By Any Other Name(19)

“Lanie, please,” he says, surprising me.

I stop. I turn around. His tone and expression are more earnest than they’d been a moment before. I find this more unbearable than when he was being a pseudointellectual jerk. How can this be so uncomfortable? When there were two computers and the comforting labyrinth of the internet between us, Noa Callaway and I had such amazing chemistry.

“Will you come up?” he asks. We’re standing beneath a building’s awning, and he points at the door. “This is me.”

“I know. I’ve only been sending you packages here for seven years.” I glance up at the building, which I’ve speculated about so many times, imagining a very different Noa Callaway inhabiting its penthouse.

There’s no chance I’m going up there. I’ve been disillusioned enough for one afternoon. I need space from this man to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about him.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Don’t you think we should talk about the book?”

His words jar me into seeing how far astray we are from any semblance of professionalism. This was all supposed to go so differently. And it’s not entirely his fault. Maybe only ninety-five percent. I take a deep breath, let it out. I think of everyone depending on me to deliver the new Noa Callaway book.

“I’m listening,” I say. “I don’t need to be in your penthouse to listen.”

“Fine,” he says.

“So? Talk.”

“Wow. You know, you’re different in person.”

“You did not just say that,” I say, shaking my head. “Are you finishing the draft, or what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

I fill the silence. “We’re going to need a better title than Thirty-Eight Obituaries.”

“Oh, that,” he says, scratching his chin. “Yeah, I scrapped that idea. Didn’t I tell you?”

No, he failed to mention that. Among a few other key details he’s left out of our email exchanges. And just like that, my promotion goes from provisional to phantasmal.

“What’s wrong with the obituaries concept?” I say. Our sales team had loved the idea. Sue had loved it, too.

He shrugs. “Too New York–centric. I want to do something fresh.”

“All your books are New York–centric!” I want to scream but manage to keep my voice to an angry whisper. We are standing on the street in the middle of Manhattan, after all, and his identity is a secret to everyone but unlucky me. “That’s your brand. It’s what your readers like about you. It’s why Vogue called you the ‘Queen of Gotham Love.’ Remember?”

For years I’ve admired how Noa’s books aren’t just love stories between a couple, they’re also love letters to the city I adore. Even Vows, with its Italian wedding scenes, started off with a magical proposal on the Staten Island Ferry.

“I’ve used the city up,” he says. “Run out of landmarks for the characters to kiss in front of.”

I roll my eyes because of course he’d reduce the poignant love in so many Noa Callaway books to cliché.

“And in its place, you’re planning to write . . . what?”

“I’ve got some irons in the fire.”

“Oh god.”

He’s lying. Everything about him screams he hasn’t typed a word.

“You look worried,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“For you.”

“For us. We’re a team now, Lanie.”

I’ve got to get out of here before I get arrested for assault. But I can’t let him know how much he’s gotten under my skin.

“Look . . .” I want to say Ross, but it no longer fits. “What should I even call you, now that we’ve . . .” I trail off. It’s wrong to use the word met about a person I thought I knew. I had shown myself to Noa Callaway in my emails. I had allowed my life to be brightened by hers.

His.

“My real name is Noah Ross,” he says. “Most people call me Ross, but none of them know what I write. Why don’t we stick with Noah?”

“Okay, Noah.” I cross my arms, level my gaze at him. “You’ve got two hours.”

“To do what?” His laugh sounds dubious.

“To send me what you’ve got. Your . . . irons in the fire.”

Noah looks at me like I’ve suggested we get matching neck tattoos. “You know that’s not how I work.”

“It is now.” I hope he can’t see my knees shaking. “Your manuscript is four months late. I’m not going to get fired because you’re tired of success. So organize your ideas and send them to me. You said we’re a team now. Well, my team wins.”





Chapter Seven


I am in a funk not even Taylor Swift can penetrate. I yank out my earbuds and kill my playlist, breathing frost as I jog along the river.

After the disaster of meeting Noah Ross, I knew I had to keep moving. I think more clearly when I’m not standing still, and there was no way I was going to sit idly by the rest of the evening, checking my email and waiting to see what he’d send.

I went home just long enough to hang up BD’s Fendi suit, feed Alice, and grab my running shoes.