She usually comes in here early and helps me organize my work day. Now it’s just a habit for her to show up in my office. We spend a few minutes gossiping and catching up before we both go about our work day. Only this time she forgot to knock, so she finds me holding the love letter. I quickly fold it, put it in the envelope, and shove it in my desk drawer.
She narrows her gaze. “What was that?”
“Nothing, just some patient files,” I tell her, hating the fact that I’m lying to Lauren. She’s becoming a good friend outside of work. In fact, I’d argue that we’re even on the path to becoming best friends.
She shakes her head. “That’s not a patient file. What is it?”
I let out a soft sigh, hesitating. I haven’t told her about this because I wanted to hold it close for a while longer to savor the words and let them wrap around me before I brought anyone else in. But Lauren might have some idea about the identity of the writer since she’s been here so much longer than I have. In fact, she’s grown up around all the people in this town.
“It’s kind of a letter, an anonymous one.”
Her eyes go wide. “Like good anonymous or bad anonymous?”
“Like a love letter,” I answer and pull it from the drawer. I hold it out to her, but she doesn’t reach for it first thing. I can see the curiosity burning in her gaze, but she shoves her hands into the pockets of her vintage dress.
“I don’t want to pry,” she says.
“You don’t understand. I need to know who wrote it. It’s driving me nuts, and you’ve been here the longest. You probably know who’s behind it.”
She chews on her lower lip. “Are you sure?”
I give her a nod. She breaks into a smile and takes the letter, carefully pulling it from the envelope. “This is so exciting. I’ve never met anyone in real life who’s gotten an actual love letter.”
“Me either,” I agree. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it.”
I watch her read through the message, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable as the emotions flicker across her face. When she’s done, she swallows hard and blinks at me.
“Wow.” She breathes out the word in a wobbly voice.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I just wish I knew who wrote it.”
She folds it carefully and passes it back to me. “Well, there is one way. We could launch our own investigation. Do you have any suspects?”
I refuse to let myself glance to the window where Dalton, the grumpy gardener, is often outside. I haven’t let myself entertain the possibility that he might be behind it. Sure, he’s been flirty with me twice. But we’ve barely interacted since then. He’s given up and isn’t interested in pursuing me any longer.
“I mean, I guess it’s possible that Ryan is behind it,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Ryan, the security guard? Why do you think that?”
“The letter writer mentions being here last night when we were putting the mail in the cubbies. He was working then. Plus, when I come into work in the mornings, he always stops me and talks about the book he’s reading.” I stop there, then glance up at her. “That’s kind of flimsy, isn’t it? I don’t think I’m a very good investigator.”
She thinks for a moment. “Whoever wrote this letter wanted to be anonymous. So, rather than trying to build a case of facts around someone, let’s examine handwriting samples.”
“Handwriting analysis isn’t an exact science,” I tell her.
She chuckles. “Are you planning on trying the love letter guy or kissing him?”
My cheeks flame as I think about Dalton and what it would be like to kiss him all over his beautiful golden chest. “Point taken.”
Then I remember something. “Wait, Ryan is always at his desk either reading a thriller or scribbling in his yellow legal pads.”
She snaps her fingers. “You’re right. All you have to do is look at a few of those pads and see if the handwriting style matches. If it does, then we’ve found the guy.”
“But how do we get him to show us the legal pads?”
“You leave that to me,” Lauren says.
Later that morning, my phone buzzes with a text from her. I hurry into the reception area. Ryan is at his desk working on one of his legal pads.
