What the Single Dad Wants... by Marie Ferrarella

showing off his superiority. She’d learned how to make the most of evasive maneuvers.
    â€œIt’s just the truth. Now, do you want to rest or continue a little longer?”
    â€œI want to rest,” Anastasia declared. But even as she said so, the actress propped herself up on her elbows, braced for anything. “But I’ll continue a little longer.” And then she glanced toward the doorway and raised her voice. “Preferably without an audience.”
    Now there was something she thought she’d never hear from the actress, Isabelle thought as she turned around to see who the woman was talking to.
    Brandon.
    Three days into her stay and the sight of the handsome author still caused her heart to flutter like a butterfly caught in an updraft.
    How long was it going to take for her to get used to having him pop up like that? She had a feeling she knew the answer to that, and it was not one that worked in her favor.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’m not staying,” Brandon told his mother as he popped into the room. He nodded a greeting coupled with a smile at Isabelle before shifting back to his mother. “Just wanted to tell you that I’ll be out for a while. Do you need anything before I go? Pillows fluffed, foot massaged, a cup of coffee…?” he teased, his voice trailing off.
    â€œI’m sure Isabelle will indulge me if I find I want something. Where are you off to?” Anastasia suddenly narrowed her eyes as a possible answer occurred to her. “You’re not seeing that dreadful Wanda person again, are you?”
    â€œNo, I’m not,” Brandon replied patiently. “And go easy on her. She was just a reporter, doing an interview. My last book is being reissued in paperback next week, remember? Publicity never hurts, no matter how big you think you are.”
    Isabelle had read that interview by Wanda Miller. Brandon had come off very well, but then, he always did. It was to his credit that he gave himself no airs, did not think of himself as being too big to fail. He made it a point to always cooperate with the press, and they apparently loved him for it.
    Anastasia seemed to stop listening halfway through her son’s reply. Instead, she shook her head, a look of incredulousness entering her famous eyes. “Just areporter—ha! How is it you got to be thirty-two years old and still have no clue about women?”
    For a fleeting moment, his eyes connected with Isabelle’s, and then he shifted to his mother. “I guess that some mysteries are just meant to remain that way.”
    The actress’s sigh was deep and despairing. “You need a keeper,” Anastasia pronounced.
    Brandon grinned good-naturedly. He took no offense. He was used to his mother’s broad strokes, whether with a brush on a canvas, or verbally. “I have you and Victoria—what more do I need?”
    Anastasia gave a gentle snort, as if withdrawing from the field of battle for the moment. “You still haven’t said where you’re going,” his mother reminded him.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” he agreed just before he began to walk out of the gym.
    â€œBrandon.”
    Only Anastasia Del Vecchio could have infused so many emotions and nuances into the two syllables of his name, Isabelle thought, utterly impressed. The single utterance spoke volumes without saying any more than just his name.
    Brandon paused in the doorway. “I’m scouting out locations for my next book,” he told her.
    By nature Brandon was a very visual person. He found that he needed to see something, to be part of it, before he could adequately describe it and hope to do it justice. Once it was there, in his memory banks, he could take off from that point and weave a location of his own. But he needed a starting point.
    â€œI’ve always been partial to the area near Laguna Beach,” his mother told him. “It reminds me of this little hotel on