Kate Hardy - Six More Hot Single Dads!

“Notice the leg room,” he couldn’t resist pointing out.

“I notice it,” she answered, then looked up at him. “Another six inches and I could probably go bowling in it.”

He laughed as he put his key in the ignition. “Wise guy.”

She smiled to herself as Brandon pressed the remote control attached to the sun visor that was above his side of the windshield. Directly behind them the garage door silently slid upward until, tucked away, it seemed to completely disappear from view. The garage was instantly bright with sunshine.

“Do you have to be back any particular time?” he asked her.

She hadn’t gotten around to giving Anastasia the schedules she’d drawn up, so she felt she could be forgiven a small white lie, uttered in hopes of extending her time with him a little longer.

“Nothing specific,” Isabelle answered. “Just to exercise your mother again.”

“Perfect,” he pronounced with an affirming nod. “That means the afternoon is completely wide open. She’s running lines with Victoria, and whenever she does that, Mother gets completely consumed by the character she’s learning to inhabit. Knowing her, she won’t be up for air for hours.”

Isabelle thought of Victoria. The girl might behave maturely, acting years older than what was written on her birth certificate, but at bottom, she was still a twelve-year-old.

“Is your daughter up to that? Running lines with her grandmother for hours?” It seemed like a lot to ask of the girl.

“She’s up to it all right.” There was no small amount of pride in Brandon’s voice as he added, “Victoria’s a very exceptional girl.”

Being exceptional obviously ran in the family, Isabelle couldn’t help thinking as she slanted a covert glance at Victoria’s father.

The next moment, the SUV picked up speed, and they were off.

As was, Isabelle noted, her pulse. Again.

The road leading to Laguna Beach ran through various beach communities that dotted the coast. Brandon drove along unhurried, lightly skimming around Pacific Coast Highway’s twists and turns, as comfortable as a man visiting old friends to seek out their advice.

Except that it was different this time.

Different because this time, he had someone with him. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could, if need be, bounce half-formed ideas off of.

With songs from a bygone era softly playing in the background on the oldies station he had preset on his radio, Brandon did his best to focus, to home in on some kind of a kernel of thought that would start the process finally moving in the right direction for him.

He refused to believe that, after ten well-received bestsellers and a new one about to hit the shelves in a couple of weeks, that he was suddenly dry. Refused to entertain the thought that his best work was now behind him.

Still, he had to admit that he was more focused on the young woman in the passenger seat next to him than he was on anything he could put down on the page.

Was it her fault he couldn’t think—or had he brought her along to give himself an excuse for not thinking?

At this point, he wasn’t sure. It was a “chicken or egg” sort of question.

Thinking it might help seed the barren terrain that was his ordinarily fruitful mind, Brandon decided to get a conversation rolling.

Turning down the radio, he asked Isabelle, “What made you become a physical therapist?”

The question came out of the blue, catching Isabelle off guard. It took her a second to realize Brandon was talking to her. He’d been quiet since they’d turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, and she just assumed that he was plotting a scene in his head or something along those lines. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt him.

But now that he’d addressed her, she felt she was free to talk to him. She started by answering his question. “Well, my sister would tell you it’s because I like to order people around and make them do what I tell them, but the truth is simpler than that. I like helping people. I have an aptitude for it. I can motivate people, get them fired up to try again instead of giving up. Having a small part in their healing makes me feel good,” she told him honestly.

“You’re a very persuasive woman.” Brandon wasn’t trying to flatter her. There weren’t many people who could hold their own with his mother. The fact that she could said a great deal about her strength of character, and that impressed him.

She moved her shoulders in a vague shrug, dismissing his assessment. “No, not really, but for some reason, I can tap into their innermost feelings. I can find that hidden spark that’ll make them try again and again until they conquer that particular hurdle and move on to the next one.”

Brandon nodded, understanding. “You mean like with my mother.”

Anastasia Del Vecchio was opinionated and stubborn, but the woman, despite her complaints, really wanted to get back to her former self. That gave her something to work with, Isabelle thought.

“Your mother’s one of the easier cases,” she told him. When he responded to that with a laugh, she explained. “No, really. She wants to be pushed. I think if I played it strictly the way she makes it ‘appear’ that she wants it—stopping for a break every few minutes and taking the easy way out—your mother would complain even louder—and really mean it. She’d probably demand to know why I was giving up on her. For her, it’s all part of the process. She wants me to ride roughshod over her so she can grumble and complain—and get back to her old self. You know, for a woman her age, your mother’s in fantastic shape.”

Amused, Brandon laughed softly under his breath. “You know, if you value your life, I wouldn’t mention that part about ‘a woman her age’ anywhere that she can overhear you. My mother’s age is a secret guarded only a little less zealously than security at the White House. How do you know how old she is, anyway?” he asked. Even he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that he had the right year.

“I’ve been a fan of your mother’s ever since I can remember,” she told him. “Back then, she didn’t care if people knew what year she was born.”

Shaking his head, he laughed. “Now there you’re wrong. Anastasia Del Vecchio always cared about keeping her age off the record. My mother wanted to be thought of as ‘timeless’ and ‘eternally young.’ To be honest,” Brandon went on to admit, “I’m not even sure if I know how old she is.”

She studied his profile for a moment. “Doesn’t that bother you?” She knew that it would drive her absolutely crazy not to know.

“Not really.” Brandon shrugged away the question. “It’s just part of what makes her Anastasia Del Vecchio. She’s quicksilver. Mercurial. Someone who can’t be pinned down.” He glanced over to his right. They traveled along another stretch of beach, passing an RV camping area. In direct contrast to the RVs, some of Laguna’s most expensive homes were nested on his left. “What matters more to me than any chronological number is that when I really needed her, she was there—without my having to actually say a word to her.”

“When you found yourself suddenly being a single father.”

The road ahead was empty. Brandon allowed himself a moment to glance at her. “So you know about that, too.” It was obviously not a question, but neither was it an accusation.

Still, she blushed just a little at having verbally intruded into a private matter. “You were always an extension of your mother’s life, so bits and pieces of yours made it into stories that were written about her. And then you wrote your first thriller and became famous in your own right. Interviews followed…”