Ryan's Renovation (The McKade Brothers #3)

by Marin Thomas

  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!” E
ryk 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.

  “Wh
at’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.