Six More Hot Single Dads!. Kate Hardy

Magnificent, maybe, but still just a man. You know all the body parts. You had to name them on one of your final exams, remember? Get a grip, for heaven’s sake, will you? She hoped against hope that she wasn’t turning a bright shade of pink before Brandon’s magnificent blue eyes. Her skin certainly felt hot enough.

      Until this very moment, she’d thought that blushing in such circumstances was just a myth, experienced by socially repressed women of the early last century, not by an educated, capable and independent woman of the twenty-first century.

      And yet, here she was, feeling heat creeping up the sides of her neck, slipping over her cheeks and threatening to turn the color of her skin into the same shade as cotton candy.

      That’ll impress him.

      “No,” she heard herself saying as she slipped her hand out from beneath his and gave up her claim to possession of the handle. “No need to wrestle me.” Not that the idea didn’t have very real, appealing possibilities, she added silently.

      The next moment, she tamped down her wayward thoughts and focused strictly on getting back to her patient. It wasn’t easy when the man seemed to fill up every corner of the apartment with his presence.

      And his smile.

      Leading the way, Isabelle opened the door, then paused to look over her shoulder for a moment.

      Standing beside her, Brandon followed her line of vision. And saw nothing amiss. “Forget something?” he asked.

      “Just going over a mental checklist to make sure I didn’t,” she confessed.

      She’d taught herself to do the mental checklist every time she left the apartment after once accidentally leaving the air-conditioning on high instead of turning it off. It had run almost continuously for thirteen hours, much to the joy of the electric company and the sadness of her checking account when it had come time to pay that month’s bill.

      Turning back toward the door, she saw the smile that entered his eyes. “What?”

      “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as organized as you before—myself included,” he told her. After growing up with his mother and the eccentric people who populated both Anastasia’s world and his own, someone like Isabelle was a breath of fresh air.

      His voice gave her no clue if he was complimenting her—or mocking her. Everything he said always sounded so upbeat and cheerful.

      “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she heard herself asking.

      “A good thing. Definitely a good thing,” he assured her as they walked to her car. The moment they reached it, a look of dread mingled with resignation came into his eyes. “I’d almost forgotten about this,” he murmured, sounding far from happy.

      Was it his imagination, or had the space gotten even smaller?

      Isabelle unlocked the car’s trunk, and he deposited her overnight bag into it. Though it was a small case, the trunk seemed even smaller and the suitcase took up most of the available space.

      She did her best to sound encouraging. “Well, on the positive side, it’s not that long a trip,” she reminded him.

      But it was.

      Traffic, rarely free-flowing no matter what time of day or night travel occurred, became utterly snarled as several lanes were closed down due to an unfortunate collision between a truck associated with a nationally known supermarket chain and a silver SUV so new it didn’t even have its official DMV license plates in place yet. The latter vehicle had gone flying on impact and was currently on its back like some battered, disabled turtle.

      Miraculously, the three passengers in the SUV had not only survived the accident, but once the fire department had managed to cut them out of the inverted vehicle, they had emerged with only a minimum of cuts and scratches.

      The traffic, however, did not fare nearly as well, threatening to keep everyone in both directions glued in their positions with the hope of only succeeding to travel a couple of inches forward every few minutes—if even that much.

      Slanting a glance toward Brandon, Isabelle asked, “How are you doing?”

      More than forty-five minutes had passed, and they had managed to go less than half a mile. At this rate, they’d be back at his house by evening—and he would have to be retaught how to walk.

      “Well,” Brandon confessed, “if we wind up stuck like this much longer, by the time we do get home, I’m going to need the jaws of life to cut me out of here.” He looked down at the crammed space and the way his legs were tucked in. His knees were flat up against what passed for a glove compartment. “I think my legs are going numb. I know I don’t feel my toes anymore.”

      It was all her fault. She should have never let him fold himself up into her little car like this. She was fine with it the way it was, but, without her high heels on, she was a whole foot shorter than he was.

      “I feel just awful,” she told him.

      Brandon tried to shrug away her assessment and discovered that he didn’t have enough room to complete the movement. His right shoulder hit the inside of the passenger door.

      “Not your fault,” he told her, absolving her of any blame.

      Isabelle didn’t see it that way. Had she not agreed to his coming along—secretly thrilled at the very idea of spending time alone with him in any setting—he wouldn’t be currently playing the part of an oversize fish stuffed into a sardine can.

      By nature, even if she hadn’t become a physical therapist, Isabelle had a calling to be a caregiver. Someone who felt it was her assigned mission in life to fix each and every problem to the very best of her ability. Given that, and her guilt, she had a very strong need to do something to remedy Brandon’s unacceptable situation.

      Working her lower lip between her teeth, she cast about for a way to ease Brandon’s discomfort. The only way that was remotely possible was to get the man out of her tiny car.

      But he couldn’t very well walk home from here—

      Searching the area, she suddenly saw it, saw the way things were set up. Although cars were now restricted to a single lane going in either direction, there was the remnant of a shoulder available to her on the right side. It wasn’t anything an SUV could travel, but her vehicle was the size of a Smart Car with a gland condition.

      In two short moments, she made up her mind. Bracing herself, she suddenly darted into the space on the right. Once there, she immediately began maneuvering her way down toward the junction up ahead where, according to the information on her GPS, the traffic let up, the speed picked up to that of regular freeway travel and the entire way from there to his house was, for the most part, unobstructed.

      Surprised at the sudden shift onto the sidewalk and the fact that she was now driving in the defensive manner of an Indianapolis 500 racer, Brandon eyed her uncertainly. She’d just broken the law—or bent it in several places at the very least.

      They were picking up more speed, passing the other cars with absolutely no trouble. He could swear envious looks were being shot in their direction.

      “What are you doing?” he asked.

      She would have thought that would have been rather obvious. “Getting you home before you lose the ability to walk,” she answered simply.

      He didn’t want her getting into trouble on his account.

      “If a policeman sees you, you’re liable to get one hell of a large fine,” he warned. Not that he would allow Isabelle to pay it, he added silently. She could hardly afford it, while he, on the other hand, would hardly notice it.

      She’d been very alert, searching for any sign of a police vehicle. She hadn’t seen any of Newport Beach’s finest in the vicinity.

      “I’ll play the odds,” she told him.

      So far, her vigilance had worked, and the odds had remained