Much as she would have liked to remain here with him, she knew she had to be getting back. By the time they would reach his house, it would be time for his mother’s next exercise session. As tempting as the thought of spending more time with him right here was, she had to keep in mind why she was remotely a temporary part of Brandon Slade’s world in the first place.
It was not to dash along the beach, trying to outrun the rain.
But she had to be honest. “I’d love to,” she told him. “But your mother should have another PT session at three. All things considered—” which was a very polite way of glossing over the actress’s bombastic personality and her way of taking charge of any given situation no matter what “—your mother’s doing rather well. I’d hate to interrupt her progress because I like feeling sand between my toes.” She flashed a grin at him. “Or running from a sun shower.”
Brandon inclined his head. He couldn’t help wondering, though, if Isabelle had a clue how infectious her grin was. “Home it is.”
Home.
For a tiny moment, the word embraced her, as if it was not just his home but hers, too. The idea warmed her and brought a smile to her inner core.
You’ve got a perfectly nice home of your own, remember? The small voice in her head—her common sense she liked to think—sounded almost exasperated with her.
She had to be careful, Isabelle warned herself. She had a tendency to get carried away. A tendency to let her imagination get the better of her. Brandon had made her feel welcome and was continuing to do so, but that was just his way. She was the hired help. A trained, highly professional physical therapist, but still the hired help.
She had to remember that. Letting herself believe anything else was just asking for trouble. Although that had never happened before with work, she had an uneasy feeling things were different now.
Because the circumstances were different and Brandon had entered her world.
He hasn’t entered your world, idiot. You’ve entered his. The second his mother’s more flexible, you’re history, just someone that he knows.
There were times when she just hated being right.
“You’ve gotten very quiet,” Brandon observed as they got into the car. He’d handed her the oversize beach towel he’d found in his trunk and she’d wrapped it around herself. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, I’m just thinking about your mother’s exercise program,” she lied. It was a handy excuse to fall back on, also pretty transparent, she thought, but she really wasn’t versed in lying. She’d never had a reason to lie before.
Putting the key into the ignition, Brandon paused for a moment, scrutinizing her.
And looking right through her, Isabelle thought.
“Lucky for you, Pinocchio is just a fairy tale,” he told her, turning the key. The SUV’s engine rumbled to life.
She squared her shoulders defensively, even as she knew there was no point. He was apparently on to her. “Are you saying you think I’m lying?”
“Just making an observation,” Brandon answered innocently. And then, more seriously, he said, “And being a little worried.”
“Worried?” she repeated. What was he worried about? His mother? He had no reason to be worried in that department. “Don’t be,” she told him, then went on to add, “I already told you, your mother’s doing fine—”
He cut her short before she could begin to elaborate. “Yes, I know.”
Okay, she was confused, not to mention lost. “Then why…?”
Pulling out of the parking space, he waited until he had straightened the wheel and driven to the corner before continuing. “I was referring to you.”
“Me?” Now she was really confused. “You’re worried about me? Why?”
This was unfamiliar ground for him. But then, he didn’t usually venture into this kind of territory. “I was worried that maybe, because of what happened earlier, you’d want to quit.”
“What happened earlier?” she repeated, thinking he was referring to getting soaked in the shower. “No offense intended, Brandon. You’re a very famous man and all, but I don’t think you have what it takes to be responsible for a sudden drastic shift in the weather.”
“Earlier than that,” was all he said as he began to drive back up Pacific Coast Highway. Quaint little shops whizzed by in reverse as he made his way back to MacArthur Boulevard and Newport Beach.
That only left one thing. Her eyes widened in amazement. “You think I’d quit because you kissed me? Or because you stopped?” she added, a whimsical smile playing on her lips.
When she mentioned the latter, he knew he was on safer ground. A note of relief slipped into his countenance. Granted, he could always find another physical therapist for his mother—it wasn’t as if Isabelle was the only one available on the North American continent—but his mother liked the woman, and that in itself was a rarity. Besides, he liked her, as well, and it wasn’t exactly a hardship having her around for a while longer.
“Then we’re okay?” he asked for form’s sake.
“We’re fine,” she answered. “Trust me, if you’d done something I didn’t like, I wouldn’t have meekly let it happen—or held my tongue. I might look like one, but I’m not a shy wallflower.”
He thought of the way she’d driven like a speed demon to get back to his house so he could start getting feeling back in his legs. “No,” he agreed, “you’re not. And for the record—”
He stopped abruptly as he began to maneuver his vehicle around a moving truck that hogged the entire road.
Impatient, Isabelle forced herself to wait until he cleared the truck, then pressed, “Yes?”
“For the record,” he repeated, “you don’t look like any wallflower I ever encountered.” Slanting a glance in her direction, he glimpsed her grin. “Why would you even say that?” he asked. “Who told you that you look like a wallflower?”
“Zoe. My sister,” she added in case he’d forgotten her sister’s name.
“I know who Zoe is,” he told her. He had a great memory when it came to names, people and places. “What you didn’t mention, however, was that she was blind.”
Her smile blossomed into a full, wide, pleased grin. “She just worries about me,” she said by way of excusing her sister. “She wants me to make ‘the best’ of my ‘assets’ so that I don’t wind up growing old alone.”
“I think you’re alone because you want to be,” Brandon told her, making a judgment call. “Not because you have to be.”
That was all very sweet, but he was missing a very salient point. She knew it wasn’t exactly prudent to make the admission, but she’d never been one to play games. “I’m not exactly beating off men with a stick here.”
Having
