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“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 thanThirty-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 readerslikeabout you. It’s whyVoguecalled 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. EvenVows, 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 forassault. But I can’t let him know how much he’s gotten under my skin.

“Look...” I want to sayRoss, but it no longer fits. “What should I even call you, now that we’ve...” I trail off. It’s wrong to use the wordmetabout 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.”