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Jane
Lisa’s voice drones on and on, going over my schedule for the next week, and my mind tunes in and back out several times to the point where I have to blink and shake my head to get my focus back.
I can’t get the mailman—Warren—off of my mind. I have no idea what it was about the man that had my brain malfunctioning so much. As a rule, I avoided the opposite sex. Not because I wasn’t interested in them or because I didn’t want to date, but because for the most part, men were… well, assholes.
There was something about Warren that felt different.
Maybe it was the way his eyes held mine when he talked to me. Or the fact that he didn’t insist on calling me “Miss Leads” or acting like I was above him.
No, he acted like I was just another woman his age that he liked talking to. Even in our brief interaction, I could tell that he didn’t mind how I looked and something about that pleased me more than I could explain.
It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. But more than his looks, it was the way he held himself, the way he smirked and didn’t shy away from me.
“Ms. Leads, are you listening?”
Lisa’s voice breaks into my thoughts and without looking away from my screen where my eyes are just slightly glazed over, I reply, “Yes, we have the luncheon with the Martins, the restaurant opening Friday night for Marco and his charity and the new owner of ‘Lounge’ wants me to make an appearance on Saturday.” I finish with a look at Lisa who gives a subtle headshake and smiles.
“Nice ears,” she replies and then riffles through her stuff. She sets down an envelope on the desk. “This was outside on the mail cart. I grabbed it before that new guy could take it away. It didn’t have a last name on there, so I just assumed it was for you.”
I grab the envelope and trace my finger over the precisely written letters that make up my name. A personalized letter, that doesn’t happen very often.
Lisa leaves then and I glance at the clock on my computer. Five minutes before my next conference call.
I slip my letter opener under the flap and open the note. Pulling it out, I frown at the lettering, a shiver racing down my spine as I read the words.
I am not yours
My heart protests
You beckon to me
My mind’s unrest
Is this a love poem then? A secret admirer of sorts? I flip the letter over in hopeful anticipation and frown when I see a blank page. Dammit. No one signed it.
I reread the poem three times before Lisa reminds me of my call. The entire time I wait for the call to connect, a smile tugs at my lips and my heart hammers in my chest, butterflies take flight in my stomach and I wonder just who could have written it.
Whoever it was, certainly took their time on the poem.
I frown then, doing a quick Google search and sigh, the tension I held vanishing when I don’t find the poem on the internet.
I don’t know who it’s from and I have no idea what I could possibly do about it.
But I ache for the first time in a long time for this excited feeling inside of me to last.
“So, what, there was nothing else?” April’s voice chimes through my phone where it rests on the counter in my kitchen on speaker, volume on the loudest setting so I can hear her over the rush of traffic in the background coming from April’s side.
“Nothing. Not a lick of any names or any clues.” After I’d arrived home, letter still in hand, I called April immediately to discuss it. Because it needed discussing.
“That’s disappointing. But also, exciting!” April exclaims through the phone. “You have an honest-to-God secret admirer. I can’t remember ever hearing anyone I know having one. Not in real life anyway.”
“I know.” I frown and think over my own friends. “I’ve never heard my friends say they had one either.”
“I’m so excited. Do you think you’ll get another one tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.” And I wasn’t sure why, but I allowed myself to hope for one. It felt good to have someone acknowledge me, even if I didn’t know who they were. “What if it was to another Jane?”
