Little Lost Love Letter: A Romantic Comedy Novella Read online

  Sure, I could have let myself get cozy in Ryland’s car, dreaming up all kinds of delicious scenarios—but that would just leave me craving something I can’t have.

  It’s already become clear Ryland is like processed sugar. They say it becomes easier to resist it every time you walk away. Before long, your willpower will become so conditioned, you won’t even have to think about it anymore. Cookies would hold no appeal; lusciously frosted cakes wouldn’t even tempt you.

  Of course, I’ve never successfully completed a sugar fast. In fact, I usually fall off the wagon and land in a pile of confections.

  But this time, with Ryland, it will be different. I just have to exercise my willpower.

  “Have a good evening with that spam caller, Miss Lennox,” Ryland calls as I walk away.

  I glance over my shoulder, irritated, and he flashes me a quietly smug smirk that’s nearly irresistible.

  Heaven help me.

  Lucy

  Three Months Later

  “Where’s my pen?” Ryland asks, poking his head out of his office.

  I highlight several numbers on a spreadsheet, and then I pause my playlist and pull the earbud from my ear. “What pen?”

  “My fountain pen, the one I keep on my desk in the stand.”

  “It’s not in its stand?” I ask absently.

  Ryland stares at me, feigning patience. “If it was, do you think I’d be asking you where it’s at?”

  I turn away from the computer with a sigh and give him my full attention. “I haven’t seen your pen, Mr. Devlin, but you are welcome to use one of mine.”

  I’ve officially worked here for three months. I’m proud to say I haven’t acted out any of my romantic fantasies, though believe me, I’ve had some good ones. One started with me fixing Ryland’s tie and ended with us making out on top of the copy machine. (Okay, most of them end with us making out on top of something. Copy machine, desk, break room table… I’m not picky.)

  I also haven’t managed to earn his approval. Unfortunately, things haven’t gone as smoothly as I had hoped. I’ve figured out Ryland’s stupid color-coding system and how to correctly staple his papers, but I’ve had a few slip-ups as well, such as the morning I spilled coffee on his lap.

  Worse than that, last week, I mistakenly formatted one of his flash drives. I thought it was mine, and I downloaded a workout playlist on it right before a large client meeting.

  That was an awkward mistake.

  Thankfully, the client took it well—he even laughed.

  Ryland did not.

  “You must have borrowed it,” Ryland says, still going on about his pen.

  “I didn’t.” I motion to my cheerful, pink coffee cup of mismatched writing utensils. Ryland has never said anything about it, but I know he hates it…which brings me joy. “But go on—take your pick.”

  Ryland’s eye twitches, and he clenches his jaw. “If you see it, please return it.”

  “Did you check the floor? It might have rolled under something.”

  He gives me a long-suffering look that would have made me cringe a few months ago. Thankfully, my skin is a bit thicker now.

  “If you don’t need anything else…” I’m already turning back to my computer and resuming my song.

  Ryland continues to stand there—staring at me. Does he think if he scowls long enough, I’ll magically produce his precious pen?

  “I believe we talked about the music, Miss Lennox.”

  I point to my white earbud cord. “Which is why I’m wearing headphones.”

  Ryland eyes the earbuds with distaste. With the look he’s giving them, you’d think they were a bright pink plastic flamingo duct-taped to my desk.

  “Disregarding the fact it’s impossible to talk to you while you’re wearing them, the cords are tacky,” he says. “And they violate the dress code.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Exactly how do they violate the dress code, Mr. Devlin?

  “You’re wearing them, aren’t you? I don’t remember earbuds on the approved list of workplace attire.”

  I swear… One of these days…

  Giving him a tight smile, I unplug the earbuds and shove them into the top drawer of my desk.

  “Thank you,” he says, scanning my desk as if looking for something else to nitpick. It’s obviously time for him to go.

  “You have a lunch meeting with Georgia at noon to talk about the interior of the Anderson house,” I remind him, getting back to my spreadsheets. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late.”

  Please, go away.

  Ryland glances at his expensive watch, and his frown deepens.

  “I’ll print these out and place them on your desk when I’m finished,” I tell him.

  “Yes, fine.” With a sigh, he starts toward the elevator. “We’re heading to the Arcadia build as soon as I get back, so make sure you’re ready.”

  I stare daggers at his back as he leaves.

  Once he disappears into the elevator, I recline in my chair and take a deep breath. Too irritated to continue with the spreadsheets, I decide to take my thirty-minute lunch.

  While Ryland eats at a fancy new farm-to-table restaurant, I pull my lunch box from under my desk and produce a salad. I idly browse the internet as I stab soggy lettuce with a plastic fork.

  My phone rings, and I glance around before I answer. Technically, I can take a personal call on my lunch break, but I don’t want to advertise it.

  “Hi Carina,” I say quietly. “How’s Hayden?”

  I listen idly while my aunt tells me about nap schedules and feedings schedules and…well, lots of schedules. No wonder she and Ryland worked so well together.

  “How are you and Ryland getting along?” she asks.

  “Oh, just peachy.”

  She laughs. “That good, huh?”

  “He hates me.”

  “I doubt that,” she says.

  “Well, I hate him.”

  “I doubt that, too.”

  I lower my voice a little more. “Seriously, the man is driving me insane. He’s so Type A, there’s no letter for him. No matter what I do, he’s never happy. I don’t know how long I can handle it.”

  “It’s a great company to work for, Lucy. Think of the benefits.”

  “Surely there’s another job with good benefits in Phoenix,” I whine. “I’m not sure fifty weeks of agony is worth two weeks of vacation.”

  “Two weeks of vacation your first year. It goes up after that.”

  “I’m only working here for a year!” I exclaim at a whisper.

  “Lucy, listen…”

  Dread builds in my stomach. “Don’t say it.”

  “I’m not coming back to work. Tyler and I talked about it, and—”

  “You haven’t told Ryland yet, have you?” I demand, imagining just how badly the rest of my day will go if he were to find out. “Tell him at the beginning of a weekend—preferably a long one.”

  “No, haven’t told him yet, and I don’t plan to right away.”

  Relieved, I press my forehead against the desk. “You knew, didn’t you? Before you called me about the job.”

  “I knew it was a good possibility. Why else would I encourage you to move three states away for a temporary position?”

  “Excuse me, I have to find a paper bag to breathe into.”

  “I want you to try something.”

  “Something other than breathing into a bag?”

  “I saw this thing on a show once,” she says, ignoring me. “Write Ryland a letter. Tell him exactly how you feel—everything that’s bothering you. Let it all out. Then trash the letter.”

  “That’s the stupidest, low-budget talk show advice ever.”

  “Just try it. You might feel better.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, knowing I’m not going to actually do it. How would it even help?

  Hayden starts crying in the background. Needing to end the call, Carina hurriedly says, “And give Ryland a chance. He comes off as a little uptigh
t, but he’s actually a great guy.”

  I grunt instead of answering.

  After we say our goodbyes, I eat the rest of my salad while finishing the spreadsheets—and I listen to my music, thank you very much. Once I’m finished, I print them off and walk up the stairs to Ryland’s office.

  The empty pen holder catches my attention, and I narrow my eyes at it. “What do you want to bet he knocked it off the desk?”

  I drop to my hands and knees, crawling on the floor, looking under his desk and the cabinets.

  And then, lo and behold, I find the pen languishing under a bookcase, along with several dust bunnies the janitorial team missed.

  Lying flat on my stomach in my blouse and skirt, I press my cheek to the wooden floor and stretch my arm for all I’m worth. The tips of my fingers barely brush the pen, and I scoot a little closer, smooshing my face against the bookcase.

  Almost.

  Almost.

  “What are you doing?” Ryland demands from the doorway.

  Startled, I rear back and accidentally smack my forehead on the bottom shelf. Feeling ridiculous, I scramble to my feet, smoothing my blouse into place.

  I snagged my chignon, and I can feel it sitting lopsided on the back of my head. Several rogue hairs fall over my face, and I push them back.

  “I found your pen,” I say triumphantly, holding it up for him to see. “It was under the bookshelf.”

  Ryland gapes at me like I’m a peculiar zoo animal. “You’re…a mess.”

  I glance down, and sure enough, the left half of my blouse is covered in dust. I try to brush it away, but it clings to the staticky fabric.

  “Stay here,” Ryland says with a sigh. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  I blow dust off the pen and then place it back upon its golden pedestal. “I thought you wanted me to go with you.”

  “That was before…” He gestures to me with a frown.

  Glancing down at my dirty blouse, I say, “Oh.”

  He gives me another long look before he turns to leave.

  “I found your pen, though,” I say brightly, determined to get a thank you out of him if it kills me.

  Ryland looks back over his shoulder, and his frown deepens. His eyes sweep over me, his posture the picture of vexed boss.

  With nothing more than a nod, he leaves.

  “You’re welcome,” I say after he’s gone, shaking my head.

  My eyes land on the pen, and then they rove to the pad of legal paper on his desk. Gingerly, I take a seat in his ergonomic, leather office chair. I’ve never sat in it before, and I’m confident I’m not supposed to.

  Feeling rebellious, I pluck the pen from its holder. I sit with it hovering over the legal pad, poised and ready to vent.

  It feels childish. Ridiculous, really.

  Dear Mr. Devlin, I write.

  Then I scratch it out and begin again on the line below.

  Dear Ryland,

  First of all, I refuse to address you as Mr. Anything in my self-therapy letter, whether we’re at work or not. You’re two, maybe three years older than me. Get over yourself.

  Second, I am writing to inform you that you are, by far, the worst boss I have ever had. You’re impatient, egotistical, rigid, persnickety, and often, downright rude. Frankly, you’re a jerk.

  The systems and schedules you’ve created are overly fussy, and I believe you established them simply to make yourself seem busier—and more important—than you actually are.

  On top of all that, I detest that you consume most of my thoughts, whether I’m at home or at work. I hate that I can’t seem to please you, that nothing I do is ever right or good enough. I crawled on the floor for you—I found your STUPID PEN. (Which I am using, by the way. That bothers you, doesn’t it?)

  And did you even thank me? Of course you didn’t.

  I can’t fathom why I like you. You’re handsome, yes, but there are plenty of good-looking men out there…

  I sit back, shaking my head. This is insane. Why am I even bothering with this? I can sum it up in one paragraph. I press the pen to the paper one last time.

  Dear Mr. Devlin.

  You are wicked hot. (And by that, I mean you are wicked and hot.) And though I want you, I fear if I dared kiss you like I’ve imagined a hundred times, you’d grade me afterward.

  So, I will simply learn to cope.

  Best wishes (not really),

  Lucy

  PS: When you call me “Miss Lennox,” I nearly melt. Please stop.

  I then rip the paper from the pad, fold it in half, and write “Ryland” on it—as if I were really going to give it to him. I set the pen back in its holder, groaning aloud. As expected, Carina was wrong. I don’t feel better. Not at all.

  “Lucy?” Tyler says from the doorway, making me jump halfway out of the chair.

  I laugh nervously, doing my best to cover up the note. “You startled me.”

  Tyler grins. “I noticed. Are you supposed to be in here?”

  “Probably not.” I edge away from the desk. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Have you seen the Frontier blueprint? I was going over it with Ryland last night, but I can’t find it.”

  “I’ll help you look for it.” Before I go, I snatch the note and sandwich it safely into my planner.

  I’ll destroy it just as soon as I’m done helping Tyler.

  The last thing I need is for Ryland to find it.

  8

  Ryland

  It’s almost four by the time I make it back to the office. I’m on edge, irritated I didn’t take Lucy with me. We could have stopped by her house. It would have only taken a few minutes for her to change and fix her hair.

  I missed her not-so-friendly banter—which eats at me in the worst way. The crew asked about her, too, wondering why she didn’t come with me. It made me feel her absence more acutely. Everyone loves her—no one can help it.

  Even me.

  It’s impossible to deny at this point, though heaven knows the feeling isn’t mutual.

  The last three months have been long ones.

  Thankfully, we’re working better together and settling into a routine. Lucy is more efficient than I first thought, though when she does mess up, it’s always on an epic level.

  Also, she has a quirky way of tackling things, she can’t multitask to save her life, and her music has become a ridiculous battle.

  Still…I like her.

  Her desk is conspicuously empty. I walk up the steps to my office, mirthlessly wondering if I’ll find her on the floor again, but she’s not here either.

  I glance at the clock, unsure what else I have on the schedule for the rest of the day, and then my eyes fall on my pen. I’m accosted with the memory of Lucy flat on her stomach, with a run in the back of her nylons and her arm stretched under the bookshelf.

  I yank at my tie, glancing again at her desk.

  Where is she?

  Grumbling under my breath, I jog down the steps, stopping at her empty desk.

  I yank the closed planner over, irritated I must check it myself. Isn’t this why I have a secretary? I’m capable of keeping my own schedule, but I shouldn’t have to.

  But mostly, I’m wondering where Lucy is.

  I open the planner, and a folded piece of paper commands my attention. Ryland, it says in swooping, hasty cursive.

  “What is this?” I ask aloud, holding it up.

  Schedule forgotten, I wander back to my office and sit. Dread builds in my gut as I stare at the paper.

  It’s not a resignation letter, is it? Surely Lucy wasn’t that upset about the pen, was she? I picture her in a dusty rage, blinking those brilliant blue eyes, informing me to take the job and shove it.

  But if she meant for me to see it, she would have left it on my desk, wouldn’t she?

  Still, it has my name on it…

  Cautiously, I flip open the paper.

  My jaw falls as I read. It’s a mess. Scratched out words. Rambling strings of
thought. Something strange about a therapy letter?

  But none of that matters.

  My eyes gravitate to the last section, the part that seems like she started over.

  I want you.

  Swallowing, I close the note and sit back. I stare at it for several moments, processing, and then I open it once more.

  Read it again.

  Close it and push it away.

  Persnickety? I am not. I like things the way I like them, but that’s because things run smoothly when they’re done right.

  And what’s that about me establishing my schedules to look busier and more important than I am?

  Lucy, I have news for you, I am important.

  I like you.

  She doesn’t, though. Her passive-aggressive, overly polite attitude has made that clear. I knew how Lucy felt about me long before I read the note. None of this is a surprise.

  At least the first part isn’t.

  But she doesn’t think I appreciate her?

  Scoffing, I toss the note away. That’s ridiculous. I’ve kept a professional distance, that’s all.

  I like you.

  A dumbfounded smile tugs at my lips, but I fight it. I swear under my breath, and then I chuckle, shaking my head.

  I wasn’t supposed to see this. Lucy didn’t leave it in the planner for me to find—this was a rough draft at best.

  I need to put it back.

  I stand abruptly, with the note clasped in my hand, when I spot Lucy walking past the junior architects’ desks. She’s still in that same blouse, though it looks like she washed away some of the dust. She carries a cup of coffee and a small plate of cookies.

  Without thinking, I crumple the note and shove it into the pocket of my jacket.

  She walks up the steps and pauses by the door. “I don’t have a hand to knock,” she says politely, though there is a tart edge to her tone. “May I come in anyway?”

  I nod, studying her. She didn’t write this letter, did she? Was it a prank? Did Tyler put someone up to it?

  But who else would know about the pen?

  Lucy steps inside. “Janet from the bakery on Camelback Road dropped off cookies. She said the new building is great.”