected. It occurred to him that he just might have taken too much for granted by assuming Isabelle would be willing to drop everything to hop into the car with him and take off.

Isabelle didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she appeared to seriously consider the matter. Putting her hands out as if she were actually weighing two things, she lifted first her right hand, then her left, murmuring under her breath in what was a stage whisper, “Hmm, doing my laundry, scouting out a location for a new Brandon Slade thriller. Hard call, but I think the scouting thing has a slight edge.” Dropping her hands, her eyes crinkled as she laughed. “Let’s go.”

For the first time, he noticed that Isabelle had a dimple in the corner of her mouth. It was only on the right, and it was damn near delectable, Brandon caught himself thinking.

Trying not to dwell on that, or the thoughts about her mouth it brought with it, he led Isabelle toward the six-car garage.

The temperature-controlled enclosure currently housed only three vehicles, his two rather expensive cars and the vintage Mercedes that his mother favored.

He’d had the latter brought over in case his mother felt like going for a drive as part of her recovery program. He judged that they were at least two weeks away from her getting behind the wheel at this point.

The rest of the garage, Isabelle noted as they entered, was devoted to an entertainment center, a pool table and all the possible accessories belonging to a first-class gaming area, including a fully-stocked refrigerator.

“You throw a lot of parties here?” she asked, looking around in awe.

“A few,” he conceded. “After I finish working on a book, I like to touch base with my friends. Actually, a lot of them are also my mother’s friends,” he admitted. He liked keeping in touch with that eccentric crowd. There were many fond memories associated with them. “I was like their mascot when I was growing up. Writing can be a very lonely experience and I like balancing it out by socializing with people when I can. Besides, talking to people—” and by this he included anyone who crossed his path “—always gives me fresh ideas.”

“Right, you cannibalize everyone,” she said, remembering what he’d told her the other day.

“I’ve got to find a better word for it,” he decided, bringing her over to his SUV.

Because it was a customized white SUV, there was a regal quality to it that made it look like more than just a fun car.

Opening the passenger door for her, Brandon waited until Isabelle got in. Then he closed it again before rounding the hood and getting into the driver’s side.