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.
“What’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