Ryan's Renovation. Marin Thomas
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Who was miffed? And who was Father Baynard? Ryan was having a hell of a time following the conversation.
The throaty sound of her giggle squeezed his chest. “Patrick shouldn’t have confessed that he’d had sex with a girl on their first date. The girl turned out to be Father Baynard’s niece.”
Ryan decided he’d better watch what he confessed around Miss Happy Chatty or the information was bound to leak out. By the end of his tour of duty at Parnell Brothers, the more than two million residents of Queens would learn everything about him, including the color of his BVDs.
“And finally, on the other side of Patrick is Antonio Moretti. He has two cute little boys. You should see him with his sons. He’s such a good father.”
An unexpected pain jolted Ryan. Would a time ever come that he’d hear the word father and not react?
“You should have plenty of room in the locker for an extra pair of clothes and shaving supplies. Depending on the job, the men sometimes shower before going home. If you run out of anything, I stock a few items in the storage closet.” She opened a door across the room.
Travel-size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream and soap were arranged in neat rows. Pink bath towels occupied the top shelf.
“First aid kit.” She motioned to a red-and-white box. Then her finger moved to the bottom shelf. “If the bathroom needs more…it’s right…” She slammed the door shut.
For the first time that morning Ryan wanted to grin. What an intriguing woman. Anna didn’t mind repeating gossip about sex but discussing toilet paper turned her face Stop-sign red.
“The break room is through this door or the one in the hallway we passed earlier.”
Secondhand furniture filled the lounge: a gray Formica table, eight mismatched chairs, a television set, a plaid-print couch that sagged in the middle, an olive-green refrigerator, a countertop microwave and an automatic coffeemaker.
“The guys usually brown-bag it for lunch.” She opened the cupboard above the sink. “Cream, sugar, salt and pepper packets.” Next cupboard. “Paper plates, napkins, plastic spoons and forks.” Refrigerator. “Condiments and help yourself to the jug of iced tea.”
He nodded his thanks.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” Her smile didn’t quite camouflage the note of disappointment in her voice.
If he’d quit caring what people thought of him years ago, why did her observation twist his gut into a knot? He shrugged.
She crossed the room to the chart on the wall.
“I post the next week’s schedule by noon on Friday.” She tapped a long pink fingernail against his name. “I marked you for a cleanout this week.”
“Cleanout?”
“Compare it to spring-cleaning.”
Spring-cleaning sounded like a woman’s job.
His face must have shown his confusion because she smiled at him as if he were a dense child. “The home is off Fish Pond Road and we’ve been asked to gut it. The owner died and his children live in Florida.”
“The family isn’t handling the estate?”
“Mr. Kline was estranged from his family. His children want us to haul everything to the dump. I’ve already sorted through his belongings and donated what was useful to local charities.”
“What’s left to get rid of?”
“Several pieces of furniture. Then the carpet, the cupboards, the light fixtures, toilets, sinks, tub, linoleum flooring, and in this case, the front porch has to be torn off the house and hauled away.”
Spring-cleaning my… More of a demolition project. “So the house is going to be demolished?”
“Oh, no. A couple made an offer under the condition the place is ready for remodeling at closing.” As if she’d finally run out of oxygen from talking nonstop for the past twenty-five minutes, Anna sucked in a noisy breath of air. “I believe I’ve covered everything.”
And then some.
“Any questions, Ryan?”
“Who’s the other Parnell brother?”
“Harold. He died of colon cancer two years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ryan mumbled.
“He handled the financial end of the business, and since his death Bobby’s struggled with some cash-flow problems, but things will smooth out.”
Meaning what—the business was in monetary trouble? What did he care? He’d be gone in three months.
“Any questions?” she asked.
“Payday?”
“Fridays.” Her smile faltered—a first since they’d begun the tour. “May I ask you a question?”
A sliver of dread poked Ryan between the shoulder blades. “Sure.”
Her blue eyes turned icy. “What’s an uptown man such as yourself doing working for a trash company?”
WHEN RYAN JONES didn’t immediately respond, Anna congratulated her instincts for being correct. The moment she’d clasped his hand and gazed into his eyes—probing brown eyes—she’d been certain he didn’t hail from a neighborhood in Queens. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t detect any of the five boroughs’ accents in his speech, convincing her that there was much more to the new employee than met the eye.
“I’m taking a sabbatical from my other job,” he offered.
“Sabbatical meaning…you’ve been sent here to fulfill a community-service sentence?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “DUI? Drug possession?” Not long ago she’d read a magazine article about white-collar employees often getting slapped with community service for breaking the law, while blue-collar workers ended up in jail for the same offense.
Ryan’s mouth dropped open, affording Anna a glimpse of perfectly even white teeth—no fillings in his lower molars. She considered herself a good judge of character and decided his slack-jawed expression was genuine.
“I’ve never been arrested for anything in my life,” he insisted.
Maybe she’d gone overboard with the drinking and drug accusations, but one could never be too careful. She took her job seriously and considered her coworkers family—she’d been looking out for their best interests. And truthfully, she didn’t understand why Bobby had hired another employee when the company had trouble meeting payroll.
Nothing about Ryan Jones made sense. A person had a right to privacy, but honestly, the man needed to relax and loosen up. If not, his standoffishness might prevent him from being accepted by the other men. Maybe she should suggest a few pointers on friendliness—
Right then a buzzer sounded. “The crew’s here.” She slipped past Ryan, catching a whiff of cologne. Expensive. Not dime-store stuff. He smelled of sophisticated, refined male. In all her thirty-two years she’d never met a man who piqued her interest more than Ryan. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
After she pressed a button on the garage wall, the heavy door rose, revealing five pairs of work boots, then five sets of jean-clad legs, five metal lunch boxes, five broad shoulders and, finally, five heads, four wearing baseball caps, the other bald as a bowling ball.
“Morning, guys,” she greeted.
A chorus of “mornin’” bounced off the cement walls.
“Ryan Jones,” she began, then indicated each man as she said his name. “Antonio Moretti.”
“Tony,” he corrected, stepping forward to shake Ryan’s