Sheltering Annie Page 3

  "Annie." Jeff pulled out a chair and flopped into it.

  "What do you mean—how's it going? I asked her name. That's it." The kid—his boss sat across the conference room table, his irritating smile a little smug for Hank's liking.

  Jeff rolled his eyes. "Yeah—over a week ago. So, what's up?"

  "Nothing's up," he lied. "I like to put a name to the face. We say hello every morning." And I talk to her boys every afternoon. Sometimes more often, he admitted. "She has two little boys. They're in the daycare center after school." Annie's sons—who'd already won him over with their excitement. Their innocence. Their endless patience each day . . . waiting for him by the daycare center door, their faces poking around the doorframe—as though he were something special. Four or five little boys—peering out the window every afternoon. Now that he knew they were there, Hank always made sure to wave. He'd asked the concrete guys to do the same. Lefty had gotten to where he'd make sure to fire up the skidloader and drive it past the daycare window each afternoon, just so the kids could take a look.

  "Okay. My mistake." Jeff lifted his hands, palms up. "No big deal."

  "Exactly. I was just—curious, that's all." His skin prickling with irritation, Hank would later realize he'd walked straight into the trap. He flipped open the spec book, hoping the kid would take the hint. "With the electrical permitting stalled, I think we could move ahead in these three areas while we're waiting for the city to get their head out of their ass."

  "It's just . . . you've never been curious before." Jeff studied him. A rare, quizzical expression in his eyes. "Annie seems nice. She practically lives here," he added. "But, I should warn you—she's not much for small talk. Even my legendary Traynor charm hasn't worked."

  "Can we just focus on adjusting the schedule around this latest obstacle?" He released an aggravated sigh. And then—unable to resist- "She talks to me." Shut up, Freeman.

  The kid's smile returned. "You should ask her out."

  "I asked her name," he reminded. "How'd we get from there to me askin' her out?" He raised his gaze to the ceiling. "I have a full life," he insisted. "I have this job. I have a list of chores a mile long to tend to at night-"

  "Cows to milk. Hogs to slop?"

  Hank glared him into submission, but Jeff's stupid-ass grin suggested he was losing his touch. "She seems nice. That's all. I've been eating lunch here every day—not because 'a her," he hastily added. "There's no sense packing my lunch or taking the time to run offsite when they've got great food here."

  "Makes sense to me." The kid seemed to be holding back what would likely be a way-off-base observation.

  At least he had a legitimate reason for being at New Beginnings. He was building the damn job. Traynor had been spending way too much time at the jobsite because he was hitting on the beautiful girl in the office. "I feel a little guilty—like I'm taking food from someone who really needs it."

  "I think the kitchen is open to everyone. Mari says they get lots of regulars."

  "Well, I make sure to stuff money in the jar on the counter." Mari. The kid had already reached the 'Mari' stage. Not Miss Ortega. Not Marisol—Mari. What the hell was he doing wrong? Hank sighed. You're too old for this. That's what was wrong. Too out-of-practice. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. What had he been thinking? That someone like Annie could be interested in an old, tired guy like him? She was beautiful. Brown eyes that warmed to honey. Pretty as hell. When she smiled, she lit up the room. And made his stomach do a back flip.

  "Let's get some work done." His tone gruff, Hank avoided the kid's amused expression. Okay—so maybe he'd been obvious. But—clearly, he wasn't ready if he couldn't even talk to the woman. Maybe—he could work on that part. When he wasn't tongue-tied, he could make conversation with just about anyone. He released a less frustrated breath. That could be his goal for the week. He would talk to her.

  ANNIE WATCHED HIM ENTER through the side door, the shelter kitchen a cinnamon-scented, noisy bustle of hungry diners. Breakfast was well underway. Hank Freeman had likely already been at the site for an hour. He's just outside the building. Just beyond the walls she couldn’t venture past. She experienced a quiver of unease. "You shouldn't know his schedule," she muttered. She didn't pay close attention to any other diners—even the regulars. But, Hank was different. "You shouldn’t know his name."

  Though he walked with purpose, his gorgeous, blue eyes were lit with a smile. "Maybe he just seems different," she muttered. Who could really know? Long ago, she'd felt that fluttery, stomach-shivery feeling about Phil. And look how that turned out.

  As she served the line before her, she allowed her thoughts to drift. Her therapy sessions urged forgiveness. Of herself. For taking the abuse. For not leaving sooner. But, after two years on the run, two years of her boys forced to switch schools, forced to leave friends behind . . . living in increasingly cramped quarters as they scrambled from shelter to shelter . . . she had trouble forgiving. On the bad days—her guard crumbling—Annie still believed she deserved it. As punishment for making such a colossal mistake in the first place. If she hadn't been so damned determined to prove her mother wrong.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wilkerson." Annie handed the elderly man a plate of steaming pancakes, a pleasant smile on her face as her stomach roiled with the whiff of sausage and failure. The product of a frivolous, empty-headed mother who'd played the marriage game like she played scratch-off lottery tickets, Annie had wanted to show her mother how it should be done. With one man, instead of five. She'd be different. She'd be successful.

  "Good mornin', Miss Ann."

  "Where have you been? We haven't seen you since Tuesday." The stench of stale beer wafted on his breath, making her smile falter. His street-begging tactics had clearly improved if he'd been able to afford this latest bender.

  "Been on a l'il vacation, Miss Ann."

  "Good for you." Being on the run had taught Annie a great deal about perspective. And mercy. The kindness of strangers. Everyone had problems. Some people were just better equipped to handle them.

  "Yes, ma'am." Faded eyes glinted with a hint of devil-may-care, but mostly, she just saw hunger. "Can I have a little more syrup?"

  She offered another scoop of warm maple syrup, trying to ignore the tracking radar in her head that told her Handsome Hank was now third in line.

  As he drew closer, her hands became occupied with the task of pouring a giant takeout cup of coffee to replenish the thermos he brought to the site each day. Her gaze, however, remained sneakily glued to the man. Tall and lean in a way that suggested an endless reserve of strength. Bred for distance instead of sprints.

  "Good morning, Miss McKenna."

  Cheeks heating like the radiator in her old Buick, she wondered whether he could see her heart pounding. All the witty remarks she’d practiced in the mirror suddenly dove for cover, cowering behind her sputtering brain. "Good morning, Hank. I have your refill ready for you."

  Nodding his thanks, his big hand brushed hers, sending a tingle up her arm as he accepted the cup. "I guess I’m too predictable."

  The sounds of the kitchen faded as his woodsy scent drifted over the counter, weaving through her muddled brain. Why did he have to smell so damned good? The tiny lines around his beautiful eyes creased when he smiled.

  "Predictability is highly underrated." Hell, she’d take predictable in a heartbeat. Calm. Rational. Boring, even. A siren song to a woman with her history. A sudden spark of boldness strumming through her, she stared at the kind, weathered face. This close up, his utilitarian haircut contained more than a dash of salt in the pepper darkness. A remnant of his military career, according to Sharon, who continued to pass along scraps of information about the handsome widower who was charged with building the shelter's addition. The New Beginnings director had a soft spot for the women who lived there. And a passion for meddling. Annie was uneasily aware that Sharon was fascinated by her interest in Hank.

  That wasn't a good thing. Sharon was already do
ing her best to throw Marisol together with Jeff Traynor. If Sharon confirmed her suspicions about Annie, there would be no peace.

  "Your boys are doing okay?"

  "They are . . . thank you." To her chagrin, Hank had learned from Sharon that the boys in the daycare he'd been chatting with for a week were her boys. Instead of pleasure over his caring enough to ask, she was lanced with guilt. Because she should have told him about them herself. In the weeks of flirting, she'd still avoided talking with him about anything of substance. But telling a handsome, available man about your blown-apart life wasn't exactly sexy. Her story would send a loud-and-clear message to Hank. Steer clear of the wreckage. Then, she'd have nothing again. Her five-minute morning fantasies would disappear. Since he'd started coming in again at lunchtime . . . those twenty minutes of staring at him while he ate lunch would end, too.

  She loved knowing he was out there among the sea of diners—chatting with a motley crew of elderly people from the neighborhood, the homeless who straggled in and a variety of regulars. Hank seemed at ease among all of them. He'd even begun encouraging the subcontractors on the project to join him. Each day, more of them stopped in for lunch, getting to know the population surrounding New Beginnings and dropping money in their donation jar.

  "How'd Tommy do on his spelling test?"

  She read encouragement in Hank's gaze. So—why was her heart suddenly pounding out of her chest? Likely, it was the change she knew would come. Instead of interest, those beautiful, twinkling eyes would register pity when he learned the truth. That not only did she work at New Beginnings—she lived there, too. "He . . . um . . . aced it." Dropping her gaze, she swallowed around a sudden hitch of fear. What was she doing? What could possibly make her believe she could do this again?

  "That's great. It sounds like he's doing better." Hank's voice was heartbreakingly enthusiastic. "It sounds as though his teacher is pretty nice."

  "She—she is. She's very creative with them." Part of her ached to linger—engage in conversation with the kindest, least threatening men she'd met in the last two years. While another part shouted at her to run. Stay out of reach—of being hurt again.

  Her boys were in love with the construction project. Trapped in the center daycare in the mornings before the bus came and again in the afternoons after school, Tommy especially, had spent most of his time staring out the window at the backhoes. Hank had noticed her fascinated six-year-old in the window the very first week. With Sharon's permission, he'd taken to stopping in at the daycare a few afternoons to visit the kids. According to Miss Robin, at first, Tommy had been uncharacteristically shy. But, he'd quickly overcome his wariness. Each day, Hank faithfully returned, providing updates for all the kids in the center—about what they should watch for next.

  Each night, her sons filled her head with stories of 'Mr. Freeman'. He'd brought Jason a little dump truck that her four-year-old now clutched each night when she tucked them into bed. For Tommy, it had been a shiny, yellow backhoe. Now, sleeping together in the too-small twin bed, they no longer fought. For space. And covers. Instead, they talked themselves to sleep with stories about glorious piles of dirt and forts . . . and the kindness of the thoughtful man standing before her.

  After only two visits, Tommy began waiting for him. It had taken only two days for Tommy to be reminded that Hank Freeman seemed to care more for him than his own dad. Only two days for him to start acting out with Annie about always being trapped inside. Never able to risk going outside to play in the small, fenced playground. Because Phil had found them before. It was only a matter of time before he discovered them again.

  "Miss McKenna—are you okay?" Hank's eyes flashed with concern.

  Uncomfortable thoughts scattering, she startled. "I—I'm fine. Thank you, Hank." As nausea slithered over her, Annie clutched the countertop, a sudden noisy rush in her ears. The panic attack overwhelming her was likely reflected on her face. She shook it off, wrestling her fear back into the dark closet where it lived. Lurking. Waiting to kick down the door when she got too full of herself. Too happy. Too secure.

  "T-thank you . . . for the trucks you brought the boys," she added. His gaze still curious, she resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from her forehead. "They sleep with them every night. I'll be sure to tell Tommy you asked about him."

  Sensing her brush-off, Hank stiffened. Took a step back. "Say hi to Jason for me, too." His voice stilted now instead of friendly. Hesitating, he eyed the line behind him and took a step toward the cashier. "You have a good day."

  Annie squeezed her eyes shut as regret and self-loathing fought for supremacy. Was this how she'd always be? Afraid of her own shadow? Unable to face the line of diners, she kept her gaze down as she served the next several clients. Fingers gripping the counter, she felt a smolder of anger rise up from the nausea in the pit of her stomach.

  "You know, we'll start the digging soon."

  When Hank's voice returned, she jerked her head toward the sound. He’d come back. Unable to contain her relief, she smiled. Maybe she could be brave. If she wanted something badly enough. "That's what Mr. Traynor—Jeff told Sharon and Marisol."

  The center directors had given all the residents a heads-up on the construction schedule. For their interest . . . and their safety. There would be times when security would lapse—due to the timetable of the shelter's major residential addition. They might be exposed to danger—should their past return to haunt them at an inopportune time.

  "Jeff is planning on giving Marisol's little boy a tour of the site." Hank's gaze was warm again. Friendly. In that safe, easygoing way he had. "I thought maybe Tommy and Jason would like to go, too. If they're here at the daycare that day."

  Her co-worker Candace touched her arm. "I've got this," she whispered with a nudge. As in . . . go talk with him! Annie slid down the counter, out of the way of traffic, experiencing a rush of pleasure when Hank followed. "Do you . . . do you know when that will be?"

  "Not yet." Hank took a sip of his coffee and winced.

  "Too strong?" She immediately reached for the sugar packets they kept under the counter.

  He shook his head. "Too hot." When his warm gaze slid over her, Annie felt herself calm. As though he could sense how skittish she was. "I know when we're supposed to start. But we'll see how the permitting goes."

  "Tommy and Jason would love to run around in all that dirt." If she could control her fear—of Phil choosing that day to show up . . . when her boys would be out in the open-

  "I think that pretty much speaks for all boys, Miss McKenna." He grinned. "Including me."

  "Please call me Annie." Impulsively, she surprised herself by reaching to shake his hand. She had the fleeting sensation of a warm, callused . . . startled hand.

  "I'm Henry, actually. Hank, for short."

  "Nice to meet you, Henry." Henry. Cursing her whim, she withdrew her trembling hand. Seriously? What was wrong with her? "Once you know when . . ." The surge of courage Annie had experienced began to trickle away. Her heart began its familiar gallop. Hand to her throat to hide the pounding, she forced a smile. "When . . . you'll be digging, I'll make sure the boys are here that day."

  As if they weren't there every day. And night. For the single remaining shred of pride she possessed, Annie wanted to keep his respect just a little longer. "You're very kind. Thank you for the offer."

  "As soon as I have a date, I'll let you know . . . Annie." He tested her name, smiling as said it. "I think they'd love to see the dirt moving around. The guys'll make it fun for them."

  And she—would take a sedative. Because her sons would never forgive her if she refused them this chance. The joy of spending time out on the construction project. She'd sit in the window, eyes glued to her boys and she'd pray . . . that Hurricane Phil wouldn't choose that day to make landfall.

  He nodded to the door. "I need to get back to work."

  The smile curving her lips was the first flicker of joy she'd felt in a long time. "Me, too. I'll see you a
t lunch?"

  Hank tipped his hardhat. "Count on it."

  A WEEK LATER, HANK admired the progress as he pulled into a parking space at New Beginnings. The site was finally cleared, the dirt nearly ready for compaction, except for the corner of the lot where they'd be putting on a show for five eager little boys—and two slightly disinterested girls, later in the day. Jumping down from his truck, he inhaled the scent of earth, absorbed the sounds of a construction site coming to life. Only 0600 and already, Big Pete was there. New Beginnings' lone sentry had reported for duty. Spending his days guarding the women who lived there—as though they were his family.

  "Morning, Pete. You ready for a refill yet?" He raised the stainless flask he'd carried for nearly a decade. When the giant nodded, Hank poured coffee from his thermos into Pete's cup. Linked by their military backgrounds, both men were caffeine addicts. "You got a sit-rep for me this morning?"

  "Yes, sir. I've been monitoring all the cars on the streets around the site."

  Familiar with his routine, Hank nodded while Pete ran through his daily sit-rep on what had gone down at the shelter. His situation reports read like a sinister crime novel. As though New Beginnings was an isolated fortress, surrounded by enemy combatants. For what they lacked in reality, his reports were damn thorough. "Anything unusual?"

  "Just a red truck, sir. Silverado, extended cab." Pete's gaze fixed on a point in the distance. "He's been parked a block away for the last two days. And a blue sedan. A Ford. Possibly an old Taurus. Older man. He hasn't been here before." He glanced down at Hank. "I informed Mr. Traynor about it last night."

  "Maybe you could do a little recon," he suggested. "Take down a few plate numbers, just in case we experience any trouble."

  "Yes, sir. That was my plan. I like knowin' what's around us. What shouldn't be there." Pete's gaze took on a drifting quality, as though he'd left New Beginnings and was somewhere far away. He stared down the street, his mind probably half a world away—to the five tours of action he'd seen in combat. In the toughest desert conditions Hank had ever experienced. "I like knowin' what tangos might be comin' at us." Pete's gaze finally returned to him. "I'll be goin' Hat Up in an hour or so. Maybe work a grid pattern."