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Ryan's Renovation
Marin Thomas
A sky-high Manhattan office tower is the perfect place for Ryan McKade to hide from wounds both physical and emotional. Until, that is, his meddlesome grandfather puts a stop to his seclusion and arranges for some old-fashioned backbreaking work at Parnell Bros. Inc., a not-exactly-posh rubbish removal company in blue-collar Queens, New York.After just a few days on the job, the loner is nursing stiff muscles, evading his coworkers and pretending not to be attracted to Anna Nowakowski, the company's blond secretary. Her cheery personality and compassionate nature are irresistible to a hurting man like Ryan.Anna is determined to break down the defenses Ryan has spent years building, and Ryan can't help but let the luscious Anna get under his skin. The question is, will they be so enthusiastic about each other once each discovers what the other is struggling so desperately to conceal?



Ryan’s Renovation
Marin Thomas


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Mom
You sprouted your angel wings too early
and took us by surprise. But I guess you had things
to do and places to see. I close my eyes and imagine
you happily managing your craft boutique, the
Purple Plum. I see your gardens are in full bloom
and my latest release is on your bedside table. And
if I’m not mistaken, there’s a cowboy at your door,
who’s come a-courtin’.
I feel you around me every day, touching me
with your loving spirit. I miss you so much, Mom.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
Ryan McKade, president of the New York City branch of McKade Import-Export, stood on the chipped-concrete sidewalk in north central Queens and studied the 1950s brick-and-stone building that housed Parnell Brothers Rubbish Removal. As a five-year-old he might have dreamed of becoming a garbageman, but he was thirty-six years old, for God’s sake—what had his grandfather been thinking?
The building reminded him of an old fire station. An extra-wide automatic door, with windows along the top half, faced the street. Two sanitation trucks sat parked inside, Parnell Bros. Inc. 1952 painted in bold black lettering across the red brick above the doors. A smaller entrance to the right of the garage area had the word Office etched into the glass pane.
A dingy American flag sagged from a pole—a victim of air pollution. Ryan had noticed the difference in air quality the moment he’d stepped off the train. He was accustomed to cab exhaust across the East River in Manhattan. Here in the industrial Flushing area, a heavy metallic taste flavored the air. Faded plastic flowers filled a pot next to a dented garbage can chained to the downspout against the building. Ryan commiserated with the fake yellow daisies—looking as out of place as he felt.
The sky rumbled for the third time in as many minutes. Flushing was home to LaGuardia Airport. During the pre–9/11 years, Ryan had attended several Mets baseball games at Shea Stadium, which had been built in the flight path of the airport. It was a toss-up what annoyed the visiting team more—the rowdy fans or the deafening air traffic.
A quick check of his watch convinced him that if he ran the four blocks to the train station he could catch the M line and return to his Wall Street office in Lower Manhattan within the hour. Or hire a cab ride across the Queensboro Bridge and arrive there in forty-five minutes.
Grandfather’s right. You are a coward.
Arguing with the ninety-one-year-old man had accomplished nothing. The family patriarch had embarked on a mission to teach each of his grandsons a life lesson before leaving the earth and he’d refused to allow Ryan to negotiate a way out of his. Not that Ryan had really tried. He owed his grandfather big-time.
Patrick McKade had raised him and his brothers, Nelson and Aaron, after their parents had perished in a private plane crash when Ryan was two. But more important, his grandfather had never left Ryan’s hospital bedside while he’d recovered from injuries sustained the day terrorists attacked the World Trade Center. Not even Ryan’s wife had had the fortitude to stick by him.
In truth, Ryan hadn’t been upset with the old man’s crazy scheme as much as he’d been devastated by the lesson he believed Ryan needed to learn—bravery. Evidently, rescuing a woman from the North Tower had failed to gain him hero status. Ryan believed it was no coincidence that his grandfather had arranged for him to begin the new job on September 11—six years post–9/11.
“Life goes on,” his grandfather had argued.
Maybe for people who’d watched the disaster unfold on television inside their homes. But for the unlucky ones, those who’d lived through the hellish hours of the attack, the memories never faded. They were always present…in the corners of his mind. In the eyes that stared back at him in the mirror. In the scars that hid beneath his clothes.
The old man’s right. You’ve got a yellow streak the length of the Holland Tunnel running along your spine.
A cool September morning breeze threatened to turn the beads of sweat on Ryan’s brow into flecks of frost. As much as he found the idea of hauling garbage for three months distasteful, the prospect of socializing with people made his stomach spasm. He preferred to work alone. Isolated from his staff. Isolated from the world.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, Ryan shifted his gaze from the plastic daisies to the head poking out the office door.
“You’ve been standing on the sidewalk for ten minutes.” The woman smiled.
Only a perpetually cheerful person would beam brightly at 7:00 a.m. on a Monday morning.
Run or stay. What’s it going to be?
Damn. “I believe I’ve found the right place.”
Her head edged farther out the door, displaying a prominent nose no one would dare characterize as feminine. Ryan shifted his attention to her eyes. Deep blue pools, sparkling with humor.
“You must be the new hire.” Shoving the door open wide, she waved him in.
He entered the office, then shook the hand she offered, noting her no-nonsense grip. “Ryan Jones.” He perused the length of her body—a far cry from the skinny model types he’d dated in college. This lady had meat on her bones. Curves his former wife would have spent hours in the gym ridding herself of.
“Anastazia Nowakowski. Pleasure to meet you.”
Anastazia Nowakowski. Quite a mouthful.
“The guys call me Anna.” Pointing to a refreshment table across the room, she offered, “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Just when he thought her smile couldn’t beam any wider…he winced, expecting her lips to crack.
The overhead fluorescent lights bounced off her pearly whites, and he noticed her two front teeth faced inward, reminding him of an open book. He never paid attention to smiles, but this lady’s was warm and pretty. Too bad her effort was wasted on him.
A sparkly clip secured a mop of honey-blond hair to the top of her head. The style accentuated her high European cheekbones and strong jawline. Taken separately, the woman’s features weren’t beautiful. But put together…Anastazia Nowakowski’s face was striking. Although shorter than Ryan’s six-foot height by a good four inches, she was nothing if not intriguing. Too bad he’d sworn off women years ago when his wife served him divorce papers.
“Is Mr. Parnell in?” The sooner he escaped the clutches of Ms. Sunshine the better.
“I’m afraid not. Bobby’s been busier than usual the past couple of months. I’ve had to take over most of his responsibilities.” She shuffled through a stack of folders on her desk. “I have your file right here.”
He had a file already?
“Usually, new employees interview with me prior to Bobby hiring them.” Pause.
Had she hoped Ryan would explain how he’d managed to get the job without going through the proper channels? Seconds ticked by. He had no intention of explaining his grandfather’s shenanigans, or how he’d been forced to become a garbageman in order to learn how to be brave.
After a lengthy silence, she added, “I must have been out to lunch when you were interviewed.”
Interviewed? Yeah, right. If Ryan hadn’t been ticked off at his grandfather over the whole bravery thing, he might have questioned the old man’s a-friend-who-knew-someone-who-knew-someone-who-knew-the-owner explanation. Funny how the old man had a heck of a lot of friends with their tickers still beating.
Anna shoved the forms under the stapler, then smacked the top with her palm. “Bobby phoned a few minutes ago and informed me you were starting this morning.” She motioned to the chair in front of the desk and…yep, smiled. Again.
Did she ever scowl? No normal human being was this happy all the time. Squelching the urge to say something to tick her off, he settled in the chair.
She scribbled his first name on the form, left a space, then wrote in his last name. “Middle initial?”
Although he’d been instructed not to use his real last name, Ryan hadn’t been told not to use his real middle name. “T. Thomas.”
“Social security number?”
He repeated the number, doubting she’d check its validity since he’d be employed such a short time with the company.
“Previous employment?”
Along with keeping his name confidential, he was not to mention his real occupation. His grandfather had insisted Ryan not receive special treatment because of who he was or where he worked. As if garbagemen read the business section of the Times each morning—besides, Ryan hadn’t been in the news for over three years now. “Sales,” he offered, hoping she’d skip specifics.
One light-brown eyebrow arched.
“Computer sales,” he hedged.
The eyebrow drifted back into place, and she beamed as if she’d figured out the mystery of Ryan Jones. “Best Buy? Office Max?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, wishing his grandfather was in the room so he could strangle the old man.
“Address?”
He offered one of his business P.O. box numbers and a Manhattan zip code.
If she recognized the postal code, she didn’t let on. “Emergency contact?”
Ryan recited his grandfather’s cell number—served the meddling old coot right if she called to verify Ryan’s information.
“That’s all I need.” She slipped from behind the desk. “We have time for a quick tour before the others arrive.”
Ryan beat her to the door and held it open. Her eyes rounded as if she wasn’t accustomed to small courtesies.
They entered the garage area and Ryan recognized the two dump trucks he’d spotted from the street. One vehicle was loaded with a pile of construction debris, the other empty. Saws, drills, sledgehammers and various other tools hung from hooks along the back wall.
“Parnell Brothers is best known for their demolition work. With more and more dual-income families moving into Queens, our teardown and cleanout services bring in a fair amount of money for the company.”
“Teardowns?”
The question produced another smile from the boss lady. “You’d be surprised at the number of two-family brownstones being gutted and made into single-family residences.”
“I assumed I’d be helping with garbage collection.”
“We do that, too, for private businesses. The company also volunteers once a month to assist in a community cleanup program. It saddens me that people discard old furniture, broken bottles, tires and a million other trash items in empty lots.”
If she was sad, why was she smiling? The secretary paused, as though expecting a comment. “I noticed a few bad areas when I got off the train,” he mumbled.
“We’re making progress though.” Smile. “Are you up-to-date on your tetanus shot?”
After 9/11 he’d had enough needles shoved into him to cover every disease on the planet. “I’m good.”
Opening a cupboard in the wall, she explained, “Most of the men prefer their own work gloves.” She craned her neck to the side and checked his empty butt pocket. “Feel free to grab a pair to use.”
“Dirty gloves go there.” She motioned to a white basket under the workbench. “I launder them over the weekend.” Anastazia Nowakowski was a woman of many talents—secretary, stand-in boss and mother hen.
Great. A smiling, smothering, mothering, hovering female—just what he didn’t need.
“This is the locker room.” She breezed through a door.
A sickly sweet odor tickled his nostrils. The place didn’t smell like any locker room he’d ever entered. He counted five air fresheners—Fruit Orchard, Apple Blossom, White Gardenia, Hibiscus and Fresh Meadow. How the heck did the men stand the stink?
Anna handed him a key and pointed to locker 23. “Joe Smith is next to you in 24. He’s been with Parnell Brothers for three years. Until you, he was our newest employee.”
Wondering if he could make her frown, Ryan scowled. Nope.
“Don’t worry, Joe’s a nice guy. You’ll get along fine with him.”
Huh? He’d better control his facial muscles, or he’d end up unintentionally offending everyone in the company.
“His father suffered a stroke not long ago, and Joe had to move back in with the family.” She sighed, the rush of air from her mouth feathering across his forearm. “His younger brother got mixed up with a gang. Joe’s been nagging Willie to get out. We’re all worried about the teen.”
Hoping to end Anna’s commentary on Joe’s family, Ryan remained silent. He had no intention of becoming buddy-buddy with any of his coworkers. The less familiar he was with the men, the easier to keep his distance. The trauma of 9/11 had wreaked havoc on his emotions. When the dust of destruction had cleared, a solid, frozen mass of emptiness had remained in his chest. He had nothing left to give to anyone.
“Eryk Gorski is in locker 18. He turned forty last week.” Anna winked. “Whenever anyone has a birthday, I bake a cake and we celebrate.”
Ryan’s birthday was next week. Yee-ha.
“Next is Leon Bauer. He’s forty-five and has been with Parnell Brothers the longest. Twenty years.”
A twenty-year career in garbage? Ryan had to admire the man for sticking with the job that long.
“Leon hasn’t missed more than a day or two of work in all those years.” She leaned forward and whispered, “He can’t stand staying at home. It’s not his wife, Helga, but the other relatives who drive him crazy. Last time I asked, Leon confessed to thirteen people living in the three-bedroom home.”
Her clean feminine scent messed with Ryan’s concentration. In self-defense, he retreated a step, hoping the added space would clear his senses. “When do the other guys arrive?”
“Soon. Next to Leon is Patrick Felch,” Anna said, continuing with the Parnell Brothers’ family tree. “Ask Patrick to sing for you sometime.”
Was she nuts?
“Patrick has a beautiful voice,” Anna droned. “He’s a member of St. Mary’s choir. What church do you belong to, Ryan?”
He’d gone to Sunday services once after his post–9/11 release from the hospital. Mostly to rage at God for what had happened to him. He hadn’t returned since. “Ah…”
Her face softened with understanding. “I say a prayer for all the men. I’ll add you to my list.”
Well, that was a first—a woman praying for him.
“He’s miffed at Father Baynard because Father refused to forgive him at confession.”
Who was miffed? And who was Father Baynard? Ryan was having a hell of a time following the conversation.
The throaty sound of her giggle squeezed his chest. “Patrick shouldn’t have confessed that he’d had sex with a girl on their first date. The girl turned out to be Father Baynard’s niece.”
Ryan decided he’d better watch what he confessed around Miss Happy Chatty or the information was bound to leak out. By the end of his tour of duty at Parnell Brothers, the more than two million residents of Queens would learn everything about him, including the color of his BVDs.
“And finally, on the other side of Patrick is Antonio Moretti. He has two cute little boys. You should see him with his sons. He’s such a good father.”
An unexpected pain jolted Ryan. Would a time ever come that he’d hear the word father and not react?
“You should have plenty of room in the locker for an extra pair of clothes and shaving supplies. Depending on the job, the men sometimes shower before going home. If you run out of anything, I stock a few items in the storage closet.” She opened a door across the room.
Travel-size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream and soap were arranged in neat rows. Pink bath towels occupied the top shelf.
“First aid kit.” She motioned to a red-and-white box. Then her finger moved to the bottom shelf. “If the bathroom needs more…it’s right…” She slammed the door shut.
For the first time that morning Ryan wanted to grin. What an intriguing woman. Anna didn’t mind repeating gossip about sex but discussing toilet paper turned her face Stop-sign red.
“The break room is through this door or the one in the hallway we passed earlier.”
Secondhand furniture filled the lounge: a gray Formica table, eight mismatched chairs, a television set, a plaid-print couch that sagged in the middle, an olive-green refrigerator, a countertop microwave and an automatic coffeemaker.
“The guys usually brown-bag it for lunch.” She opened the cupboard above the sink. “Cream, sugar, salt and pepper packets.” Next cupboard. “Paper plates, napkins, plastic spoons and forks.” Refrigerator. “Condiments and help yourself to the jug of iced tea.”
He nodded his thanks.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” Her smile didn’t quite camouflage the note of disappointment in her voice.
If he’d quit caring what people thought of him years ago, why did her observation twist his gut into a knot? He shrugged.
She crossed the room to the chart on the wall.
“I post the next week’s schedule by noon on Friday.” She tapped a long pink fingernail against his name. “I marked you for a cleanout this week.”
“Cleanout?”
“Compare it to spring-cleaning.”
Spring-cleaning sounded like a woman’s job.
His face must have shown his confusion because she smiled at him as if he were a dense child. “The home is off Fish Pond Road and we’ve been asked to gut it. The owner died and his children live in Florida.”
“The family isn’t handling the estate?”
“Mr. Kline was estranged from his family. His children want us to haul everything to the dump. I’ve already sorted through his belongings and donated what was useful to local charities.”
“What’s left to get rid of?”
“Several pieces of furniture. Then the carpet, the cupboards, the light fixtures, toilets, sinks, tub, linoleum flooring, and in this case, the front porch has to be torn off the house and hauled away.”
Spring-cleaning my… More of a demolition project. “So the house is going to be demolished?”
“Oh, no. A couple made an offer under the condition the place is ready for remodeling at closing.” As if she’d finally run out of oxygen from talking nonstop for the past twenty-five minutes, Anna sucked in a noisy breath of air. “I believe I’ve covered everything.”
And then some.
“Any questions, Ryan?”
“Who’s the other Parnell brother?”
“Harold. He died of colon cancer two years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ryan mumbled.
“He handled the financial end of the business, and since his death Bobby’s struggled with some cash-flow problems, but things will smooth out.”
Meaning what—the business was in monetary trouble? What did he care? He’d be gone in three months.
“Any questions?” she asked.
“Payday?”
“Fridays.” Her smile faltered—a first since they’d begun the tour. “May I ask you a question?”
A sliver of dread poked Ryan between the shoulder blades. “Sure.”
Her blue eyes turned icy. “What’s an uptown man such as yourself doing working for a trash company?”

WHEN RYAN JONES didn’t immediately respond, Anna congratulated her instincts for being correct. The moment she’d clasped his hand and gazed into his eyes—probing brown eyes—she’d been certain he didn’t hail from a neighborhood in Queens. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t detect any of the five boroughs’ accents in his speech, convincing her that there was much more to the new employee than met the eye.
“I’m taking a sabbatical from my other job,” he offered.
“Sabbatical meaning…you’ve been sent here to fulfill a community-service sentence?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “DUI? Drug possession?” Not long ago she’d read a magazine article about white-collar employees often getting slapped with community service for breaking the law, while blue-collar workers ended up in jail for the same offense.
Ryan’s mouth dropped open, affording Anna a glimpse of perfectly even white teeth—no fillings in his lower molars. She considered herself a good judge of character and decided his slack-jawed expression was genuine.
“I’ve never been arrested for anything in my life,” he insisted.
Maybe she’d gone overboard with the drinking and drug accusations, but one could never be too careful. She took her job seriously and considered her coworkers family—she’d been looking out for their best interests. And truthfully, she didn’t understand why Bobby had hired another employee when the company had trouble meeting payroll.
Nothing about Ryan Jones made sense. A person had a right to privacy, but honestly, the man needed to relax and loosen up. If not, his standoffishness might prevent him from being accepted by the other men. Maybe she should suggest a few pointers on friendliness—
Right then a buzzer sounded. “The crew’s here.” She slipped past Ryan, catching a whiff of cologne. Expensive. Not dime-store stuff. He smelled of sophisticated, refined male. In all her thirty-two years she’d never met a man who piqued her interest more than Ryan. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
After she pressed a button on the garage wall, the heavy door rose, revealing five pairs of work boots, then five sets of jean-clad legs, five metal lunch boxes, five broad shoulders and, finally, five heads, four wearing baseball caps, the other bald as a bowling ball.
“Morning, guys,” she greeted.
A chorus of “mornin’” bounced off the cement walls.
“Ryan Jones,” she began, then indicated each man as she said his name. “Antonio Moretti.”
“Tony,” he corrected, stepping forward to shake Ryan’s hand. “Only Anna gets away with calling me Antonio.”
“Patrick Felch,” she continued.
“Pat will do.”
Ryan nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Joe Smith and Eryk Gorski.”
“Good morning.” Ryan shook their hands.
Eryk shoved a copy of the daily newspaper under his arm and studied Ryan through narrowed eyes. “You look familiar.”
When Ryan didn’t comment, Anna continued. “And Leon Bauer.”
Leon waved, then skimmed his palm over his bald head. A habit the dear man hadn’t been able to break since the last few strands of hair had fallen out five years ago.
“I’ve given the new guy a tour of the station, assigned him a locker and explained the schedule. He’s all yours now.” The hint of uncertainty in Ryan’s eyes tempted Anna to hang out in the garage a few more minutes, but work waited on her desk. “I’ll check in with you later,” she promised with an encouraging smile.
By the end of the week she’d find out everything about Ryan Jones—even if she had to use a chisel and a mallet to break through his stony facade.

Chapter Two
Tense as a cornered rabbit, Ryan shifted from one size-twelve foot to the other as five pairs of eyes studied him. He didn’t appreciate the attention. And he didn’t approve of his grandfather’s motives—no matter how sincere.
“Jones, you’ll be with Eryk and me,” the bald man, Leon, announced, then headed to the break room, the others trailing behind.
Except Eryk. He continued to study Ryan. “I swear I’ve seen you before.”
Maybe the other man had come across the newspaper photo of Ryan after 9/11. “I don’t live around here.”
After a thoughtful nod, Eryk walked off, leaving Ryan alone in the garage. He held his breath until the break-room door closed, then a powerful rush of air burst from his lungs, leaving him dizzy and shaky. He’d given presentations to a convention room full of peers and had never been this nervous.
Those were the times you enjoyed being the center of attention.
The lukewarm welcome from his coworkers convinced Ryan he needed a new game plan to endure the next three months. Something along the lines of…mind his own business, don’t ask personal questions and where the company secretary–slash–boss lady was concerned…don’t, under any circumstances begin a conversation. Aloofness was the key to survival.
“Have you ever worked construction?” Eryk asked, appearing out of nowhere.
“No.” Ryan was wondering how to keep his guard up when a man wearing twenty-pound construction boots walked across a concrete floor without making a sound.
“Demolition?”
“Some.” Ryan’s one experience with destruction had been the night he’d torn apart his bedroom. By the time his anger, hurt and frustration had been exhausted, nothing salvageable remained—save for the memories of 9/11. Those were indestructible.
The break-room door banged against the brick wall. “Let’s go.” The furrows bracketing Leon’s mouth deepened.
“Don’t mind him,” Eryk whispered. “He hasn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in over a month since his daughter and son-in-law moved in with him.”
Great. Apparently, Girl Friday wasn’t the sole motormouth in the place. Leon slid onto the driver’s seat of the empty dump truck. Ryan hustled to the storage cupboard and grabbed a pair of work gloves. Eryk stood by the passenger door, motioning for Ryan to hop in first.
“Anna said she was able to donate most of the furniture to nonprofit groups, so we might get away with one haul to the dump before we rip out the flooring and fixtures,” Leon commented as the truck edged out of the bay and into the street.
“Good,” Eryk grouched. “I’m dead tired after this weekend.”
“Babysitting does that to you.” Leon chuckled, jabbing Ryan’s side with a bony elbow.
“I can’t believe my sister-in-law talked my brother into having four kids. The brats ambush us when they come over.”
Ryan refrained from adding to the exchange. He never engaged in guy-banter with his employees. Personal lives remained personal—in and out of the office.
“Your sister-in-law’s a pretty woman. I doubt she was doing any talking in the bedroom.” Another elbow landed against Ryan’s side.
“Pretty or not, her kids are holy terrors,” Eryk complained.
“So now they’re her kids and not your brother’s?”
“Hell, yes. She stays at home and raises them while my brother busts his ass to put food on the table.” The truck stopped at a light. Eryk unrolled the window, hacked up a wad of phlegm and spit it at the pavement. “You got any kids, Jones?”
“No.” Ryan fought off a pang of sadness at the memory of almost being a father. At least his siblings were making their grandfather happy in that department. His younger brother, Aaron, and his wife, Jennifer, were expecting their first child around Christmas. His elder brother, Nelson, had inherited a teenage son when he’d married his wife, Ellen.
“Count yourself lucky.” Eryk interrupted Ryan’s thoughts. “One weekend a month, Pam and I watch the nieces and nephews. We began six years ago when they were two, five, seven and ten.” He snorted. “Hell, it was easy back then. Now the sixteen-year-old has a mouth meaner than a hooker’s. Can’t drag the thirteen-year-old away from his video games. The eleven-year-old’s favorite expression is make me. And the eight-year-old—shoot, she’s the best one in the bunch. Give her a box of Froot Loops and she’s a happy camper.”
The truck rolled into the intersection. “Then tell ’em you’ve had enough,” Leon insisted.
“A couple of times Pam and I almost stopped babysitting,” Eryk added.
“Why didn’t you?” Damn. Ryan hadn’t meant to voice the question.
“Guilt. My sister-in-law almost died during 9/11. That day changed my brother. Changed all of us.”
Changed didn’t begin to describe Ryan’s transformation after the attack.
“Once a month, they go off alone somewhere,” Eryk went on. “My brother’s afraid each weekend might be the last he and his wife have together.”
9/11 had forever changed thousands of peoples’ lives. Many, like Ryan’s, for worse, and some, like Eryk’s sister-in-law’s and brother’s, for the better.
Leon slammed on the brakes when a car cut in front of them. “Anna says going off for a weekend is romantic.”
“The woman insists peanut butter and jelly is romantic,” Eryk grumbled.
“You’re a good uncle. God will reward you in heaven.”
Ryan used to believe in heaven, but after 9/11 he doubted he’d ever see the pearly gates.
“Good uncle, my ass. I put up with the hooligans because Pam wears her French-maid costume to bed Sunday night after the brats leave.”
The bawdy comment startled Ryan but didn’t stop Leon from adding, “My Helga wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those sex getups. She locked me out of the bedroom for a month when I brought her a pink thong from Victoria’s Secret for Valentine’s Day. Accused me of being a pervert. Shoot, I’m old, but I ain’t dead. I’m fond of her big ol’ butt cheeks.”
“What do your ladies wear, Jones?” Eryk asked.
Eyes trained on the dashboard, Ryan grunted, “I’m divorced.” He had no desire to chat about women, sexy lingerie or butt cheeks.
Silence ensued. About time. After the next traffic light Leon turned on Fish Pond Road. Many of the homes were old and decrepit, but a few houses had been renovated, and one property had been demolished for new construction. Leon stopped the truck in the middle of the block, shifted into Reverse and backed into the driveway of a ramshackle two-story brick bungalow.
A rusted chain-link fence surrounded both the front and side yards. Apparently, the home had died along with the owner. Weeds had choked out the grass, and the bushes barely clung to life, refusing to shed their crusty brown leaves. Even the ceramic angel, with a broken wing and arms raised skyward, begged to be rescued from her desolate resting place.
As they piled out of the truck, Eryk cautioned, “Watch the porch steps. The second one’s rotted.”
Leon studied the damaged step. “We’ll have to slide the heavier pieces off the end.”
The inside of the house fared worse than the outside. Ryan gagged on the putrid air—a combination of mold, rodent droppings and cat feces.
“Jones, you take the second floor. Toss what you can onto the lawn. Eryk, clear out the garage. I’ll be in the basement.”
Pop. Creak. Snap. Ryan gingerly navigated the stairs to the second floor. When he reached the landing, an object—big and black—dived at his head, and he ducked, losing his balance. The trip down the stairs lasted half as long as the climb up. Ryan bounced to a stop at the front door, shoulder throbbing and elbow on fire.
“What the hell happened?” Leon rushed into the room and gaped. “Stair give out?”
“Tripped.” Damned if Ryan would admit a bat had scared the crap out of him. He accepted a hand up and swallowed a moan of pain.
“Maybe you’d better break out a window upstairs and drop the stuff into the yard,” Leon suggested, then returned to the basement.
Two hours later, drenched in sweat and arms burning with exertion, Ryan wanted to quit. A half hour on the treadmill and a twenty-minute workout on the Bowflex machine three times a week hadn’t prepared him for pulling up carpet, dismantling light fixtures and shoving mattresses through windows. Adding to his misery was the fact that he couldn’t get Anna’s face—her big nose, her blue eyes, her strong jaw—out of his ever-loving mind.
Wishing he’d thought to bring along a bottle of water, he rested his hands on his knees and sucked in large gulps of air. After a minute, the pinched feeling eased in his lungs and he returned to the first floor.
Time crawled as he joined Eryk in the garage and carried load after load to the front yard. Hefting an old car tire onto his shoulder, he wondered whether the old man would call a halt to this life lesson if Ryan collapsed from physical exhaustion. There was always a possibility…. He heaved a second tire onto his other shoulder and staggered along the driveway.

“BOSS SHOW UP?” Leon took a seat at the table in the break room. After the men called it quits, Leon stole a cup of coffee and a few minutes of tranquillity before heading home to a houseful of extended relatives.
Anna placed the creamer from the fridge next to Leon’s elbow. “Bobby came in at noon, stayed an hour, then claimed he had a personal matter to attend to and left.” She allowed Leon one minute of peace and quiet, then demanded, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
How did Helga put up with the man? Climbing all 102 floors of the Empire State Building would be less taxing than extracting information from Leon. “Ryan. Did he say where he lives?”
Ignoring the question, Leon winced. “I’ve got the knees of an eighty-year-old.”
Guilt pricked Anna for badgering the poor man when he was obviously worn out. She fetched two ice packs from the freezer. While Leon adjusted the packs over his knees, Anna’s thoughts drifted to Ryan.
The new employee had been on her mind all afternoon. Leon, Eryk and Ryan had returned to the station for lunch, but she’d been tied up on the phone with the company’s CPA and hadn’t had the opportunity to ask the anyone how things were going.
She blamed her preoccupation with Ryan, not because he was a new employee, but that he was handsome and exciting in a mysterious way. Of course, she didn’t believe for a minute anything would develop between them, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Dreams don’t come true. Life had taught her that lesson more than once.
Ignoring the voice in her head, Anna badgered, “C’mon, Leon, Ryan must have said something about himself.”
“He’s not much of a talker.”
“You mean Ryan was unsociable? Rude?”
“No. Just quiet.”
“He doesn’t appreciate us, does he?”
“Leave him be, Anna. If he don’t want to fit in around here, he don’t have to.”
“But I wanted—”
“Everyone to get along.” Slurp. “Always watching out for the strays, aren’t you?” Leon shoved his chair back, but Anna pressed her hand against his shoulder.
“Keep the ice on your knees.” She grabbed the coffeepot and topped off his cup, then added a dollop of nonfat dairy creamer.
“A man can’t even enjoy a coffee with real cream,” he complained.
After Leon was diagnosed with high cholesterol a year ago, Leon’s wife had enlisted Anna’s aid in monitoring her husband’s fat intake at work. “Helga would have my head if I let you have real cream.”
“Helga should pick on someone her own size.” Leon grinned and Anna laughed. Two inches shorter than Anna, his wife weighed in at a whopping one hundred eighty. And Leon was hopelessly in love with every one of those pounds. Sometimes Anna wondered if she’d ever find a man who’d love her to distraction the way Leon loved Helga.
Leon scratched the top of his bald noggin. “Jones mentioned he was divorced.”
“Oh.” Not sure why the news unsettled her, she asked, “Any children?” Before Leon answered, the bell in the office jangled. “Probably Bobby.” Anna was halfway across the room when the door flew open.
Ryan froze midstride, mouth tight at the corners. His habit of scowling when their gazes connected annoyed Anna. Didn’t he realize a person used more facial muscles to frown than to smile?
Feeling mischievous, she flashed a wide grin. “Hello, Ryan. Forget your lunch box?” Or your manners, perhaps?
Shifting his scowl to Leon and then back to Anna, he muttered, “I walked off with these.” He held out a pair of work gloves. An oil smudge marked the side of his jaw. A tree twig poked out of the top of his mussed hair and flecks of dirt dusted his cheeks and nose.
Her attention bounced between the gloves and the lines of exhaustion etched in his face. His cranky expression prevented her from offering one of her special sympathy hugs.
A throat cleared. “Think I’ll head home.” Leon placed his mug in the sink, grabbed his lunch box and nodded goodbye on his way out.
The faint trace of Ryan’s aftershave drifted beneath Anna’s big nose. She hated everything about her nose except one thing—it was a good sniffer. Mixed with the sexy, sophisticated scent of Ryan’s cologne was the tang of sweat and hardworking male. An odor her nose insisted wasn’t unappealing.
“You could have brought in the gloves tomorrow.”
Ryan’s plan to sneak in and out of the station without anyone the wiser had bombed big-time. He cursed himself for wanting to return the gloves when he could have stuffed them into a mailing envelope, instead.
“Are you feeling all right?” The touch of her feminine hand on his arm made his flesh prickle.
“I’m fine.” What the hell was wrong with him? He’d known women more beautiful than Anna and hadn’t reacted physically to them. That was before 9/11. Before you crawled into your cave and swore off the opposite sex. What could he say other than the truth—he’d returned the gloves because he had no intention of showing up for work tomorrow. He tossed the gloves onto the table, then stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, where they wouldn’t be tempted to finger the blond hair that feathered across Anna’s forehead.
“Did anything happen this afternoon?” she inquired.
Yeah. You happened—Ms. Anastazia Persistence Nowakowski.
When her gaze softened with concern, he battled the urge to confide in her—as if a mere stranger could make sense of the feelings at war within him. He’d arrived at the station this morning, ready to do his grandfather’s bidding, prepared to feel uncomfortable working with strangers. But he hadn’t anticipated being blindsided by Anna. By her perpetually happy demeanor. By her compelling face. By her nonstop chatter.
She irritated the hell out of him.
He wasn’t angry with her for awakening his long-dead libido. He was angry because he sensed something about her…something that warned him that if he wasn’t careful she’d worm her way inside him to the place he’d promised he’d never, ever allow another woman access to.
The best way to prevent that from happening was to keep his distance. And Anna was the kind of woman who stepped over boundaries. Knocked down Do Not Enter signposts. And ripped up Keep Out posters. He had no choice but to quit.
“Ryan?”
“Everything’s fine.” Or would be as soon as he got the hell out.
“Oh, good.”
At her relieved smile, his chest expanded with gentle yearning. Anna was full of life, compassion and caring. And he was full of…nothing.
“You’d tell me if a problem surfaced, wouldn’t you?” She fluttered a hand in front of her face. “If I can’t fix it, then Bobby will.” She moved to the counter. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“Stop.” He cringed at her round-eyed expression. He hadn’t meant to shout the word. “No coffee.” He wanted away from her smile. Away from her kindness. Away from her.
“Hate to waste the last cup.” Against his wishes, she poured the coffee and delivered the mug to the table. “Might as well sit a spell and wait out rush hour before heading home,” she coaxed.
Annoyed with himself for giving in, he joined her and grunted. “Shouldn’t you be heading home to your own family?” Damn. Now she’d assume he was fishing for details about her personal life. He wasn’t. For all he cared, she could be married, single, divorced, a lesbian or all of the above.
“I’m single.”
Was it his imagination, or did her smile tremble with strain? He sipped the too-hot brew to keep from asking why she wasn’t married.
“My roommate is a student at the Culinary Academy of New York and rarely arrives at our apartment before seven each night.”
As if cooking school explained why she’d never married.
Anna traced a scratch in the Formica table with the tip of her pink nail. “How did things go with Mr. Kline’s house?”
What would a ten-minute tête-à-tête hurt when he’d never see her again? “We cleared everything out except for the bathroom toilets, sinks and the tub.”
“Eryk doubles as a plumber. He’ll have everything disconnected and ready to rip out in no time. His rates are reasonable, especially for friends.”
After eight hours on the job, she assumed Ryan and the other men were friends?
“Next week you’ll be working with Antonio and Joe on the lot-cleanup program.”
Silence stretched between them. God, he was rusty at mundane dialogue. Her gaze skirted his face, then she stared him in the eye. “You don’t like it here, do you?”
Ms. Chatterbox could read minds. He wasn’t certain how to respond—not that words mattered. She offered no chance to defend himself.
“Have I insulted you?” Her chin lifted. Sparks spit from her eyes, heightening the blue color. A rosy tinge seeped across her cheekbones, making her nose more pronounced. Her expressive face captivated him.
Ryan’s ex-wife had taken great pains to control her emotions—until she’d visited him in the hospital after 9/11. For the first time her carefully schooled features gave way to disgust. Revulsion. Pity. Perfect Sandra had discovered she had an imperfect husband.
“Are you angry at one of the guys?”
“No.” Leon and Eryk were decent men and once they’d figured out Ryan wasn’t verbose, they’d left him alone.
“Then you’re always this social and outgoing?” The corner of her mouth twitched.
Anastazia Nowakowski was a piece of work. “More or less.” He fought an answering smile.
“You won’t object if I work on your demeanor while you’re employed at Parnell Brothers?”
The last thing he needed was to be this woman’s pet project. Cause. Or charity case. His decision to quit hadn’t been made lightly. He understood he’d lose his inheritance and that his grandfather wouldn’t approve, especially after his brothers had stuck out their life lessons. But right now he’d rather face an irate old man than the big-as-saucers blue eyes across the table.
Her earnest expression pulled at him. When was the last time a woman had gazed at him the way Anna Nowakowski watched him now—as if he held her happiness in the palm of his hand. Would it hurt to hang around the job awhile longer?
“Don’t worry, I’ll play nice.” Her lips spread into a wide grin. “You’ll be best buddies with your coworkers in no time.”
Don’t get your hopes up, Ms. Sunshine.
Anna was an intelligent girl. From what he’d witnessed, she practically ran the business. After a few failed attempts to lure him into the fold, she’d give up and leave him be. “Do you ever stop smiling?” he groused.
The sound of her lilting laughter soothed his apprehension.
“Better keep on your toes, Ryan Jones. If I have my way, you’ll be the one smiling all the time.”

Chapter Three
“TGIF!” Eryk hollered over his shoulder.
Following at a distance, Ryan noted that Leon waited in the driver’s seat of the dump truck. Why the hurry to return to the station for lunch?
Ryan hopped into the truck, his lower-back muscles protesting—one too many swings with a sledgehammer. He’d reconciled himself to remaining in a state of perpetual exhaustion for the duration of the week. Add in the mental and emotional stress of Ms. Happy Chatty’s isn’t-the-world-a-beautiful-place smile, and then expending precious energy avoiding her nonstop attempts to drag him into discussions with the men, was it any wonder he teetered on the verge of collapse?
“What do you guess she made for the potluck?” Eryk grabbed the dashboard when Leon veered right out of the south Queens neighborhood of Lindenwood.
Potluck. Ryan shuddered. Anna had informed him several times about the once-a-month potluck. When he’d discovered the teddy-bear-shaped sticky note on his locker reminding him to bring cookies, he’d suffered a full-blown panic attack. Feeling like the potluck grinch, he’d brought a sack lunch and intended to eat outside on the stoop alone—the same as every other day this week.
Until Eryk had knocked on the Porta Potti yesterday while Ryan had been inside, Ryan hadn’t considered how much he appreciated working in his office isolated from his employees. Over the past six years his direct contact with people had decreased, until weeks passed before he spoke face-to-face with another human.
“Maybe Anna brought Blair’s famous spicy sausage-stuffed mushrooms,” Leon said, answering Eryk’s earlier question. A minute later, Leon steered the truck into the station garage and cut the engine.
Ryan didn’t care who Blair was. They piled out of the truck, and the scent of garlic bread overpowered the usual smell of diesel fuel and engine grease. He followed the others to the break room, his stomach rumbling at the mouthwatering aroma.
“’Bout time you fellas showed up.” Patrick scooped spoonfuls of Italian casserole onto a plastic plate. Antonio, Joe and the company boss, Bobby, stuffed their faces at the table covered with an American-flag cloth.
“Everything looks real nice, Anna,” Eryk complimented her, then moved to the sink to wash up.
Nice? The Fourth of July had exploded in the room. Coordinated red-white-and-blue plates and utensils rested on the counter. Two pitchers of lemonade with real lemon slices floating on the top occupied the middle of the table. Anna had tied red-and-blue balloons to the chairs and stuck American-flag toothpicks in the brownies stacked on a plate. The one thing missing—real fireworks.
“I wanted to use the leftover party supplies from our Fourth of July picnic.” Anna glanced at Ryan, but he ducked his head, grabbed his lunch from the fridge and slipped through the door that led to the lockers, where Leon was changing into a clean T-shirt. When he noticed Ryan’s sack lunch, he frowned.
“Don’t have much of an appetite,” Ryan mumbled, attempting to escape.
Leon blocked his path. “You just unfriendly or has one of us offended?”
Well, hell. He should have assumed sneaking off wouldn’t be easy. “I’m not feeling well and I was searching for peace and quiet.” The fib wasn’t far from the truth. People made his stomach queasy.
“Anna’s got over-the-counter medicine—”
“No, thanks.”
The skin on the top of Leon’s bald head wrinkled.
Before the other man had the chance to argue further, Ryan hustled out of the locker room, cut through the garage and managed to scamper up the steps to the office door without being stopped. Appetite gone, he tossed the lunch bag aside, collapsed on the cold concrete stoop, rested his arms on his knees and buried his head in his hands.
When had his desire to be alone changed from a preference to a gut-gnawing need? Had his grandfather noticed Ryan’s obsession with isolation had evolved into a phobia? Had Ryan tricked himself into believing he could manage the bouts of panic he experienced around other people?
Just how screwed up am I?
The muted sounds of male laughter echoed through the garage. A fierce, steal-his-breath pang of loneliness seized him. The worker’s camaraderie conjured up memories of his brothers and him at their grandfather’s home on Martha’s Vineyard. Afternoons filled with laughter and arguments. But always togetherness.
Even after Ryan had married he’d managed to hang out with his brothers a few times a year. After 9/11, he’d forced himself to visit Aaron and Nelson, but not as often, and their relationship had never been the same.
Who’s fault is that?
What did it matter? Both his brothers were happily married, busy with their families. Ryan missed them. Missed his old life. Missed his old self. Plain damn missed.
“I brought you dessert.” Anna stood at the bottom of the steps holding a napkin-wrapped brownie—not smiling.
Her solemn gaze bore into him. Could she see into his soul? Smell his fear? As much as he hated her constant smile, he didn’t wish to be the reason for her frown.
“Thanks,” he managed, accepting the treat.
She eyed his lunch sack. “Leon said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Queasy stomach.” Embarrassed at the raspy note in his voice, he pretended interest in the line of cars waiting for a green light a block away.
“Mind if I join you?” In Anna-like fashion she didn’t wait for an invitation. She claimed the third step, her shoulder even with his knee.
Ryan braced himself for the surge of panic he anticipated at her closeness. Seconds ticked by and…nothing. He studied her profile—the bump along the bridge of her nose barely visible from this angle. Her pale skin—poreless smooth porcelain. Flawless. His fingers ached to touch the unblemished perfection.
A scent—sweet and fruity—drifted up his nostrils. He breathed deeply, this time detecting a hint of Anna’s unique feminine scent. The sudden twitch in his pants caught him by surprise and he shifted away.
“The first aid kit contains—”
“I’m fine.” He cursed himself for lying to Leon. Fibbing had become an integral part of his everyday life. I’m fine. No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great. Untruths that allowed him to keep others at a distance. Hell, he even lied to himself so he wouldn’t analyze his every thought and emotion. Believing he was empty inside made life bearable.

ANNA TWISTED on the step in order to make eye contact. Growing up in foster care had taught her to read other people. In some cases it had been a matter of survival—hers. Her intuition insisted the pain reflected on Ryan’s face went deeper than a sour stomach. “If you didn’t want to participate in the potluck, all you had to do was say so.”
His stony face reminded her of a solemn boy in one of her foster homes. With haunted eyes, the silent six-year-old had spied on the foster parents from corners and stairwells—never speaking. His moodiness had frightened the adults and they’d exchanged him for a child who worked.
Troubled by her foster parents’ actions, eight-year-old Anna had transformed herself into a cheery, happy, never-complaining child. In the end her efforts had fallen short. Without understanding why, she’d been removed from the home and placed elsewhere. She’d tried harder…and harder and harder each time she’d landed in a new home. Years of cheerful conditioning had had a lasting effect on her. It simply took too much effort to be a grump. Nevertheless, Ryan’s perpetually ornery mood had taken a toll on her internal happy meter.
Anna wasn’t sure why Ryan’s moodiness bothered her. Or why it mattered that he preferred to be left alone. She thought of her daughter, Tina. Almost eighteen years had passed since she had allowed her baby to be adopted. Anna’s heart ached at the possibility her daughter had grown up to be a Ryan Jones—a solitary soul surrounded by people but alone in the world.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, interrupting her contemplation.
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry I didn’t bring cookies for the potluck.”
His hangdog expression made her smile.
“What’s so funny?” he grumbled.
“Nothing.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I came out here to tell you that after our potluck lunches, I give haircuts to the guys.”
“Haircuts?”
One would think an uptown guy would be able to articulate more than one-word utterances. “I was a hairdresser before I hired on here.”
“What do you charge?”
Wow, a full sentence. “Whatever you can afford to put in the tip jar. I donate the money to a children’s after-school program in the neighborhood.” When Ryan didn’t respond, she hinted, “You could use a trim.” Anna wondered if her interest in him was motivated by concern or attraction. A little of both, she suspected. She stood and brushed off the seat of her jeans, aware his eyes followed the swish-swash of her fingers against her bottom.
Ryan Jones was a sexy, attractive, edgy guy. A man she definitely wanted to learn more about. “I’ll be in the locker room if you change your mind about a haircut….” Or me.

“WALK THE LOT and search for any surprises left overnight,” Bobby Parnell instructed Ryan as he parked the company vehicle on a side street in the Elmhurst area of Queens. “I’ll help the guys unload the excavator.” The boss slid from the driver’s seat and headed for Antonio’s Ford F-250, which had been used to tow the miniexcavator.
Ryan went in the opposite direction. The cleanup project he’d been assigned his second week on the job consisted of three lots sandwiched between two apartment buildings. Monday, they’d gotten rid of old appliances, tires, trash and broken furniture. Tuesday, they’d demolished the remainder of a crumbling brick mom-and-pop grocery that had been vacant for years. Wednesday—today—would be spent transporting debris to the dump, then using the excavator to break up the old concrete. Tomorrow, Leon and Eryk would join the group with the second dump truck and haul away the rubble.
As he canvassed the area, Ryan struggled to envision the final transformation—a neighborhood community center.
“Find anything?” Joe joined Ryan in the far corner of the lot.
“Nope.”
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Joe pointed to the apartments across the street. “Damn gangs.”
Earlier in the week Ryan had noticed the colorful images painted on the west side of the building. He didn’t condone defacing property, but the mural was a nice piece of work. The punk artist should put his talent to better use. “I heard your brother’s involved in a gang.”
“You heard about Willie?” Before Ryan answered, Joe added, “Anna told you.”
“She mentioned you were concerned about your brother.”
“He’s fifteen and full of himself. Thinks he can walk away from the gang anytime he wants.”
After following in his elder brother, Nelson’s, footsteps and graduating from Harvard, Ryan had moved to New York City and had lived there ever since, but he confessed he was ignorant of the struggles facing the four boroughs outside Manhattan. “Are you implying the group won’t let him leave?”
The hollow sound of Joe’s laugh drifted across the lot. “The only way out of a gang is in a body bag.”
“What kind of trouble does the gang cause?” Ryan chose to believe his inquisitiveness was the result of his acclimation to interacting with the guys and not because of a sense of connection he’d developed with them.
“The gang’s idea of fun is to barge into baptisms and weddings, threaten the guests, then steal the alcohol.” Joe rolled a chunk of concrete under his work boot.
“Fun at the expense of others.”
“Yep. The group thrives on shoplifting, selling fake green cards, dealing drugs and extorting small-business owners. You know what pisses me off most?” The younger man vented as if he believed his coworker cared.
And surprisingly, Ryan did. “What?”
“Willie’s got people who care about him. A decent home. Parents who love him. He doesn’t fit the profile of a gangbanger. He’s not a runaway and he hasn’t been abandoned or abused by his parents.”
The next time Ryan spoke with his grandfather he’d remind the old man how fortunate he was that none of his grandsons had taken to a life of crime. Although he suspected his grandfather might argue that he’d have preferred managing a recalcitrant teenager than doling out life lessons to grown men. “If your brother has a lot of time on his hands, what about encouraging him to get a job?”
Joe gaped. “He can make more money protecting prostitutes than flipping burgers.” With a snort of disgust, he added, “It doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t matter?”
“If Willie leaves the gang, they’ll put a bounty on his head.”
A bounty? The scenario had the makings of a Hollywood movie. “What about asking the police for protection?”
“They’d don’t care. They’d just as soon let all the gangs kill each other off and be rid of the problem.”
Frustration steamed from the top of Joe’s head. Had Ryan’s grandfather experienced this same helplessness when Ryan had determinedly walled himself off from the family after 9/11?
“All we can do is wait,” Joe mumbled. “Wait for my brother’s luck to run out.”
An image of the man’s family, gathered around a headstone in a cemetery, swept through Ryan’s mind. He had to help. This is none of your business. Keep your mouth shut. “Maybe I—”
“C’mon,” Joe interrupted. “The boss is waving us over.”
What had gotten into Ryan? If not for the boss’s timely interruption he’d have…What? Offered to save Willie? Hadn’t 9/11 taught him the danger of rescuing people? He’d tossed out his superhero duds a long time ago. No more surrendering himself for someone else—besides, he didn’t have anything left to sacrifice. He had enough of his own problems—mainly why he had no trouble conversing with the guys, but when it came to talking with Anna, he froze inside.
That’s because she unnerves you.
At times Ryan suspected her blue eyes could see his deepest secrets. Deepest fears. After his near slipup with Joe a few moments ago, he’d best keep his distance from Anna. That shouldn’t be difficult.
She was a female. And females were so far down on his list they weren’t even on the paper.

“HI, EVERYONE!” Anna waved as she shut the door of the boss’s pickup she’d driven to the work site. Since the men were stuck in Elmhurst, she decided to bring Ryan’s birthday party to the crew. Leaving the cake on the front seat, she approached Bobby, who watched Joe break up concrete with the bulldozer. Antonio, Ryan and Eryk were tossing debris into the dump trucks, while Leon used a minibackhoe to deposit the larger chunks. “Can you take a break?” she shouted above the grinding gears of machines.
“What for?” Bobby hollered.
“Birthday cake.”
“Well, heck, Anna. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Bobby possessed a mean sweet tooth.
The chugging noise of motors filled the air as she rested the two-tiered confection on the hood of the truck. She removed the plastic wrap protecting the white-frosting swirls. Her roommate, Blair, had baked the chocolate cake, but she’d stayed up half the night decorating the layers.
“Hey, whose birthday is it?” Antonio peered over Anna’s shoulder.
Smile in place, she faced the men assembled around her. “Ryan’s.” As was his custom, the birthday boy remained a respectable distance from the group. She looked him in the eye and he took her by surprise when he didn’t glance away. She wished he had. His glower insisted he wasn’t pleased with the surprise party. Oh dear.
Pasting on a happy face, she spouted, “Ryan’s thirty-seven today.”
A barrage of old-age jokes followed her pronouncement, none of which made a crack in Ryan’s stone face. Anna glanced longingly at the box of candles on the front seat. By the time they coaxed Ryan to blow them out, the cake would catch fire.
She reached for the knife, but Joe cried, “Wait. We have to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Maybe Patrick would lead us?” Anna offered the shy man an encouraging smile. After a few seconds, raucous male bellowing drowned out Patrick’s beautiful voice. To keep from bursting into laughter at Ryan’s horrified expression, Anna locked her gaze on the bulldozer.
As the last notes of the song faded, she clapped her hands. Then, amid murmurs of appreciation, she served the cake, handing Ryan the largest piece. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks.” As if a pistol were being held to his head, he shoveled a bite into his mouth.
“Good, huh?” Antonio mumbled, cheeks bulging.
“Yeah, great.” Ryan’s glare pierced Anna.
For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what she’d done to annoy him. There was only one explanation for his pathetic lack of appreciation for her thoughtfulness—he didn’t care for her. And that hurt.
Everyone was fond of her. She worked darn hard to guarantee no one found fault with her. Ticked, she said, “Seconds, Ryan?”
He shook his head, then placed the remainder of his cake—the entire piece minus one bite—on the hood.
“I’ll wrap the cake for you to take home.”
“No,” he blurted, then lowered his voice. “I’m not fond of sweets. The guys can share the rest of it.”
Anna couldn’t explain what sparked her anger—the fact that Ryan didn’t appreciate her attempt to make his birthday special or that she’d permitted his rudeness to hurt her. And the reason his rudeness could hurt her, she decided, was that she’d allowed herself to care about him.
Stupid, Anna. Ever since you offered your baby up for adoption, you’ve tried to mother everyone and anyone. Well, Ryan Jones doesn’t need or want a mother. She lifted the entire cake from the hood and held it out to him. “Take it. After all, it’s your birthday.”
He raised his hands. “I don’t want it.”
Uncaring that the rest of the guys had stopped eating to gawk at her and Ryan, she stepped closer and insisted, “You’re being too generous.”
“No, I’m not.” He retreated.
Anna advanced a step. “Yes.” And another. “You.” Another. “Are.”
Hell. Anastazia Nowakowski didn’t recognize when to give up. Backed into a corner, Ryan decided he’d better accept the cake before the happy-birthday-girl shoved it in his face.
Anna’s blue eyes sparkled with…Tears? “You’re welcome.” She spun away.
While the guys thanked her, Ryan stood aside cursing himself for being such a bastard and wounding her feelings.
How could Anna have known he’d stopped celebrating birthdays and holidays the moment he learned his ex-wife had miscarried their child?

Chapter Four
I’m sorry.
Ryan paced in front of Anna’s desk, rehearsing an apology in his head. Hoping to make amends for his rude reaction to her surprise birthday celebration that afternoon, he’d hung around the locker room until the men had left the building. The click-click of Anna’s heels announced her arrival seconds before she appeared in the doorway.
When she spotted him, she paused, one sandaled foot hovering an inch above the floor. Her mouth flattened into a thin line and the light dimmed in her normally sparkling eyes. After a moment, she unpaused, moved into the room and sat in the chair at her desk.
No hello. No get out of here. No nothing.
“Got a minute, Anna?”
A shoulder shrug. Averting her gaze, she shuffled papers. Stacked and restacked folders. Tightened the lid on her correction-fluid bottle. Loaded staples into the stapler. He got the hint. She didn’t care to listen to anything he had to say.
Edging closer to the desk, he positioned himself in her line of vision. She vacated the chair, crossed the room to the water stand and filled her coffee mug, then gave the hanging plants by the front window a drink. He tried again. “Please, Anna.” God, he hoped she wouldn’t make him beg.
Long, slim, pink-tipped fingers clenched the kitten photo on the ceramic mug. Then she faced him—chin out and with an I-won’t-let-you-hurt-me glare.
“I was an ass.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits, the blue barely visible.
He’d already admitted he’d been a jerk. What more did she want—blood? “About the birthday cake…I apologize for hurting your feelings.”
The slits widened.
Hell. He shouldn’t have used that stupid word—feelings. Women loved examining them. Dissecting them. Declaring them. He’d learned from his ex-wife that whenever the word feeling entered a heart-to-heart, ninety-five percent of the time he’d never said what she’d wanted to hear.
“I didn’t mean to be rude.” He waited for “That’s okay” or “No harm done.”
He got, “You hurt my feelings.”
That damn word again. “I’d like to make amends.”
“Okay. Buy me a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” Couldn’t he say he was sorry again? Did he have to spend time with her?
“The Muddy River Café is a few blocks from here.” She retrieved her sweater from the desk chair, then slung her purse strap over her shoulder.
While she locked up, he struggled to figure out how I’m sorry had evolved into let me buy you a coffee.
Side by side they strolled in silence, casting glances in each other’s direction. They rounded a corner and stumbled upon a group of teens roughhousing in front of a dry-cleaning business. Automatically, Ryan placed his hand on Anna’s back and put himself between her and the kids as they passed. Not until the end of the fourth block did he realize that his hand lingered on Anna. How long had it been since he’d pressed his palm to a feminine curve?
You need to get laid.
If he wanted sex, he could find a woman to scratch his itch. But 9/11 and his divorce had worn him out physically, mentally and emotionally. As a survivor of the terrorist attack, he understood on some level that he harbored a desperate desire to connect with another human being. The desperation aspect scared him away from personal entanglements. If the relationship bombed, he’d be worse off than he was right now—hollow inside.
When and if he decided to make love to a woman, it wouldn’t be with one who pitied him. And once Anna saw his body, she’d pity him. She wouldn’t mean to. But he suspected pity came naturally to a person with as big a heart as Anna possessed.
At the next corner they stopped to wait for the crosswalk light and he forced himself to remove his hand from her back.
“Why?”
“Why what?” he blurted, caught off guard by her question.
“It was just a birthday cake, Ryan. Your reaction was over the top. I deserve an explanation.”
The fact that she was right didn’t make explaining easier. He was saved from answering when the light switched to green. Grasping her elbow, he guided her across the intersection and into the café. The place was crowded and loud and Ryan hated it immediately.
Groups of gossiping women, giggling teens too young to be coffee addicts, slouched in big comfortable chairs and slurped from their cups. The stools at the counter were occupied, and a line formed at the register. He intended to suggest they buy their coffee at the doughnut shop they’d passed along the way, but Anna had already secured a spot in the order line. He noticed an older couple vacate a table near the front window. “I’ll get the coffee. You grab that table.”
“Black, no sugar, no cream.”
A no-nonsense coffee for a no-nonsense woman. Anna wove a path through the crowd and Ryan wondered if she was aware of the appreciative glances that followed the swish-sway of her curvy backside. When she reached the table, she turned her chair toward the other patrons. He’d never met a person who wished to be with people more than Anna. He suspected it didn’t matter if they were friend, foe or stranger as long as they kept her company.
Anna twisted sideways to drape her sweater over the chair. The action pulled her silk blouse across her generous breasts. The part of his body that generally hovered near zero suddenly warmed and he forced his attention back to the menu on the wall. Anna was a pretty woman with a Marilyn Monroe body. Dangerous and intriguing, she scared the hell out of him.
He had no intention of allowing his male appreciation to advance further than ogling. Becoming intimate with Anna would mean opening himself up emotionally. No way did Ryan wish for Ms. Happy Chatty to see through him to the dark side of his soul—his lost hopes, lost joys, lost self.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched a man approach Anna. She popped off the chair and hugged him as if he were her favorite teddy bear. Then she invited the guy to sit—in his chair. An old friend? Maybe a lover? Hell, Anna probably hugged all her acquaintances.
Next in line, Ryan rattled off his order. Less than a minute later, coffee cups in hand, he approached the cozy couple. Deep in discussion, neither acknowledged his presence until he cleared his throat.
“Ryan.” Anna accepted her drink from him and motioned to her friend. “This is Charlie. Charlie…meet Ryan.”
“How do you do.” Charlie stood and offered his hand. “Anna and I go way back.”
In years or bed? He shook hands, adding a bit of oomph to his grip.
“Grab a chair and visit awhile longer, Charlie,” Anna suggested.
The man ruffled her hair. “I should get going, brat.”
Brat? Now Ryan was intrigued. What kind of relationship did the two have?
Anna bumped Ryan out of the way and hugged Charlie. Again. “Say hi to Alice and the kids.”
The guy’s married. A zing of what could be labeled relief shot through him. Ryan and Charlie exchanged manly nods, then the guy left.
The longest minute of Ryan’s life passed before Anna smiled and asked, “Aren’t you curious about Charlie?”
God, yes. He studied his cup and muttered, “He’s none of my business.”
“You’re a private person.” Anna was careful with her words.
His family had never used the word private to describe his need to be left alone. “I’m not very social.” Part truth. Before 9/11 he’d been considered a fun guy.
“Thank you for the coffee.” Her smile was half the wattage of the one she’d bestowed upon her pal Charlie.
“Do you come here often?” He faced his chair to the window.
“No. There’s another Muddy River near my apartment.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t cater to crowds, either.”
Intuitive little brat. He slouched, attempting to convey an air of nonchalance, when in reality his body was coiled as tight as a roll of electrical wire. “Not especially.”
“Why?”
Couldn’t this woman stay on her side of the fence? He imagined she was the kind of neighbor who waved while a man was mowing the lawn and kept waving until he turned off the mower, walked across the yard and asked what she wanted, to which she’d reply, “Oh, nothing. Just saying hello.”
He swallowed a gulp of coffee, ignoring the sear of heat against his throat. “Long work hours and socializing don’t mix.”
“Liar.”
Man, her eyes got to him. Bright. Blue. Animated. “What did you call me?” He was having a hell of a time keeping track of the argument.
“I called you a liar. You avoid people because you’re afraid not because you’re too busy.”
So much for keeping his soul hidden. “Not everyone is a people person like you, Anna.”
The light in her eyes dimmed. “Being friendly isn’t easy for me. I’ve worked at it all my life.”
Was she joking? “Well, practice makes perfect. The guys at the station believe you walk on water.”
“We’re like family.”
“How long have you worked for Parnell?”
“Ten years. I turned twenty-two right after I hired on.”
“You got the job right out of college?”
“I didn’t go to college. I went to beauty school, and at the time I was working in a hair salon and not liking the long hours, little pay and achy legs.”
“Then why did you go to beauty school?”
She shrugged. “I was told it was the best a girl in my situation could hope for.”
“Your situation?” Their chat had evolved into a game of twenty questions.
“My last set of foster parents convinced me that cutting hair was a decent, respectable occupation for a young woman of no means.”
Anna had grown up in the foster-care system? At least he’d had his brothers and his grandfather after his parents had passed away. “What happened to your family?”
“My mother died when I was four. I never knew my father. His name wasn’t on my birth certificate.”
He envisioned a four-year-old with humongous blue eyes, standing on a stranger’s doorstep. “I’m sorry.”
“I was lucky, I suppose, to survive foster care relatively unscathed.” She gazed unseeingly across the café, a pinched expression on her face, as if she was reliving an unpleasant memory.
The thought of Anna as a small child afraid or threatened shook Ryan in a way that not even he understood. “You’ve had a rough life.”
“Life is what you make of it.”
For a moment he considered her words, then shoved them aside. He wasn’t in the mood for the old if-life-hands-you-lemons-make-lemonade speech. Besides, they’d digressed from the purpose of their coffee outing. “Are you going to accept my apology?”
“Of course.”
That’s it? “You don’t want me to grovel?”
“No. I should apologize for bullying you in front of the men. I don’t usually lose my temper.”

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