Ryan's Renovation

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.”