Ryan's Renovation

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?