Love Lettering (ARC), page 1
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
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Also by Kate Clayborn
The Chance of a Lifetime Series
Beginner’s Luck
Luck of the Draw
Best of Luck
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Love
Lettering
kate clayborn
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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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 Pub-
lisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and inci-
dents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fic-titiously. 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 de-stroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher
has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion,
premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Attn.: Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Printing: January 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2517-2
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2517-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2518-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2518-2 (ebook)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
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For Mom, who taught me everything I know
about being an artist
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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
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2 • Kate Clayborn
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
M-A-Y
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 Planted s, 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 plan-
ner, 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 min-
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Love Lettering • 3
utes 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.
&n
wishing for some of those Sunday shoppers to come back, be-
cause 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 nov-
elty 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 big-
gest, 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 re-
minder that a rare moment of quiet is full of dread for me lately,
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4 • Kate Clayborn
my mind utterly blank of inspiration. Right now, it’s just me and
this word, M-A-Y, 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.
MAY 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 . . .
MAY be you’re lonely, the letters interrupt, and my vision sharpens again.
MAY 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 my-
self.
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 ap-
prove 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 al-
most desperate to finish the job, to get a break. I’d been free-
lancing for a few years before I came to Brooklyn, but once I
started contracting for Cecelia exclusively, handling all the en-
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Love Lettering • 5
gagement 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 in-
terest. During the day my head would teem with my clients’
demands and deadlines; at night my hands would ache with ten-
sion 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, sketch-
ing 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, pleas-
antly, “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 to-
gether.
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 coun-
ter, wearing some version of what’s always, pretty much, been
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6 • Kate Clayborn
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 any-
more.
Last year, he’d been wearing what other people call “busi-
ness 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 swoop-
ing, 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.
MAY 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 gran-dad, 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
