Kincaid was singing along to a Kelly Clarkson song from her spot in an armchair near the front of the store. He could see her profile, the afternoon light making her blond hair glow gold as she bopped her head to the music and flipped through another cookbook—something she did when the store was slow. His chest physically ached with all the things he wanted to say to her. But his muscles were locked, gluing him to the spot and making him sweat. The only way his words seemed to come out was on the page.

He looked down at his notebook again. He needed to pull the sheets out and give her the letters now before he missed his chance. He could sense the shift between her and Graham lately. Graham’s gaze lingered a little too long. Kincaid’s laugh was a little too loud when he made jokes. There was something brewing there, and Ash could feel his sliver of a chance slipping away.

Kincaid had declared that she was taking a break from dating for a while, but Graham wasn’t just any rando panting after her. Graham was a friend. A good guy. She might change her mind for Graham.

But would she change her mind for Ash?

He read over his letter again. The notebook was full of them. Page after page of them. He’d write one and then chicken out on giving it to her, then write another the next day, hoping it was better, hoping they were the right words. He would inevitably decide they were not. Then the cycle would start over again.

“What you up to, Isaacs?”

Ash jolted and almost levitated off the stool at the sound of Graham’s voice right behind him. “Shit.”

Ash’s hand splayed across the notebook page to both block and steady himself, and he swiveled toward Graham.

Graham chuckled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He nodded toward the notebook. “So who’s the sappy letter for?”

“Who’s the—” Ash’s stomach dropped as the words registered and he stood. “You were reading over my shoulder? What the hell, man?”

Graham crossed his arms and shrugged. “Sorry. I thought you heard me behind you. So who’s the lucky girl?”

Ash wanted to shrivel up and die at the prospect of this conversation. His only saving grace was that he hadn’t written Kincaid’s name on the letter yet. But if Graham flipped a page back, he’d see letter after letter of Dear Kincaid and Dear KC. He tried to speak past the lump in his throat. “It’s, um, an epistolary novel.”

Graham frowned. “A what now?”

Ash tried to will his face not to flush fire-engine red. “Just a thing I’m messing around with. It’s a novel made up of letters.”

“Cool,” Graham said. “Come on, let me see it.”

Ash breathed deeply through his nose and moved out of the way, trying to act chill but keeping his hand on the edge of the notebook. No way was he letting Graham pick up the thing and turn the pages. Graham’s eyes scanned the letter. Certain sentences seemed to glow like neon signs in Ash’s vision.