Little Lost Love Letter: A Romantic Comedy Novella

by Shari L. Tapscott

“Good,” I say. “Just set them in the corner there.”

  After doing as I ask, Lucy turns to leave, looking as if she has no desire to linger.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She comes to a stop that’s so abrupt, it’s almost comedic, and then she slowly turns. “For what?”

  I jerk my head toward the coffee. “For this. And…the pen.”

  Her eyes widen marginally, and I see the worry sparking in their blue depths. She’s wondering if I found the note—and maybe she’s panicking about what she wrote.

  I fear if I dared kiss you like I’ve imagined a hundred times, you’d grade me afterward.

  Now I’m wondering what grade she’d get. My throat suddenly tightens. I clear it, and then I turn back to my work, sliding on my computer glasses. “What else do I have to do today?”

  “Did you look in the planner?” she demands, sounding positively terrified.

  I look back up, slowly lowering the lenses. “Why would I? I have a secretary for that.”

  Lucy blinks at me, and then she swallows. “I’ll go check.”

  I pretend to work, but I watch Lucy from the corner of my eye. She opens the planner, and then she freezes. Frantically, she flips through the pages. Then she looks under it and around the haphazard stacks of paperwork on her desk.

  A moment later, she makes the slow march back to my office.

  “Mr. Devlin…”

  “What?” I pretend to be engrossed in an email I shouldn’t be reading until tomorrow morning.

  “I…” Lucy shifts awkwardly, and it takes all my willpower not to laugh. “You’re sure you didn’t check your schedule?”

  Pretending to be impatient, I snap my laptop closed and turn to her. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Nothing,” she says quickly. “I…”

  “Well? Do I have anything else for the day, or not?”

  “Um.” She laughs nervously. “I forgot to check.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “I’ll be right back,” she mutters.

  She’s right—I am a jerk. I should work on that.

  A moment later, she returns. “You don’t have any more appointments.”

  “That’s fine. You may go home.”

  “You’re sending me home?” she squeaks.

  “Unless you’d rather stay.” I turn back to my computer. “I thought you might like to leave early on a Friday.”

  “Oh…”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as she tugs at her earring. She looks as if she thinks it’s a trick. Either that, or she doesn’t want to go home until she finds the note.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Have a good weekend.”

  “Okay,” she says reluctantly. “I guess…I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  I look up, genuinely startled. “Tomorrow?”

  “Your parents invited me to their barbecue.” She wrinkles her nose. “Your mom didn’t tell you I was coming?”

  “No.” I look back at the computer, hoping not to look too pleased. “I’ll pick you up at two then?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have a car yet, do you? If I force you to take public transportation all the way out there, Carina will kill me.”

  Lucy stands there, looking as if my offer must be some kind of trick. “Do you know where I live?”

  “I’ll get the address from Tyler.”

  “Oh. Well…okay.”

  Unable to help myself, I say, “Goodnight, Miss Lennox.”

  Lucy purses her lips, suspicious and nervous, and then she turns to leave the office. Before she goes home, she rummages around her desk for the next fifteen minutes. I try not to watch her—I don’t want to give myself away. But it’s hard to resist.

  Finally, looking dejected, she pulls her purse over her shoulder and slowly walks to the elevators.

  Once she’s gone, I pull the crumpled note from my pocket, run my hand over it a few times to smooth it out, and then reread it.

  Shaking my head, I smile to myself as I fold the note several times before I tuck it into my wallet.

  9

  Lucy

  It’s gone. It’s just…gone.

  I thumbed through my planner page by page—three times. I moved everything on my desk. I looked at the floor, in the trash can, and in every drawer.

  The note has simply up and vanished.

  Ryland found it, a nasty little voice whispers in my head.

  But no, I refuse to believe it. If Ryland did find the note, he would have fired me on the spot. I can’t remember exactly what I said about him, but it wasn’t complimentary.

  No matter how many times I try to convince myself, fear still manages to take root in my stomach, making me queasy and my palms clammy.

  I was sure I put it in my planner, but did I accidentally take it with me when I went to help Tyler? We were in the file room—could I have left it in there by accident?

  I take a detour before I leave the building, rushing to the room, looking at the counters and desperately hoping I’ll find the note discarded on a table.

  “Hi Lucy,” Sophia says, stepping into the room with an armful of files. She’s a receptionist, friendly and sort of quiet. “Are you looking for something? Can I help?”

  “No, not really.” I cast another desperate glance at the counters. “I thought I might have left something in here.”

  “I found a piece of scratch paper in here about five minutes ago,” Sophia says. “I gave it to Tyler—I saw you guys in here earlier, and I thought it might have been his.”

  Hope and terror strike me at once, leaving me feeling off-kilter. I’m already heading toward the door. “I’ll ask him about it. Thanks, Sophia.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I rush back into the office, so lost in my thoughts that I dash through a doorway and nearly crash into someone on the other side.

  Warm hands grasp my shoulders, steadying me, and the scent of familiar aftershave makes me squeak with horror.

  Ryland releases me. “I thought you left.”

  I swallow and take several steps back, refusing to wring my hands at my waist. “I was—I am. I just remembered I need to talk to Tyler about something really quick.”

  Ryland raises a brow. “I can pass your message along if you like.”

  Why is he being helpful today of all days? Why?

  Because he knows.

  No, he doesn’t!

  I shake my head a little too forcefully. “No, I just…misplaced something while I was helping him earlier.”

  I study Ryland, looking for some sign of recognition, but he simply watches me, his gray eyes giving nothing away.

  “What did you misplace?” he asks.

  “Uh…”

  Purse? No, it’s slung over my shoulder.

  “Keys!” I say triumphantly.

  “You don’t have a car.”

  Crap.

  “House keys,” I say smoothly.

  “Why would Tyler have your house keys?”

  That’s an excellent question.

  “I was just grasping at straws.” I force a laugh. “I’d hate to crawl through a window to get in.”

  “Especially in that skirt,” Ryland says, and his eyes wander over me briefly.

  I flush, realizing he’s likely picturing me halfway in a window, legs flailing, skirt hiked up.

  “You should look in your purse again,” he says, oblivious to my rogue thoughts. “Maybe you missed them.”

  Reluctantly, I walk to the closest desk, plop my purse down with a thunk, and begin rummaging through it. I make a show of finding the keys that are in their usual place at the bottom, where they live next to an abandoned gum wrapper and several pennies.

  “Oh, look,” I say half-heartedly, pulling them out as if I’ve just found them. “They were here all along.”

  Solemnly, Ryland answers, “What a relief.”

  “Yes…well.” I clear my throat and begin edging for the elevator. “I guess I’ll
be going now.”

  He meets my eyes. “I’m finished for the day. How about I drive you home?”

  “Home?” I peep.

  Again, he raises a brow. “If I take you this evening, I’ll know where to pick you up tomorrow.”

  My mouth goes dry, and I wobble like a baby giraffe. I open my mouth to decline, but for some reason, I hear myself voicing a breathy, “All right.”

  I end up following Ryland into the elevator, wondering if I’ve lost my fool mind.

  Instrumental music fills the silence as we slowly drop to the main level. I cross my arms, standing like a very nervous statue. Five minutes later, we’re in his car and headed toward my home.

  It’s a cool day, barely sixty, which one of the architects mentioned is low for February around here. The sky is overcast, and the wind blows in an early spring storm. When we’re near my neighborhood, we begin to pass xeriscaped yards with tall saguaro cactus, yucca, and Joshua trees.

  With its southwestern flair, Arizona is a little like home, but the plants are different. There are fewer magnolia trees here and no southern influences—less barbecue, even more Mexican food. And so far, I haven’t found a place that serves good sweet tea, though I’m determined to keep looking.

  “Oh, I got your note,” Ryland says as we turn into my subdivision.

  I jerk my head toward him so quickly, I’m a little worried I gave myself whiplash. “Note?”

  “About Monday’s meeting being changed from one to three.”

  “Oh.” My heart races, and I draw in a slow, soothing breath through my nose. “Right.”

  Ryland glances over, giving me a look that I can’t read. “What did you think I was talking about?”

  “Nothing.” I look straight out the windshield. “This is my place up here, on the right.”

  I live in a little community of stucco buildings, each boasting eight condos—four upstairs and four down. In the front of each, there’s a square of grass surrounded by pink crushed rock, and in the back, there are patios with a few tables. In the middle of the neighborhood, there’s a community garden. My landlord said I could grow vegetables in my condo’s assigned plot if I wanted.

  Considering I’m terrified of the bark scorpions I read about before I moved here, it’s not likely that I’ll be poking around in the dirt anytime soon.

  Ryland parks next to the curb and shuts off the car…like he intends to stay awhile.

  From behind the steering wheel, he studies the condos silently, perhaps bemused by their quaintness. His car, whatever he said it is, looks out of place. So much so, in fact, a neighbor across the street pauses on his way back from the mailbox to gape at it.

  “Evening,” I say awkwardly as I step out, raising a hand in greeting.

  The man nods, but his attention remains firmly zeroed in on the car.

  Ryland doesn’t notice the man gawking. He steps out, looking strikingly handsome in his suit. We’ve worked together for three months, but it still occasionally strikes me how good-looking he is—usually at the most inopportune moments.

  “Which one is yours?” Ryland loosens his tie, and then he tosses it inside his car.

  Maybe he’ll remove his jacket as well. Oh, and his shirt if I’m really lucky. (A girl can dream, right?)

  “Lucy?”

  “Hmm?” I murmur, deep in daydreams.

  “Which number?”

  “Oh, right.” I shake myself out of the stupor. “I’m in 5D.”

  Nodding, Ryland begins down the sidewalk and then turns up the path that leads to Building D. I follow, confused but oddly exhilarated.

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door…” I fiddle with my purse strap.

  “Why don’t you have a car?” he asks, still walking.

  I wrinkle my nose at the strange question. “What?”

  “I’ve been to both Houston and Dallas. Both are large, sprawling cities. Not the kind of places where you could easily manage without a vehicle.”

  “I didn’t live in one of the cities,” I say.

  “Still.”

  I shrug. “I used an extra my parents have. They didn’t need it, and it got me around. I figured I’d buy a new one when I’d been here for a few months, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “All this time, you’ve been taking the bus?” he asks, almost like he can’t believe it.

  “Yes.”

  “Every day?”

  I nod.

  He shakes his head. “I live ten minutes from here. I’ll pick you up in the mornings. We can go over my schedule on the way to work—it will give us a jump start on the day.”

  I stare at him blankly. “Every morning?”

  “Unless you’re attached to your bus route,” he says dryly.

  Attached? I’m sure the local transportation system is great, but my bus is twenty minutes behind half the time. One morning, it didn’t show at all, and I had to trek down to the next stop. I was an hour late to work that day. Let’s just say Ryland was less than pleased.

  “Well, not really—”

  “It will be more efficient,” he interrupts. Then, in a dry tone that catches my attention, he adds, “And you know how persnickety I am about efficiency.”

  I go cold. Did I use that word in my letter? I think I did.

  “Besides,” he continues, “if I pick you up myself, you might make it to work on time for once.”

  I narrow my eyes. Unable to let that slip by, I say, “Or I’ll make us both late, and then what would you do? Your entire day would be off by two, maybe three minutes.”

  Dark amusement flashes in his eyes, and he lowers his voice as he leans forward just slightly. “You’re feistier when you’re not at work.”

  Oh, Ryland, you should see how feisty I can be.

  But wait—hold up. Is Ryland flirting with me?

  No.

  Impossible.

  Since I don’t know how to answer, I juggle my house key in my hand and take a step away.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

  Ryland only nods, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me think he knows how uncomfortable I am—and he’s enjoying it. It’s not a superior look, though, nor one that makes me want to smack him. It’s friendly.

  Really friendly.

  Like, maybe I could invite him into my sorta-messy house and throw myself into his arms with wild abandon. We could try one of my desk make-out fantasies on the kitchen table.

  I flush at the thought and clear my throat.

  Ryland watches me, waiting for me to say or do something. His smoky eyes see too much, and I sternly tell myself not to fidget.

  “Okay, well…bye.” I turn abruptly and start for the stairs that will take me up to my second-level condo.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at two,” Ryland calls.

  I bite my bottom lip as I hurry up the steps, throwing a carefree wave over my shoulder. Once I’m in the house, I close the door behind me and take a couple moments to hyperventilate in peace.

  After I can breathe, I scan the condo and cringe at the mess. It’s a good thing Ryland didn’t come up. There’s a cereal bowl that I forgot to rinse out this morning on the kitchen counter, languishing next to a romance novel I picked up from the library.

  The kitchen table is cluttered with mail that I never know what to do with, two charger cords, three kinda dusty candles, and a recently deceased potted plant my grandma insisted I bring to Phoenix with me.

  I also have a half-folded basket of laundry on the couch. A hot pink bra lies on top of the pile, boldly giving off the impression that I’m a lot wilder than I am.

  Still flustered, I take one more deep breath. And then I frown.

  Did Ryland find the note?

  As I ponder it, wondering what game he’s playing if he did, Toad saunters from the bedroom and yawns as if he just woke up from a nap.

  The cat leaps onto the kitchen table. He trots across the pile of mail before he lets out a welcoming mew.


  “You’re not supposed to be on the table,” I remind him, picking up the Siamese cat and attempting to cuddle him.

  He yowls again, this time disgruntled, and wiggles out of my arms. He leaps onto the floor and then jumps to the back of the couch, where he glares at me.

  “Well, you aren’t,” I point out, not that it makes any difference. Even if Toad can understand me, he certainly doesn’t care.

  Putting Ryland out of my mind, I wander around the condo, straightening it up. I then call my mom, assuring her I’m eating balanced meals as I dump a packet of ramen noodles into a saucepan.

  Once they’re finished, I eat my meal in front of my laptop while watching a woman on YouTube explain how to make impressive farmhouse décor from dollar store finds.

  “I need a life,” I tell Toad as he attempts to reclaim his spot on the table. “It’s Friday night, and I’m eating instant noodles with my cat.”

  Toad looks at me as if he can’t understand why that’s a bad thing, and then he plops his butt on the keyboard and changes the video to a shaving cream ad.

  Sighing, I remove the cat from the table and then go back to my cheap home décor ideas.

  The condo is spotless, maybe even cleaner than it was when I moved in. I’ve washed all the windows, scrubbed the kitchen, and removed all the clutter from every visible surface.

  When the doorbell rings at five before two, I’m confident Ryland won’t be horrified by my less-than-stellar cleaning habits.

  Feeling far more nervous than I should be considering it’s just my boss, and we’re just going to his parents’ barbecue, I walk to the door. Before I answer it, I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck, preparing myself.

  “Hey, Mr. Dev—” I begin, only to stop abruptly.

  The six-foot two, probably-played-quarterback-in-college, dark-haired man standing on my front step smiles. He then holds out a potted cactus. “Hi.”

  “I don’t know you,” I say—a phrase for which I’m positive will win me the Articulate Woman of the Year award.

  The man’s smile becomes sheepish, and he looks down in an “aw, shucks,” way that would make any Texas boy proud. “I live downstairs, in 2D. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for about a month now, but I couldn’t decide if I should bring a cactus or a succulent.”