Ryan's Renovation

“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?”