“You know,” I say lightly, “if you weren’t my boss, I’d think you were up to something.”
Ryland chuckles quietly, and then he removes his hand, stepping inside.
What does that mean? What does that mean?
I nearly hyperventilate as I follow him in. It takes me three full seconds to find the stupid light switch. Before it becomes apparent I’m beyond flustered, I locate it. I flick it up, flooding the room in much-needed light.
“Well,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Everything looks fine.”
“Should I check the bedroom?” Ryland’s gray eyes are on me, and he wears an expression that makes my pulse quicken.
I wave him on, pointedly walking into the kitchen. “If you must.”
He laughs quietly and then walks into my bedroom. The moment he’s gone, I slap my cheeks, telling myself to play it cool.
This is nothing.
He’s my aunt’s brother-in-law—practically family.
Then Ryland steps out of my bedroom, looking so good, I wonder if I’m dreaming again. This can’t be happening. How is he here right now?
But something is wrong. Ryland’s slightly flirty look is gone, replaced with a deep scowl.
“What?” I demand, instantly worried I left something embarrassing out.
“Do you realize your smoke detector is hanging from the ceiling?”
“Oh.” I relax marginally. “Yeah, I know. It began chirping the day I started work. You would not believe what I had to do to reach it. I keep forgetting to buy batteries.”
Ryland stares at me, looking as if he’s not sure I’m qualified to live alone. At least I’m familiar with this side of his personality.
“It’s fine,” I insist. “There’s one in the living room, too.”
“Lucy.” He shakes his head.
And though he says my name with incredulous disbelief, my stomach clenches in the pleasantest of ways. It was “Lucy” this time.
One thing is clear—I’ve wanted this man too long for him to be standing in my living room.
Before I can assure him I’ll take care of it soon, he heads for the door.
“Oh, okay,” I say, startled by his abrupt departure. I mean, of course he’s leaving. “Thanks for the ride.”
What did I expect?
Okay, I know what I expected. Or hoped.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he says.
“What?” I ask, startled. “Where are you going?”
He steps out the door, giving me a wry look. “I’m going to buy batteries.”
“You’re going to fix my smoke detector?” I ask, somewhat breathless.
I’ve had this daydream. Can I get him to do it shirtless?
Instead of answering, Ryland closes the door, leaving me standing nearly speechless in my kitchen.
12
Ryland
What am I doing?
I’m Lucy’s boss, not her boyfriend. I can’t go changing the batteries in her smoke detector. And it’s not like she’s not an independent, capable woman. She can handle it herself.
She’d fall off the ladder, I think humorlessly.
Worse, she’d fall off the swiveling barstool because that’s what Lucy would use to accomplish the task.
I know I’m acting like a controlling caveman, but she makes me want to do things for her, help her, take care of her.
Which worries me.
It’s one thing to be attracted to her. It’s another to imagine dating her.
I walk into the nearby drugstore, and the door chimes. A bored-looking sales clerk with a bad haircut offers me a lackluster welcome, barely looking up from his phone.
“Where are the batteries?” I ask.
He grunts, jerking his head toward a display near the third register.
“Find what you need?” he asks when I return, glancing at the clock as if checking to see if it’s close to closing time.
“Sure,” I say, and then I pause as my eyes fall on a stand of potted miniature roses, the cheap type in a small green pot wrapped with cellophane. They’re leftovers from Valentine’s Day, marked down by seventy-five percent.
“Dude, that’s ten dollars and fifteen cents,” the guy says, repeating himself.
Without thinking, I grab a pink rose, frowning at it to make sure the leaves look all right. “I’ll take this as well.”
“Cool,” the checker deadpans. He scans the bottom of the rose. “Thirteen twenty-eight.”
I pay him and collect the batteries and my impulse purchase. As I walk out the door, I stare at the flower, wondering what’s wrong with me.
When I reach the car, I set the rose carefully on the passenger seat floor, acknowledging with a scowl that it will make an appalling mess if it tips over.
As I drive back to Lucy’s, I studiously ignore the rose. But it sits there—judging me.
What’s wrong with me?
In all my life, I’ve never bought anyone but my mother flowers. And now I’m bringing Lucy a clearance potted rose from the drug store?
I almost leave it in the car when I get back to the condos. After staring at it for several seconds, I grab it and walk up the steps, feeling like an idiot.
Lucy answers the door almost immediately. “You didn’t have to…”
Her eyes fall on the rose, and she falls silent. Her lips part, and her eyes go soft. Her shocked, yet hopeful, expression tugs at my heart, telling me I’m in serious trouble with this girl.
I clear my throat and then gruffly ask, “Can I come in?”
Silently, she steps out of the way, her eyes following the rose.
“Here are the batteries,” I say, handing her the bag.
She takes it and watches me as I walk to her kitchen table. Without a word, I push the cactus aside and place the rose dead-center.
Then I turn back. “Do you have a ladder?”
Lucy pulls her eyes from the flower. Still mute, she shakes her head.
“How did you yank the smoke detector from the ceiling?”
“Barstool,” she says in a strange tone, as if she can’t quite form complete sentences.
I roll my eyes, laughing to myself because I called it. I take a chair from the table and walk into the bedroom. Lucy follows me, and suddenly, we’re here. In her bedroom.
What have I done?
I place the chair under the smoke detector and climb on top of it, thankful I’m tall enough to reach the ceiling. “Battery,” I say, holding out my hand.
Lucy fusses with the package for several long seconds as I stand here, unable to get it open.
“I got it,” she snaps when I begin to step down, but there’s no heat behind the words. Not the angry kind anyway.
A moment later, she hands me the nine-volt battery.
It takes me all of five seconds to replace it and reunite the detector with its holder in the ceiling.
I step down. “Done.”
“Thank you,” Lucy says, beaming at me in a way that makes me want to tell caution it can take a flying leap.
I study her, and my fingers itch to pull her into my arms. There’s nothing harsh about Lucy. She’s gentle curves and bright eyes. She watches me, looking almost eager—like she knows what’s on my mind, and she’s begging me to act on it.
We stare at each other for several moments before I clear my throat and step past her. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
“What time are you going to be here?” she asks nervously as she follows me from her room. “I don’t want to make you late.”
“Eight. We’ll stop for coffee on our way to work.”
She nods.
I make it to the door, and she follows me onto the step. “Thank you for the rose,” she says in a rush. “I really like it.”
I lean in just close enough I can make out the soft, coconut fragrance of her shampoo. “It suits you better than a cactus.”
Then I start down the stairs.
“Ryland,” she says, her voice hesitant.
<
br /> I turn back, grasping the cool metal handrail. “Yes?”
“The rules are different when we’re not at work…right? That’s what you said?”
I study her for several moments in the dim glow of the light shining out from the doorway. “Do you want them to be different?”
Before I can process what she’s doing, Lucy runs down several steps, stopping on the one just above me. Without so much as a word of warning, she presses her hands to my shoulders and kisses me.
13
Lucy
I’ve officially lost my mind. I can’t take it back—it’s too late. We’re connected at the lips. Ryland is completely still, almost as if I’ve shocked him into stone. I swear he’s not even breathing.
Gulping, I pull back and stare at him. My heart races as I wonder if I need to start looking for a new job. Ryland stares back at me, his face an enigma.
What have I done?
Coming to my senses, I blink at him and then turn to flee. Before I can get away, he catches my arm. I close my eyes, wishing I’d been a little faster. I turn back, ready to explain myself—not that the situation needs much explanation.
I saw, I wanted, I kissed.
Now I’m doomed.
As I try to organize my thoughts, Ryland steps up one step, gently pushing me back. Slowly, we make our way back to the landing, but he still hasn’t said a word.
“Listen, I…” I start, but before I finish the thought, he presses his finger to my lips, cutting me off.
I draw in a sharp breath, and my heart hammers so quickly, I can feel my pulse racing under my skin. He pushes me back until my shoulder blades press against the stucco siding. Then his hand is in my hair, shielding the back of my head from the hard wall.
With maddening control, Ryland leans down and brushes his bottom lip over mine, teasing me in the most delicious way. My knees go weak, and I grasp hold of his waist.
He kisses me once, and then again—soft, teasing kisses that make me want to grasp his shirt and drag him toward me for more.
And then, just when I think I’m going to go out of my mind, Ryland kisses me for real—just like I’ve imagined a hundred times since we’ve met.
I’m drunk on sensation, only able to focus on little, fleeting details: our warm breath in the cool night, the honey-scent of Ryland’s lip balm, a hint of evening stubble brushing against my chin.
It’s a sweet kiss, but the moment is touched with something forbidden. Ryland is my boss. Maybe I shouldn’t… I mean, maybe we shouldn’t…
Who cares?
Far too soon, Ryland pulls back. For a moment, he stays close. His hand caresses the back of my neck, and there’s indecision in his eyes—as if he’s trying to decide if he’s going to kiss me again.
I wait, eager. Sadly, demonstrating far too much control, Ryland lets out a quiet sigh and steps back.
The moment didn’t last long, not really, but it will be branded into my memory forever. No one has ever kissed me like that.
Without Ryland shielding me, the brisk air surrounds me once more. I shiver, more from the kiss than the temperature.
“The rules are most certainly different when we’re not at work,” Ryland says, his voice a touch darker and grittier than usual. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
And then he’s walking down the stairs, leaving me staring after him.
I’m completely dazed. I manage to find my way back inside, and my eyes latch onto the rose on my kitchen table.
Shaking my head, I run my finger over one of the buds. What in the world possessed Ryland to buy it?
I glance at the poor cactus, which has been relegated to the side corner. Surely not. That’s what pushed him to make a move?
If I’d known he had such a jealous streak, I would have sent myself flowers from a secret admirer every day for a month.
Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes and remember the kiss. It happened, didn’t it? This isn’t one of my daydreams that’s occurring in my memory in amazingly vivid detail?
I know it’s not, but it seems impossible.
I bite back a grin as my eyes move to the remaining battery in its wrapping on the table. It was very real.
I get up thirty minutes early on Monday to make sure I’m ready when Ryland gets here, but I manage to squander all that extra time picking out an outfit. The contents of my closet lie strewn across my bed. Several hangers dot the floor, adding to the mess.
When my doorbell rings, I’m still brushing my teeth. Quickly, I spit out the toothpaste and rush for the door.
“I’m almost ready,” I say to Ryland as I let him in, trying to quell the butterflies winging about in my stomach. “I’ll only be another minute.”
He’s dressed in his usual suit and tie, what he wears to the office every day. I’m having trouble connecting this professional, intimidating man to the one who bought me a potted rose from the drug store and kissed me on the front step.
This is Mr. Devlin. That was Ryland.
And Mr. Devlin’s eyes drop to my pink slippers…that I forgot I was still wearing.
“At least they match,” he points out. Though his tone is solemn, his eyes sparkle with amusement.
Quickly, I kick off the slippers and lean over to sweep them off the floor. “I’ll be right back.”
I almost command him to stay here, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I am, however, wrong. Ryland idly follows me into the bedroom and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. His eyebrows shoot up when he surveys the tornado aftermath that is my bed.
Quickly, I step into a pair of heels—making sure they’re the same color first—and then grab Ryland’s arm and propel him into the living room. “I’m thinking of downsizing my wardrobe,” I explain hastily. “So I’m going through my clothes to figure out what I can get rid of.”
It’s not a complete lie. This morning, I learned I hate about seventy-five percent of my wardrobe.
“Right,” Ryland says, drawing out the word as if he doesn’t believe me. Then, casually, he says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. The rating that you mentioned? It’s the highest possible.”
I stumble, only able to right myself because I’m holding on to Ryland’s arm.
“What?” I demand, and I swear my stomach drops to my toes. Or at least that’s what it feels like. I blink at Ryland, barely able to breathe.
He steadies me, not missing a step, used to my occasional clumsy moments. “The windows the Fairlands asked about when they called on Friday. You said they wanted to know their energy rating. They have the highest overall efficiency rating possible. I’d like you to call them back when we get to the office and let them know.”
He then glances at me, flashing me his usual look of mild disdain. “Why?”
His acting skills are impeccable. But he knows—and he’s messing with me.
But wait—does that mean I get an A, too? Not that it’s okay for him to grade me on a kiss. I mean, obviously, it’s not.
But did I?
“Good.” I pull my arm away from his. “Great.”
“Are you all right?” he asks, narrowing his brows.
“Fine,” I say brightly as I head to the front door, lying through my teeth.
Nerves knot my stomach as we enter the coffee shop where we first met. To say I’ve avoided this place is an understatement.
But I must have made quite an impression on the barista the first, and only, time I was here. She flashes us a surprised look when we step up to the counter together, recognizing not only Ryland, but me as well. She glances at Ryland, then back at me, and then at Ryland again. Not only is the look on her face full of pure shock, but she looks like someone stole her favorite eye candy.
A green-eyed monster of jealousy tries to make an appearance, but I fight it back. It’s not her fault Ryland is gorgeous. He just has that effect on women.
“What would you like?” Ryland asks after he requests his plain black, no-frills coffee, giving the barista no more attentio
n than warranted while placing an order.
“I can get mine,” I say with a nervous smile.
He leans down just close enough to whisper near my ear, “And break tradition?”
And yes, I laugh. And yes, that laugh is a little breathy. But what do you do?
The barista scowls at us impatiently. She gives the line a pointed look, apparently done with us both.
“I’ll have a caramel latte, please,” I tell her as I school my expression. No reason to rub it in.
Five minutes later, we’re in the car and headed to the office.
If I thought walking into the coffee shop with Ryland was an experience, it’s only because I’ve never arrived at work in his car. I flash one of the junior architects a guilty smile as I step out. He doesn’t say anything more than hello, but I know what he’s thinking.
It’s what everyone is going to think. What is going on between Ryland and his secretary?
And suddenly, I feel like I’ve done something wrong, even if Ryland is the boss’s son, and he can pretty much do whatever he likes.
As we make our way inside, Ryland drones on about work (which is so like him), and I attempt to pay attention even though my mind is on other things (which is so like me).
I’m afraid I’m worse today than usual. I accidentally hang up on Mr. Herth when he calls to ask if we can add a gazebo to his pool deck design. I spill hot tea on an invoice. I accidentally staple my finger.
At half-past-three, Ryland finds me in the break room, shuffling through the company first aid kit. I grumble as I shove tiny packets of painkillers and gauze aside. He stands next to me for several seconds, silent but full of questions.
“Don’t ask,” I grumble, adjusting the paper towel that’s acting as a temporary bandage.
It’s a small wound, but it won’t stop bleeding.
“What did you do?” Ryland finally says, almost as if he was waiting for me to object to him speaking just so he could defy me.
“Stapler accident,” I mumble, and then I pull open a bandage wrapper with my teeth.
Little Lost Love Letter: A Romantic Comedy Novella Page 7
