Ryan's Renovation

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?”