Love Lettering Read online

  Praise for Love Lettering

  “I flew through this creative and original book. I was completely absorbed by the world Kate Clayborn creates—the characters felt so real and their joys and sorrows and struggles and triumphs felt so relatable that I forgot I was reading fiction. I can’t wait for the whole world to fall in love with Love Lettering!”

  —Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of The Proposal

  “Love Lettering is delicious and beautiful and perfect.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Sarah MacLean

  “Kate Clayborn’s writing is uniquely, intensely beautiful. This book will wake you up in the middle of the night aching for these perfectly imperfect characters. It’s layered, nuanced, and unrelenting in how deep it digs.”

  —Sonali Dev, author of Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

  “Love Lettering made me laugh and made me cry. Kate Clayborn is my new go-to romance author.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Stacy Finz

  Praise for Kate Clayborn

  “Emotional and real.”—O, The Oprah Magazine on Beginner’s Luck

  “Warm and lively romance.”—The New York Times on Luck of the Draw

  “Breathtaking . . . easily one of the best I have ever read.”

  —BookPage on Best of Luck

  “This book is hilarious and moving and sexy, with a focus on strong female friendship, guilt that’s hard to let go of, and one of the most realistic, and ultimately romantic, fake fiancé setups I’ve ever read.”

  —Buzzfeed on Luck of the Draw

  “In the hands of a lesser author, this setup could be preachy and heavy, but Clayborn’s characters are bright and nuanced, her dialogue quick and clever, and the world she builds warm and welcoming. Zoe and Aiden slide into love, healing themselves along the way.”—The Washington Post on Luck of the Draw

  Also by Kate Clayborn

  The Chance of a Lifetime Series

  Beginner’s Luck

  Luck of the Draw

  Best of Luck

  Love Lettering

  kate clayborn

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Clayborn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2517-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2518-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2518-2 (ebook)

  For Mom, who taught me everything I know about being an artist

  Chapter 1

  On Sunday I work in sans serif.

  Boldface for all the headers, because that’s what the client wants, apexes and vertexes flattened way out into big floors and tables for every letter, each one stretching and counting and demanding to be seen.

  All caps, not because she’s into shouting—at least I don’t think, though one time I saw her husband give their toddler a drink of his coffee and the look she gave him probably made all his beard hairs fall out within twelve to twenty-four hours. No, I think it’s because she doesn’t like anything falling below the descender line. She wants it all on the level, no distraction, nothing that’ll disrupt her focus or pull her eye away.

  Black and gray ink, that’s all she’ll stand for, and she means it. One time I widened the tracking and added a metallic, a fine-pointed thread of gold to the stems, an almost art deco look I thought for sure she’d tolerate, but when she opened the journal—black, A4, dot grid, nothing fancy—she’d closed it after barely ten seconds and slid it back across the table with two fingers, the sleeve of her black cashmere sweater obviously part of the admonishment.

  “Meg,” she’d said, “I don’t pay you to be decorative,” as if being decorative was the same as being a toenail clipping hoarder or a murderer-for-hire.

  She’s a sans serif kind of woman.

  Me? Well, it’s not really the Mackworth brand, all these big, bold, no-nonsense letters. It’s not my usual—what was it The New York Times had written last year? Whimsical? Buoyant? Frolicsome? Right, not my usual whimsical, buoyant, frolicsome style.

  But I can do anything with letters, that’s also what The New York Times said, and that’s what people pay me for, so on Sunday I do this.

  I sigh and stare down at the page in front of me, where I’ve used my oldest Staedtler pencil to grid and sketch out the letters

  for the upcoming month, big enough that the A crosses the center line. It’s such a . . . such a short word, not a lot of possibility in it, not like my clients who’ve wanted a nice spring motif before their monthly spread, big swashes and swooping terminal curves for cheerful sayings ushering in the new month. Already I’ve done four Bloom Where You’re Planteds, three May Flowers! and one special request for a Lusty Month of May, from the sex therapist who has an office on Prospect Park West and who once told me I should think about whether my vast collection of pens is a “symbol” for something.

  “Other than for my work?” I’d asked, and she’d only raised a very judgmental, very expertly threaded eyebrow. The Sex Therapist Eyebrow of Knowing How Rarely You Date. Her planner, it’s a soft pink leather with a gold button closure, and I hope she sees the irony.

  Now I pick up my favorite pen, a fine-tipped Micron—not symbolic, I hope, of any future dating prospects—and tap it idly against the weathered wood countertop that’s functioning as my work surface today. It’s quiet in the shop, only thirty minutes to close on a Sunday. The neighborhood regulars don’t come around much on the weekends, knowing the place will be overrun by visitors from across the Bridge, or tourists who’ve read about the cozy Brooklyn paperie that Cecelia’s managed to turn into something of a must-see attraction, at least for those who are looking to shop. But they’re long gone by now, too, bags stuffed full of pretty notecards, slim boxes of custom paper, specialty pens, leather notebooks, maybe even a few of the pricey designer gifts Cecelia stocks at the front of the store.

  Back when I worked here more regularly, I relished the quiet moments—the shop empty but for me and my not-symbolic pen and whatever paper I had in front
of me, my only job to create. To play with those letters, to experiment with their shapes, to reveal their possibilities.

  But today I’m not so welcoming of the quiet. Instead I’m wishing for some of those Sunday shoppers to come back, because I liked it—all the noise, all the people, being face-to-face with brand-new faces. At first I thought it was simply the novelty of having my phone put away for so long—a forced hiatus from those red notification circles that stack up in my social media apps, likes and comments on the videos I post, the ones I used to do for fun but now are mostly for sponsors. Me showing off brush-lettering pens I don’t even use all that regularly, me swooping my hand through a perfect flourish, me thumbing through the thick, foil-edged pages of some luxury journal I’ll probably end up giving away.

  Eventually, though, I realized it was more than being away from the phone. It was the break from that master task list I’ve got tacked above the desk in my small bedroom, the one that’s whimsically lettered but weighted with expectation—my biggest, most important deadline ratcheting ever nearer and no closer to being met. It was the relief of being away from the chilly atmosphere in my once-homey, laugh-filled apartment, where these days Sibby’s distant politeness cuts me like a knife, makes me restless with sadness and frustration.

  So now the quiet in the shop seems heavy, isolating. A reminder that a rare moment of quiet is full of dread for me lately, my mind utterly blank of inspiration. Right now, it’s just me and this word, and it should be easy. It should be plain and simple and custom-made and low stakes, nothing like the job I’ve been avoiding for weeks and weeks. Nothing that requires my ideas, my creativity, my specialty.

  Sans serif, bold, all caps, no frolicking.

  But I feel something, staring down at this little word. Feel something familiar, something I’ve been trying to avoid these days.

  I feel those letters doing their work on me. Telling me truths I don’t want to hear.

  be you’re blocked, the letters say to me, and I try to blink them away. For a few seconds I blur my vision, try to imagine being decorative, try to imagine what I’d do if I didn’t have to keep my promises to the client. Something in those wide vertexes? Play with the negative space, or . . .

  be you’re lonely, the letters interrupt, and my vision sharpens again.

  be, they seem to say, you can’t do this after all.

  I set down the Micron and take a step back.

  And that’s when he comes in.

  The thing is, the letters don’t always tell me truths about myself.

  Sometimes they tell me truths about other people, and Reid Sutherland is—was—one of those people.

  I remember him straightaway, even though it’s been over a year since the first and only time I ever saw him, even though I must’ve only spent a grand total of forty-five minutes in his quiet, forbidding presence. That day, he’d come in late—his fiancée already here in the shop, their final appointment to approve the treatment I’d done for their wedding. Save the dates, invitations, place cards, the program—anything that needed letters, I was doing it, and the truth is, by then I’d been almost desperate to finish the job, to get a break. I’d been freelancing for a few years before I came to Brooklyn, but once I started contracting for Cecelia exclusively, handling all the engagement and wedding jobs that came through the shop, word about my work had spread with a speed that was equal parts thrilling and overwhelming. Jobs coming so quickly I’d had to turn more than a few down, which only seemed to increase interest. During the day my head would teem with my clients’ demands and deadlines; at night my hands would ache with tension and fatigue. I’d sit on the couch, my right hand weighted with a heated bag of uncooked rice to ease its cramping, and I’d breathe out the stress from meetings that would sometimes see couples and future in-laws turn brittle with wedding-related tension, my job to smile and smooth ruffled feathers, sketching out soft, romantic things that would please everyone. I’d wonder whether it was time to get out of the wedding business altogether.

  The fiancée—Avery, her name was, blond and willowy and almost always dressed in something blush or cream or ice blue or whatever color I’d be just as likely to ruin with ink or coffee or ketchup—had been nice to work with, focused and polite, a good sense of herself and what she wanted, but not resistant to Cecelia’s suggestions about paper or my suggestions about the lettering. A few times, in our initial meetings, I’d asked about her fiancé, whether she’d want me to send scans to his e-mail, too, or whether she’d want to try to find a weekend meeting time if it’d make it easier for him to come. She’d always wave her slim-fingered left hand, the one with the tiny ice rink on it that looked almost identical to the rings of at least three other brides I’d been working with that spring, and she’d say, pleasantly, “Reid will like whatever I like.”

  But I’d insisted on it, him being there for the final meeting.

  And I’d regretted it later. Meeting him. Meeting them together.

  I regret it even more now.

  We’d settled on a Sunday afternoon for that final meeting, and now it seems doubly strange to find him here again on another Sunday, my life so different now than it was then, even though I’m in the same store, standing behind the same counter, wearing some version of what’s always, pretty much, been my style aesthetic—a knit dress, a little slouchy in fit, patterned, this particular one with tiny, friendly fox faces. Slightly wrinkled cardigan that, until an hour ago, was shoved into my bag. Navy tights and low-heeled, wine-red booties that Sibby would probably say make my feet look big but that also make me smile at least once a day, even without Sibby willing to tease me anymore.

  Last year, he’d been wearing what other people call “business casual” and what I’d privately call “weekend-stick-up-your ass”: tan chinos pressed so sharply they’d looked starched, white collared shirt under a slim cut, expensive-looking navy-blue V-neck sweater. A double-take face, that was for sure—so handsome half of you is wondering if you’ve seen him on your television and the other half of you is wondering why anyone would put a head like that on top of what looked like a debate team uniform.

  But now he looks different. Same head, okay—a square, clean-shaven jaw; high cheekbones that seem to carve swooping, shadowed lines down to his chin; a full-lipped mouth with corners turning slightly down; a nose bold enough to match the rest of his strong features; bright, clear blue eyes beneath a set of brows a shade lighter than his dark reddish-blond hair. Neck down, though, not so business casual anymore: olive green T-shirt underneath a hip-length, navy-blue jacket, faded around the zipper. Dark jeans, the edges of the front pockets where he has his hands tucked slightly frayed, and I don’t think it’s the kind of fraying you pay for. Gray sneakers, a bit battered-looking.

  be, I think, his life is pretty different now, too.

  But then he says, “Good evening,” which I guess means he’s still got the stick up his ass. Who says Good evening? Your grandad, that’s who. When you call him on his land line.

  I feel like if I say a casual “Hi” or “Hey,” I’ll open up some crack in the space-time continuum, or at least make him want to straighten the tie he’s not wearing. I shouldn’t be deceived by the clothes. Maybe he got mugged on the way over by a rogue debate team captain in need of a new outfit and that’s why he looks the way he does.

  I settle for a “Hello,” but I keep it light and cheerful—buoyant, if you will—and I’m pretty sure he nods. As if he’s saying, “This greeting is acceptable to me.” I have a fleeting image of how it must have been at his wedding. Probably he did that nod when the officiant said “man and wife.” Probably he shook Avery’s hand instead of kissing her. I really don’t think she would’ve minded. Her lipstick always looked so nice.

  “Welcome to—” I begin, at the same time he speaks again.

  “You still work here,” he says. It’s flat, the same as everything I’ve ever heard him say, but there’s a hint of question, of surprise in it.

  So m
aybe he knows something of what I’ve done since I lettered every single scrap of paper for his wedding.

  But surely he can’t know—he absolutely can’t know—why I’d decided his wedding would be my last.

  I swallow. “I’m filling in,” I say, and it’s—less buoyant. Cautious. “The owner’s on vacation.”

  He’s still standing right inside the door, underneath the bright paper cranes Cecelia has hung from the ceiling near the entrance. Behind him, the window displays feature various sheaths of the new custom wrapping paper she’d told me about two weeks ago, the last time I’d stopped in for supplies. It’s all so colorful, a springtime celebration of pinks and greens and pale yellows, a cheery haven from the mostly gray tones of the city street outside, and now it looks like a human skyscraper has walked in.

  It reminds me of one of those truths about Reid Sutherland.

  It reminds me of how he’d seemed a little lost that day. A little sad.

  I swallow again and take a step forward, pick up my Micron from the crease of my client’s notebook, prepare to close it and set it aside. , it calls, and this time something else occurs to me. It’d be close now to Reid and Avery’s first anniversary. June 2nd, that was the wedding date, and sure he’s planning way ahead, but probably he’s that kind of guy in general. Probably he’s got a reminder on his phone. And he’d be the type to follow the rules, too, all the conventions. Paper, that’s the traditional first anniversary gift, and that’s probably what brought him here. Very sweet, to come all the way to Brooklyn, to the place where they’d chosen their first paper together. Or I guess where she chose it, and he sort of . . . blinked at it in what she’d taken for approval.