Kate Hardy - Six More Hot Single Dads!

As Isabelle watched, waiting to see what he was going to do, Brandon remained completely unflappable. He returned “Annaliese’s” smile, but he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m afraid that my pen only writes on paper,” he apologized.

Apparently prepared and very much undaunted, the would-be Marilyn Monroe produced a laundry marker from her purse.

“How about this?” she suggested. “It’s supposed to write on anything,” she breathed.

For a moment, it looked to Isabelle as if Brandon would give in and sign his autograph on the young woman’s very ample chest. But then, to her relief and surprise, he said, “How about I put it someplace where it isn’t going to be washed off when you take your next shower?”

By his satisfied expression he knew he had the young woman. She would either say she didn’t intend to ever shower again, which was off-putting by anyone’s standards, or she’d have to indicate that she didn’t care if the autograph lasted or not, which was ultimately an insult to the man she was trying to flatter.

With a sigh, the woman called Annaliese straightened and allowed the fabric of her blouse to fall back into place, covering at least part of her cleavage. With a pout, she held up the book she’d had to purchase in order to take her place in line to begin with.

“Okay.”

Brandon took extra time and made sure that the message he wrote down was more than just the standard “To my friend So-and-So—”

The young woman’s disappointment faded away as she retreated from the line, reading his message and smiling to herself.

“Nicely done,” Isabelle murmured. She’d made the observation under her breath, and it was intended strictly for herself.

Despite that, Brandon had apparently heard her above the din and looked at her over his shoulder.

He flashed a grin at her and said, “Thanks,” before turning back to autograph his book for the next person in line.

So why did that simple one word acknowledgement make her feel as if someone had just lit a fire inside of her? A fire that was warming up every single part of her at once.

She had no answer for that.

Yet.

The reception gave no indication that it was about to wind down any time soon. Instead, it appeared to have comfortably settled into a rhythm and gave every indication of going on for hours, conversation and wine flowing effortlessly.

Hired to cater the event, Theresa Manetti made sure that the serving platters on the buffet table were never empty and that all the glasses that were in play were continually being refilled. She had a reputation to maintain.

But aside from that, being here also allowed her the opportunity to covertly observe the young woman she had “unofficially” made her newest project. Isabelle Sinclair had certainly come a long way from the woman she’d glimpsed just a short while ago. The other one had been pretty in a shy, retiring way. This woman was vivacious. A “knockout” as her father used to say, Theresa thought with a fond smile.

Seeing Isabelle interacting with Brandon Slade gave Theresa every hope that this particular pairing she had undertaken would turn out to be as successful as the handful of others she, Maizie and Cecilia had gotten involved with. So far, their record was five out of five. This, she thought with a smile, just might be lucky number six.

Approximately ninety minutes into the reception, Anastasia, with Victoria in tow, made her way over to her son. As always, he was surrounded by a number of women of various ages. This time, he was telling his adoring fans the story of how he’d received the news of his first book making it to the New York Times bestseller list.

“At first I thought it was one of my friends, making a crank call and pulling my leg. So I hung up. After the person called back a second time, I placed my own call to my agent—and got the same person who very coldly informed me that my agent was in a meeting and she couldn’t be disturbed, but she’d asked him—turns out he was her assistant—to call me with the good news. He sounded very put out. I spent the next fifteen minutes apologizing to him—and then the next forty-eight hours celebrating,” he concluded with a grin.

It was clear that his audience was eager for another anecdote. But the moment he saw his mother approaching with Victoria, Brandon politely extricated himself from the tight circle of women, promising to return with another story “later.”

Crossing to his mother, who was clearly going somewhere, he asked, “What’s up?” He looked from his mother to his daughter, waiting for an answer.

“Brandon, it’s getting late. It might not be a school night, but Victoria and I are going home,” his mother announced.

He could remember when his mother could party not just all night long but several days running, as well. Back in those days, she’d been unharnessed energy and had given no indication of ever slowing down or growing tired.

Age was a bear, he thought with a touch of sadness. For form’s sake, because he knew she’d refuse to admit she was tired, he asked his mother, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. But it’s past Victoria’s bedtime and I don’t want her overdoing it,” Anastasia elaborated.

The excuse was paper-thin, but he saw no reason to let her know that he saw through it. In order to spare his mother’s pride, Brandon played along. He glanced over his shoulder at the circle of women he’d just left. They were still waiting for him. One of the women waved at him.

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger, he thought, whimsically calling to mind a famous catch phrase from a bygone era. “Maybe I should go, too,” he said to his mother.

Anastasia looked genuinely horrified. “No, no, you and Isabelle stay here,” she insisted, patting his hand. “Enjoy yourselves.”

“Isabelle’s not going with you?” Sexy or not, the woman was his mother’s physical therapist and as such should really be accompanying her, not him, Brandon thought.

“Why should she?” Anastasia asked, surprised that he would even suggest such a thing. “It only takes one of us to make sure Victoria goes to bed,” she said, draping an arm around the girl’s slender shoulders.

Brandon noticed that his daughter looked as if she wanted to protest but was prudent enough not to. Wise beyond her years, that girl, he thought with pride.

Digging into his pocket, he located his keys. Brandon took them out and held them out to his mother. He knew that her surgeon had just cleared her to drive yesterday. He assumed she was eager to get back behind the wheel again. Control was all important to his mother, it always had been. “Take my car, then.”

She pushed his hand—and the keys—back. “No need. Maura is taking us home,” she told him, referring to his agent. “She was planning on leaving early anyway.” Anastasia waved her hand vaguely. “Something about having to take an early phone call tomorrow. I don’t know,” she confessed. “I wasn’t really listening. You know how she can go on and on.”

His agent would just drop his mother off at the curb, never leaving her vehicle. He wasn’t sure if he was happy with that. “You’ll be all right, going home by yourself?” he questioned.

“I won’t be by myself,” Anastasia reminded him, then looked toward her granddaughter. “I have Victoria. What more could I ask for?”

Brandon smiled. There were indeed times when it felt as if Victoria was the adult and his mother, and occasionally, he supposed, he as well, were the children. His daughter was born with an old soul, which was fortunate for him because he wouldn’t have known what to do with a typical rebellious teenager.