Six More Hot Single Dads!. Kate Hardy

his knowing exactly when, exactly how, Isabelle, with her lighter-than-air laugh and her quiet determination, had become embedded in his life, in his family. And then, just like that, like some Band-Aid being ripped off, she’d torn herself away and was gone.

      His mind spinning every which way at once, he thought of going out and finding her. Of shaking her and shouting at her for doing this to him.

      For lying like this to him without saying a single word.

      Damn it, he upbraided himself, clenching his fists at his side, how could he have been so hopelessly stupid to let himself get ensnared like this? How could he have been so—

      He had a book to work on, he told himself sternly. He had no time for any grieving, dramatic or otherwise. It was time to submerge himself in his work, the way he’d always been able to do before, and forget about everything else.

      Forget about lips the flavor of strawberries and eyes that seemed to shine whenever she looked at him. Forget about skin the texture of cream and a body—

      This wasn’t helping, Brandon berated himself. At this rate, he would talk himself into a state mental institution by evening.

      “Write, Slade. It’s what you do,” he ordered sternly as he marched into his office. “At least she didn’t take that away from you.”

      Brandon closed the door behind him and willed his mind to focus.

      Isabelle tried, she really, really tried to summon up her former enthusiasm. She needed it in order to do her work. She needed it so that she could find just the right way to motivate her clients.

      But try as she might, she just couldn’t seem to find it. It was as if every last drop of enthusiasm had evaporated on her. Along with her sense of humor, her energy and forget about her mind. That seemed to be long gone.

      At various times of the day and evening, she’d find herself suddenly “stuck.” Lost in a motion or a thought that went no further. She looked like an adult playing the old children’s game of “statue” where players would “freeze” in a position when the word was suddenly called out.

      Except that no one was calling out anything. It was just her. She seemed utterly unable to function properly. Not without her heart. And that was gone.

      It had been a week like this. A whole terrible, debilitating week.

      She had to snap out of it.

      Zoe had already said that one of the clients had complained about her. Well, not exactly complained, but they’d wanted to know if there was something “funny” about her because she was acting so very strangely, getting lost midsentence. Staring off into space.

      Of course, her present client, Bobby Johnson, a major league baseball player who was on the team’s disabled list because of a pulled hamstring, didn’t seem to mind her slipping into a trancelike state for a minute or so at a time. That was probably because he thought it had to do with him.

      Currently, Bobby was in one of the firm’s therapy rooms, expounding on how hard it was to live a normal life, surrounded by women who insisted on following him everywhere he went, even to the men’s room at the gym he frequented.

      “But I guess that all just goes with the territory,” he concluded with as phony a sigh as she’d ever heard. “That really feels good,” he commented, then suddenly he swiveled around on the padded table he’d been lying on. He pulled his towel around himself as he sat up, leaving it deliberately loose in order to serve as an unspoken invitation for her benefit, Isabelle’s couldn’t help thinking. “Hey, you doing anything after this?” Bobby asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer, but just assumed it would be what he wanted to hear. “Because if you’re not—”

      “She is.”

      Both she and the technically disabled infielder turned to look at the man walking into the room.

      Isabelle’s heart leaped into her throat, all but singing. “Brandon.”

      The baseball player was scowling as darkly as Isabelle was smiling. “Hey, this is my time with Izzy,” he declared indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”

      “I’m Brandon Slade, the writer.” He added the last part when the seminaked man on the table stared at him as if he was beneath him.

      Bobby frowned, clearly at a disadvantage. “You write books?” Apparently replaying Brandon’s name through his head, he shook it. “Never heard of you.”

      Brandon’s less than genuine smile never faded. “Well, that makes us even, because I’ve never heard of you, either.”

      While he followed football and basketball fairly regularly, he’d never cared for the game deemed to be the great American pastime. In his opinion it moved much too slowly.

      Unable to take it a second longer, Isabelle interrupted the exchange. “Brandon, I’m working,” she pointed out unnecessarily. “What are you doing here?”

      He would have thought that was self-explanatory. This “invasion” was uncharacteristic of him, but then, so was what he was feeling.

      He’d given up pretending he didn’t care where Isabelle was or that she’d left without saying a word. Rather than just call where she worked, he’d come down to see her in person. He’d found Zoe in the front office, which had saved him the trouble of trying to charm information out of the receptionist. Isabelle, she’d told him, was here, in the back, working with a client.

      She’d then proceeded to surprise him by asking, “Do you need to see her right now?”

      He hadn’t even had to think about his answer. “More than you could ever know.”

      The woman had nodded, seeming to understand what he was going through. “Tell Isabelle I’m sending in another therapist. Go do what you have to do.” Her eyes had been shining as she’d added, “Good luck.”

      He could have hugged her. Digging into his pocket, he’d left a hundred-dollar bill on the desk. “In case the guy complains about the interruption.”

      And then he’d gone in search of the room.

      When his heart had accelerated at the sound of her voice, he’d known he hadn’t made a mistake coming here. They belonged together.

      “What do you think I’m doing here?” he said in response to her question. Taking her hand, Brandon firmly pulled her toward the door. What he had to tell her had to be said without an audience. Opening the door, he looked at the ballplayer over his shoulder. “Game over, baseball boy. You’re cured,” he announced.

      For once Bobby Johnson was utterly speechless. They left him that way.

      She might not have had a word for Bobby, but she had plenty for Brandon. “Brandon! You can’t just interrupt a session like that.”

      “I’m not interrupting it,” he informed her, crossing the threshold with her in tow. “I’m ending it. Don’t worry, I paid for his session, so he can’t complain. Zoe’s getting another therapist to come in and take your place.” Looking back at the fuming baseball player, he called out, “Don’t worry. If you feel shortchanged, there’s another therapist on her way.” Facing Isabelle again, he said, “Let’s go.”

      Not wanting to cause a scene, she waited until she was outside the office—her sister was conveniently gone, and the receptionist looked at her wistfully as they passed by the front desk.

      Once the door had closed and they were out in the hall, she abruptly stopped walking and yanked back her hand.

      When he turned around to look at her, Brandon saw that she was furious.

      “You had no right to embarrass me like that,” Isabelle fumed.

      He’d never seen her angry before, and for a moment, he just took it in. And then, as in a poker game, he matched her. And raised her one.

      “If