Читать книгу Ryan's Renovation - Marin Thomas - Страница 8

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.

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?”

“No. I should apologize for bullying you in front of the men. I don’t usually lose my temper.”