The Dead Romantics: A GMA Book Club Pick (A Novel) - Softcover

Poston, Ashley

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593336488 ISBN 13: 9780593336489

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

A New York Times Notable Book of 2022!

The New York Times Bestseller and Good Morning America Book Club Pick!

"I LOVED this book! ...Funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy.”—Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis

A disillusioned millennial ghostwriter who, quite literally, has some ghosts of her own, has to find her way back home in this sparkling adult debut from national bestselling author Ashley Poston.

Florence Day is the ghostwriter for one of the most prolific romance authors in the industry, and she has a problem—after a terrible breakup, she no longer believes in love. It’s as good as dead.
 
When her new editor, a too-handsome mountain of a man, won't give her an extension on her book deadline, Florence prepares to kiss her career goodbye. But then she gets a phone call she never wanted to receive, and she must return home for the first time in a decade to help her family bury her beloved father.
 
For ten years, she's run from the town that never understood her, and even though she misses the sound of a warm Southern night and her eccentric, loving family and their funeral parlor, she can’t bring herself to stay. Even with her father gone, it feels like nothing in this town has changed. And she hates it.
 
Until she finds a ghost standing at the funeral parlor’s front door, just as broad and infuriatingly handsome as ever, and he’s just as confused about why he’s there as she is.
 
Romance is most certainly dead . . . but so is her new editor, and his unfinished business will have her second-guessing everything she’s ever known about love stories.

"One of the Summer's Hottest Reads"—Entertainment Weekly

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ashley Poston writes stories about love and friendship and ever afters. A native to South Carolina, she now lives in a small grey house with her sassy cat and too many books. You can find her on the internet, somewhere, watching cat videos and reading fan-fiction.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

Ghost meets The Bold Type in this sparkling adult debut about a disillusioned millennial ghostwriter who, quite literally, has some ghosts of her own, from nationally bestselling author Ashley Poston.



Florence Day is a ghostwriter for one of the most prolific romance authors in the industry, and she has a problem-after a terrible break-up, she no longer believes in love. It's as good as dead.







When her new editor, a too-handsome mountain of a man, won't give her an extension on her book deadline, Florence prepares to kiss her career goodbye. But then she gets a phone call she never wanted to receive, and she must return home for the first time in a decade to help her family bury her beloved father.







For ten years, she's run from the town that never understood her, and even though she misses the sound of a warm Southern night and her eccentric, loving family and their funeral parlor, she can't bring herself to stay. Even with her father gone, it feels like nothing in this town has changed. And she hates it.







Until she finds a ghost standing at the funeral parlor's front door, too tall and too broad to be her father, and he's just as confused about why he's there as she is.







Romance is most certainly dead…but so is her new editor, and his unfinished business will have her second-guessing everything she's ever known about love stories.



Story Locale: North Carolina

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

The Ghostwriter

Every good story has a few secrets.

At least, that's what I've been told. Sometimes they're secrets about love, secrets about family, secrets about murder-some so inconsequential they barely feel like secrets at all, but monumental to the person keeping them. Every person has a secret. Every secret has a story.

And in my head, every story has a happy ending.

If I were the heroine in a story, I would tell you that I had three secrets.

One, I hadn't washed my hair in four days.

Two, my family owned a funeral home.

And three, I was the ghostwriter of mega-bestselling, critically acclaimed romance novelist Ann Nichols.

And I was sorely late for a meeting.

"Hold the door!" I shouted, bypassing the security personnel at the front desk, and sprinting toward the elevators.

"Miss!" the befuddled security guard shouted after me. "You have to check in! You can't just-"

"Florence Day! Falcon House Publishers! Call up to Erin and she'll approve me!" I tossed over my shoulder, and slid into one of the elevators, cactus in tow.

As the doors closed, a graying man in a sharp business suit eyed the plant in question.

"A gift to butter up my new editor," I told him, because I wasn't someone who just carried around small succulents wherever she went. "God knows it's not for me. I kill everything I touch, including three cactuses-cacti?-already."

The man coughed into his hand and angled himself away from me. The woman on the other side said, as if to console me, "That's lovely, dear."

Which meant that this was a terrible gift. I mean, I figured it was, but I had been stranded for too long on the platform waiting for the B train, having a small panic attack with my brother on the phone, when a little old lady with rollers in her hair tottered by selling cacti for like a dollar a pop and I bought things when I was nervous. Mainly books but-I guess now I bought houseplants, too.

The guy in the business suit got off on the twentieth floor, and the woman who held the elevator left on the twenty-seventh. I took a peek into their worlds before the doors closed again, immaculate white carpet or buffed wooden floors and glass cases where old books sat idly. There were quite a few publishers in the building, both online and in print, and there was even a newspaper on one of the floors. I could've been in the elevator with the editor for Nora Roberts for all I knew.

Whenever I came to visit the offices, I was always hyperaware of how people took one look at me-in my squeaky flats and darned hose and too-big plaid overcoat-and came to the conclusion that I was not tall enough to ride this ride.

Which . . . fair. I stood at around five foot two, and everything I wore was bought for comfort and not style. Rose, my roommate, always joked that I was an eighty-year-old in a twenty-eight-year-old body.

Sometimes I felt it.

Nothing said Netflix and chill quite like an orthopedic pillow and a wineglass of Ensure.

When the elevator doors opened onto the thirty-seventh floor, I was alone, grasping my cactus like a life vest at sea. The offices of Falcon House Publishing were pristine and white, with two fluorescent bookshelves on either side of the entryway, touting all of the bestsellers and literary masterpieces they'd published over their seventy-five-year history.

At least half of the left wall was covered in books by Ann Nichols-The Sea-Dweller's Daughter, The Forest of Dreams, The Forever House, ones my mom sighed over when I was a teenager writing my smutty Lestat fanfic. Next to them were Ann's newer books, The Probability of Love, A Rake's Guide to Getting the Girl (I was most proud of that title), and The Kiss at the Midnight Matinee. The glass reflected my face in the book covers, a pale white and sleep-deprived young woman with dirty blond hair pulled up in a messy bun and dark circles under tired brown eyes, in a colorful scarf and an oversized beige sweater that made me look like I was the guest speaker at the Yarn of the Month Club and not one of the most distinguished publishing houses in the world.

Technically, I wasn't the guest here. Ann Nichols was, and I was what everyone guessed was her lowly assistant.

And I had a meeting to get to.

I stood in the lobby awkwardly, the cactus pressed to my chest, as the dark-haired receptionist held up a finger and finished her call. Something about salad for lunch. When she finally hung up, she looked up from her screen and recognized me. "Florence!" she greeted with a bright smile. "Nice to see you up and about! How's Rose? That party last night was brutal."

I tried not to wince, thinking about Rose, my roommate, stumbling in at 3:00 a.m. "It sure was something."

"Is she still alive?"

"Rose has survived worse."

Erin laughed. Then she glanced around the lobby, as if looking for someone else. "Is Mrs. Nichols not going to make it today?"

"Oh no, she's still up in Maine, doing her . . . Maine thing."

Erin shook her head. "Gotta wonder what it's like, you know? Being the Ann Nicholses and Stephen Kings of the world."

"Must be nice," I agreed. Ann Nichols hadn't left her small little island in Maine in . . . five years? As long as I'd been ghostwriting for her, anyway.

I tugged down the multicolored scarf wrapped around my mouth and neck. While it wasn't winter anymore, New York always had one last kick of cold before spring, and that had to be today, and I was beginning to nervously sweat under my coat.

"Someday," Erin added, "you're going to tell me how you became the assistant for the Ann Nichols."

I laughed. "I've told you before-a Craigslist ad."

"I don't believe that."

I shrugged. "C'est la vie."

Erin was a few years younger than me, her Columbia University publishing certificate proudly displayed on her desk. Rose had met her a while back on a dating app, and they'd hooked up a few times, though now from what I heard they were strictly friends.

The phone began to ring on her desk. Erin said quickly, "Anyway, you can go ahead-still remember the way, yeah?"

"Absolutely."

"Perf. Good luck!" she added, and answered the call in her best customer service voice. "Good morning! You've reached Falcon House Publishers, this is Erin speaking . . ."

And I was left to my own devices.

I knew where to go, because I'd visited the old editor enough times to be able to walk the halls blindfolded. Tabitha Margraves had retired recently, at the absolute worst time, and with every step closer to the office, I held tighter on to the poor cactus.

Tabitha knew I ghostwrote for Ann. She and Ann's agent were the only ones who did-well, besides Rose, but Rose didn't count. Had Tabitha passed that nugget of secrecy to my new editor? God, I hoped so. Otherwise this was going to be an awkward first meeting.

The hallway was lined with frosted glass walls that were supposed to be used for privacy, but they provided extraordinarily little of that. I heard editors and marketing and PR shadows talking in hushed tones about acquisitions, marketing plans, contractual obligations, tours . . . reallocating money from one book's budget to another.

The things in publishing that no one ever really talked about.

Publishing was all very romantic until you found yourself in publishing. Then it was just another kind of corporate hell.

I passed a few assistant editors sitting in their square cubicles, manuscripts piled almost to the top of their half walls, looking frazzled as they ate carrots and hummus for lunch. The salads Erin ordered must not have included them, not that editorial assistants made enough to afford eating out every day. The offices were set up in a...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593336488
• ISBN 13: 9780593336489
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland