Six More Hot Single Dads!. Kate Hardy

lost in the jungle of her thoughts, Isabelle blinked. Replaying his words failed to bring any sort of enlightenment or clarity. “Excuse me?”

      “You screamed,” he reminded her. “I didn’t think that I was that scary to look at.”

      Now it made sense—sort of. The man had to have looked in the mirror in the past decade. After all, he did shave.

      “Oh, no, no, you’re not. You’re very good-looking. I mean—” This was becoming one of those nightmares she used to have where she discovered that her clothes were disappearing, piece by piece, from her body. She could usually make herself wake up before she was entirely naked. But this time she couldn’t wake up because she wasn’t asleep. She was just making a fool of herself.

      Taking a breath, doing her best not to stare at the way his mouth curved invitingly as he smiled, Isabelle tried again. She cautioned herself not to sound like one of those vapid airheads who fawned over celebrities and resembled zombies as they followed them from place to place.

      “I’m sure you’ve looked into a mirror lately,” she managed to say more calmly. “You know what you look like.”

      Her body temperature rose a full ten degrees as his smile deepened and traveled straight to her gut, swirling about like a corkscrew.

      “Oddly enough, I find I really don’t have the time to spend staring into mirrors.” He held up his hand just in case she was about to contradict him. “And before you bring up the obvious subject of shaving, my mirror is usually pretty cloudy from the steam when I shave in the morning. Most of the time I do it in the shower,” he clarified. “I’ve got a little mirror attached to a shower rack.”

      The thought of Brandon, standing naked and dripping in the shower as he shaved, succeeded in transforming her already wobbly knees into something that would have made Jell-O appear rock solid by comparison.

      Heat swept around her, threatening to burn her into a crisp.

      Get a grip, Isabelle. You’re good at what you do, you’re a sensitive, caring, busy physical therapist, not a mindless groupie with no life. Stop acting like one.

      That was only half-true, she realized ruefully. Granted, she was a topflight physical therapist—she was always taking classes to keep up on any new, ground-breaking techniques rising up in her field, not to mention absorbing any new theories coming down the pike—and she wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a mindless groupie, but she also had no actual life outside of her work.

      How else could she agree to just pick up and deposit herself here, in her client’s home, without so much as a minor hassle, other than what clothes to pack and what to leave behind?

      After this assignment, Isabelle promised herself she would take some time off and do something. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Just so that she could say she had gone.

      Pulling together her thoughts, Isabelle forced herself to focus on the conversation and not on the fact that she could, at this very close proximity, actually feel the heat coming from Brandon’s body.

      Or, at least she thought she did, which, in this case, was just as bad.

      “You just startled me, that’s all,” she said, addressing the explanation to his shoes. It was easier than looking into his brilliant blue eyes. “I didn’t expect to find anyone in the hallway.”

      He continued to look amused with her. “You always scream when you’re startled?”

      “Actually,” she replied truthfully, “I don’t scream. This was my first time.”

      He would have laughed at her expression if it wouldn’t have hurt her feelings. “Well, then, maybe we should go somewhere to discuss this,” he proposed with as straight a face as he could manage. “First times are special. Or so I’ve been told.”

      Why was it that every single one of Brandon’s deep, modulated words felt as if they were cascading slowly down the length of her skin, like the gentle fingers of a questing lover?

      Not that she would know firsthand what that was like, she thought ruefully. But she did have a very vivid imagination and could think herself into that sort of a situation.

      Oh, no, you don’t.

      Isabelle took another deep breath. Something else she was going to do on that vacation she would take after this. Find out what it felt like to have a lover. Even if it was only for one wild, hot, mind-boggling weekend.

      She was tired of wondering what that felt like—to have a man caress her, cherish her, make love with her. If things didn’t change in her life and soon, it was only a matter of time before someone snatched her up, stuck her on a plate and put a glass dome over her, displaying her as the last living twenty-eight-year-old virgin in captivity.

      She forced a smile to her lips, hoping she didn’t look like some kind of a grinning idiot to him. How long before she became immune to the fact that he was Brandon Slade, famous writer?

      Probably a lot faster than she would become immune to the fact that, no matter from what angle she looked at him, Brandon Slade was nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous.

      It would be one thing if the man was handsome in a sterile way. This was Southern California, and there were gaggles of pretty boys everywhere, looking to make a name, or a career, for themselves. If you looked at one of them, they might be momentarily breathtaking, but there was nothing behind the eyes. They had no more depth to them than a thimbleful of water.

      But Brandon, Brandon was another story entirely. Brandon was warm-handsome. Friendly-handsome. There was something incredibly boyish and appealing about him. Some special x-factor in addition to the man’s chiseled chin, high cheekbones and bone-melting sky blue eyes that undermined her entire foundation and reduced her to a pile of sand.

      She needed to get over that, Isabelle reminded herself. Or he would think she was some kind of an airhead and ask for her to be pulled from his mother’s case. Not that she would have blamed him. After all, she wouldn’t have wanted an airhead in charge of her mother’s therapy right after her hip surgery either—if she had a mother, which she didn’t. Not for a very long time, she recalled with the same heavy heart she felt every time she thought of that hole that her mother’s death had left behind.

      “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check on that celebration,” she deadpanned, playing along with what he’d just said. “I need to get to my apartment and pack a few things if I’m going to stay here awhile.” Isabelle glanced at her watch to see what time it was. “I’m sure your mother is already expecting me back.”

      He laughed softly. “You show promise, Isabelle Sinclair. Only here a couple of hours and already you’ve gotten to know Anastasia well.” He found himself liking this down-to-earth girl-next-door that the physical therapy agency had sent. It was rare to find someone good who was also sensible—and could get along with his mother. “My mother has many attributes, but patience was never listed among them,” he admitted.

      She liked the way Brandon said her name. Hell, with a voice like that, she would have liked the way he read the supermarket bill, she thought ruefully.

      She was doing it again, she chided herself silently. She was making noises like some love-struck groupie, and that had to stop.

      Just as soon as the man stopped being so perfect.

      No one’s perfect. He’s got flaws—somewhere, she told herself.

      This wasn’t like her. She had to snap out of it and start moving, her inner voice argued.

      Words found their way to her lips. Finally. “So then I should get going,” she told him.

      She’d taken exactly two steps toward the front door when she heard him say, “Why don’t I come with you?” Surprised, she turned around to look at him. He was already walking toward her. “In case there’s any heavy lifting involved.”

      He probably didn’t understand that not all women had