Ryan's Renovation

“Maybe Patrick would lead us?” Anna offered the shy man an encouraging smile. After a few seconds, raucous male bellowing drowned out Patrick’s beautiful voice. To keep from bursting into laughter at Ryan’s horrified expression, Anna locked her gaze on the bulldozer.

As the last notes of the song faded, she clapped her hands. Then, amid murmurs of appreciation, she served the cake, handing Ryan the largest piece. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.” As if a pistol were being held to his head, he shoveled a bite into his mouth.

“Good, huh?” Antonio mumbled, cheeks bulging.

“Yeah, great.” Ryan’s glare pierced Anna.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what she’d done to annoy him. There was only one explanation for his pathetic lack of appreciation for her thoughtfulness—he didn’t care for her. And that hurt.

Everyone was fond of her. She worked darn hard to guarantee no one found fault with her. Ticked, she said, “Seconds, Ryan?”

He shook his head, then placed the remainder of his cake—the entire piece minus one bite—on the hood.

“I’ll wrap the cake for you to take home.”

“No,” he blurted, then lowered his voice. “I’m not fond of sweets. The guys can share the rest of it.”

Anna couldn’t explain what sparked her anger—the fact that Ryan didn’t appreciate her attempt to make his birthday special or that she’d permitted his rudeness to hurt her. And the reason his rudeness could hurt her, she decided, was that she’d allowed herself to care about him.

Stupid, Anna. Ever since you offered your baby up for adoption, you’ve tried to mother everyone and anyone. Well, Ryan Jones doesn’t need or want a mother. She lifted the entire cake from the hood and held it out to him. “Take it. After all, it’s your birthday.”

He raised his hands. “I don’t want it.”

Uncaring that the rest of the guys had stopped eating to gawk at her and Ryan, she stepped closer and insisted, “You’re being too generous.”

“No, I’m not.” He retreated.

Anna advanced a step. “Yes.” And another. “You.” Another. “Are.”

Hell. Anastazia Nowakowski didn’t recognize when to give up. Backed into a corner, Ryan decided he’d better accept the cake before the happy-birthday-girl shoved it in his face.

Anna’s blue eyes sparkled with…Tears? “You’re welcome.” She spun away.

While the guys thanked her, Ryan stood aside cursing himself for being such a bastard and wounding her feelings.

How could Anna have known he’d stopped celebrating birthdays and holidays the moment he learned his ex-wife had miscarried their child?

Chapter Four

I’m sorry.

Ryan paced in front of Anna’s desk, rehearsing an apology in his head. Hoping to make amends for his rude reaction to her surprise birthday celebration that afternoon, he’d hung around the locker room until the men had left the building. The click-click of Anna’s heels announced her arrival seconds before she appeared in the doorway.

When she spotted him, she paused, one sandaled foot hovering an inch above the floor. Her mouth flattened into a thin line and the light dimmed in her normally sparkling eyes. After a moment, she unpaused, moved into the room and sat in the chair at her desk.

No hello. No get out of here. No nothing.

“Got a minute, Anna?”

A shoulder shrug. Averting her gaze, she shuffled papers. Stacked and restacked folders. Tightened the lid on her correction-fluid bottle. Loaded staples into the stapler. He got the hint. She didn’t care to listen to anything he had to say.

Edging closer to the desk, he positioned himself in her line of vision. She vacated the chair, crossed the room to the water stand and filled her coffee mug, then gave the hanging plants by the front window a drink. He tried again. “Please, Anna.” God, he hoped she wouldn’t make him beg.

Long, slim, pink-tipped fingers clenched the kitten photo on the ceramic mug. Then she faced him—chin out and with an I-won’t-let-you-hurt-me glare.

“I was an ass.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, the blue barely visible.

He’d already admitted he’d been a jerk. What more did she want—blood? “About the birthday cake…I apologize for hurting your feelings.”

The slits widened.

Hell. He shouldn’t have used that stupid word—feelings. Women loved examining them. Dissecting them. Declaring them. He’d learned from his ex-wife that whenever the word feeling entered a heart-to-heart, ninety-five percent of the time he’d never said what she’d wanted to hear.

“I didn’t mean to be rude.” He waited for “That’s okay” or “No harm done.”

He got, “You hurt my feelings.”

That damn word again. “I’d like to make amends.”

“Okay. Buy me a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee?” Couldn’t he say he was sorry again? Did he have to spend time with her?

“The Muddy River Café is a few blocks from here.” She retrieved her sweater from the desk chair, then slung her purse strap over her shoulder.

While she locked up, he struggled to figure out how I’m sorry had evolved into let me buy you a coffee.

Side by side they strolled in silence, casting glances in each other’s direction. They rounded a corner and stumbled upon a group of teens roughhousing in front of a dry-cleaning business. Automatically, Ryan placed his hand on Anna’s back and put himself between her and the kids as they passed. Not until the end of the fourth block did he realize that his hand lingered on Anna. How long had it been since he’d pressed his palm to a feminine curve?

You need to get laid.

If he wanted sex, he could find a woman to scratch his itch. But 9/11 and his divorce had worn him out physically, mentally and emotionally. As a survivor of the terrorist attack, he understood on some level that he harbored a desperate desire to connect with another human being. The desperation aspect scared him away from personal entanglements. If the relationship bombed, he’d be worse off than he was right now—hollow inside.

When and if he decided to make love to a woman, it wouldn’t be with one who pitied him. And once Anna saw his body, she’d pity him. She wouldn’t mean to. But he suspected pity came naturally to a person with as big a heart as Anna possessed.

At the next corner they stopped to wait for the crosswalk light and he forced himself to remove his hand from her back.

“Why?”

“Why what?” he blurted, caught off guard by her question.

“It was just a birthday cake, Ryan. Your reaction was over the top. I deserve an explanation.”

The fact that she was right didn’t make explaining easier. He was saved from answering when the light switched to green. Grasping her elbow, he guided her across the intersection and into the café. The place was crowded and loud and Ryan hated it immediately.