{"product_id":"the-dead-romantics-a-gma-book-club-pick-isbn-9780593336489","title":"The Dead Romantics: A GMA Book Club Pick","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER ∙ \u003ci\u003eGOOD MORNING AMERICA\u003c\/i\u003e BOOK CLUB PICK ∙ 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eNOTABLE BOOK OF 2022\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I LOVED this book! . . . Funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy.”—Ali Hazelwood, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Love Hypothesis\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlorence 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRomance 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"One of the Summer's Hottest Reads\"—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“It’s ‘While You Were Sleeping’ meets ‘Six Feet Under,’ and I need to yell to everyone about how good it is…The result is an antidote for despair, a romance that is frank about the fact that life ends and time marches on but that nevertheless insists: We aren’t a gothic horror novel. We’re a love story. This is a book to make you laugh during the funeral scene and cry when the dance party begins.\"—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics\u003c\/i\u003e is a lyrical masterpiece of a book that's both cozy and impactful in the way it deals with grief.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePeople\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We could all use a good summer ghost story, and you can't get much better than Ashley Poston's adult fiction debut.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I LOVED this book. A beautiful, poignant story, full of beautiful, poignant characters. Florence is exactly the type of lovable, endearing, relatable lead I want to fall for, and her journey through learning how to love again had me squealing, sighing, laughing. \u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics\u003c\/i\u003e is like a beautifully crafted puzzle: at the end all the pieces fall perfectly into place, and the picture that they form is at once touching, funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy.”—\u003cb\u003eAli Hazelwood\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Love Hypothesis\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What fun—the Emily Henry\/Casey McQuiston reader (aka me) is going to gobble this book up. Smart, quick, and absolutely bubbling over with love for the genre of romance itself. Delicious.”—\u003cb\u003eEmma Straub,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThis Time Tomorrow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics \u003c\/i\u003ewas an absolute and unexpected delight. Voicy and quirky and \u003ci\u003efun;\u003c\/i\u003e the pages will probably sparkle (but with black glitter).\"—\u003cb\u003eChristina Lauren\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Unhoneymooners\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics\u003c\/i\u003e takes so many things I love—quirky heroines, found families, cozy small towns, fanfics, GHOSTS (!!!)—and gives them all a fresh, fun, thoroughly modern spin. This is truly a RomCom to die for!\"—\u003cb\u003eRachel Hawkins\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eReckless Girls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book made me fall in love, broke my heart then reassembled it at least twice, and left me swooning. A hauntingly romantic, hilariously heartwarming story. Ashley Poston is the real deal.”—\u003cb\u003eGwenda Bond\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eNot Your Average Hot Guy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Poston makes her adult debut with a refreshing rom-com about love, loss, and hope . . . . She manages to both affirm the cynics and give hope to the romantics by simultaneously embracing and subverting rom-com tropes. The sparkling dialogue makes the characters come alive—even the dead ones. Readers won’t be able to put this down.\"—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Romance, chaos, and complications are central components in Poston's refreshingly fun, spirited rom-coms, and \u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics\u003c\/i\u003e is no exception. The beauty and charm of Poston's storytelling continues to make miraculous happy endings out of the messes in which ordinary people often find themselves entangled.”—\u003cb\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAshley Poston\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Novel Love Story\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Seven Year Slip\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Dead Romantics. \u003c\/i\u003eA native of South Carolina, she lives in a small gray house with her sassy cat and too many books. You can find her on the internet, somewhere, watching cat videos and reading fan fiction.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Ghostwriter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every good story has a few secrets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And in my head, every story has a happy ending.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If I were the heroine in a story, I would tell you that I had three secrets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One, I hadn't washed my hair in four days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two, my family owned a funeral home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And three, I was the ghostwriter of mega-bestselling, critically acclaimed romance novelist Ann Nichols.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I was sorely late for a meeting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hold the door!\" I shouted, bypassing the security personnel at the front desk, and sprinting toward the elevators.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Miss!\" the befuddled security guard shouted after me. \"You have to check in! You can't just-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As the doors closed, a graying man in a sharp business suit eyed the plant in question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes I felt it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nothing said Netflix and chill quite like an orthopedic pillow and a wineglass of Ensure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Technically, I wasn't the guest here. Ann Nichols was, and I was what everyone guessed was her lowly assistant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I had a meeting to get to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I tried not to wince, thinking about Rose, my roommate, stumbling in at 3:00 a.m. \"It sure was something.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is she still alive?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Rose has survived worse.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Erin laughed. Then she glanced around the lobby, as if looking for someone else. \"Is Mrs. Nichols not going to make it today?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh no, she's still up in Maine, doing her . . . Maine thing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Erin shook her head. \"Gotta wonder what it's like, you know? Being the Ann Nicholses and Stephen Kings of the world.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Someday,\" Erin added, \"you're going to tell me how you became the assistant for the Ann Nichols.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I laughed. \"I've told you before-a Craigslist ad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't believe that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shrugged. \"C'est la vie.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The phone began to ring on her desk. Erin said quickly, \"Anyway, you can go ahead-still remember the way, yeah?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Absolutely.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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 . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I was left to my own devices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The things in publishing that no one ever really talked about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Publishing was all very romantic until you found yourself in publishing. Then it was just another kind of corporate hell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 hierarchy of sorts, and the farther you went, the higher the salary. At the end of the hall, I almost didn't recognize the office. Gone were the floral wreath hanging on the door for good luck and the stickers plastered to the frosted glass privacy wall that read Try Not, Do! and Romance Isn't Dead!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For a second, I thought I'd made a wrong turn, until I recognized the intern in her small cubicle, stuffing ARCs-Advance Reader Copies, basically rough drafts of a book in paperback form-into envelopes with a harried sort of frenzy that bordered on tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My new editor didn't waste any time peeling off those decals and tossing the good luck wreath in the trash. I didn't know if that was a good sign-or bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Toward the end of her tenure at Falcon House, Tabitha Margraves and I butted heads more often than not. \"Romance believes in happy endings. Tell Ann that,\" she would say, tongue in cheek, because, for all intents and purposes, I was Ann.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well Ann doesn't anymore,\" I would quip back, and by the time she turned in her resignation and retired down to Florida, I'm sure we were both plotting each other's demise. She still believed in love-somehow, impossibly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I could see right through the lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Love was putting up with someone for fifty years so you'd have someone to bury you when you died. I would know; my family was in the business of death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tabitha called me crass when I told her that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I said I was realistic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a difference.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sat down in one of the two chairs outside of the office, the cactus in my lap, to wait and scroll through my Instagram feed. My younger sister had posted a photo of her and my hometown mayor-a golden retriever-and I felt a pang of homesickness. For the weather, the funeral parlor, my mom's amazing fried chicken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wondered what she was cooking tonight for dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear the office door open until a distinctly male voice said, \"Sorry for the wait, please come in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I bolted to my feet in surprise. Did I have the wrong office? I checked the cubicles-the brown-haired workaholic intern cramming ARCs into envelopes to the left, the HR director sobbing into his salad on the right-no, this was definitely the right office.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man cleared his throat, impatiently waiting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I hugged the cactus so tight to my chest, I could feel the pot beginning to creak with the pressure, and stepped into his office.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And froze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man in question sat in the leather chair that for thirty-five years (longer than he'd been alive, I figured) Tabitha Margraves had inhabited. The desk, once cluttered with porcelain knickknacks and pictures of her dog, was clean and tidy, everything stacked in its proper place. The desk reflected the man behind it almost perfectly: too polished, in a crisp white button-down shirt that strained at his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal rather intimidatingly sexy forearms. His black hair was swept back out of his long face and somehow accentuated his equally long nose, black square glasses perched on it, and there were very faint freckles speckled across his face: one by his right nostril, two on his cheek, one just above his thick right eyebrow. A constellation of them. For a second, I wanted to take a Sharpie and connect them to see what myth they held. The next second, I quickly came to the realization that-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was hot. And I'd seen him before. At publishing functions with Rose or my ex-boyfriend. I couldn't place the name, but I'd definitely run into him more than once. I held my breath, wondering if he recognized me-did he?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For a second, I thought so, because his eyes widened-just a fraction, just enough for me to suspect he knew something-before it vanished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cleared his throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You must be Ann Nichols's assistant,\" he greeted without missing a beat. He stood and came around the desk to offer his hand. He was . . . enormous. So tall I felt like I'd suddenly been transported into a retelling of \"Jack and the Beanstalk\" where he was a very hunky beanstalk that I really, really wanted to climb-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No. No, Florence. Bad girl, I scolded myself. You do not want to climb him like a tree, because he's your new editor and therefore very, incredibly, stupendously unclimbable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Florence Day,\" I said as I accepted his hand. His almost completely enveloped mine in a strong handshake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Benji Andor, but you can call me Ben,\" he introduced.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Florence,\" I repeated, shocked that I could mutter anything above a squeak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The edges of his mouth quirked up. \"So you said.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I quickly pulled my hand away, mortified. \"Oh god. Right-sorry.\" I sat down a little too hard in the uncomfortable IKEA chair, cactus planted firmly on my knees. My cheeks were on fire, and if I could feel them, I knew that he could see I was blushing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He sat down again and adjusted a pen on his desk. \"It's a pleasure to meet you. Sorry for the wait, the subways were hell this morning. Erin keeps telling me not to take the B train and yet I am a fool that does every single time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Or a masochist,\" I added before I could stop myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He barked a laugh. \"Maybe both.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. He had a great laugh-the kind that was deep and throaty, like a rumble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh no, this was not going as planned at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He liked me, and he wasn't going to like me in about five minutes. I didn't even like myself for what I was here to do-why did I think a cactus as a gift would make this easier?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He scooted his chair in and straightened a pen to be horizontal with his keyboard. Everything was neat like that in this office, and I got the very distinct feeling that he was the kind of person who, if he found a book misplaced at a bookstore, would return it to the shelf where it belonged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everything had its place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That might've been a good thing, actually. He seemed very no-nonsense, and no-nonsense people were rarely romantic, and so I wouldn't get a pitying look when I, eventually, told him that I no longer believed in romance novels and he nodded solemnly, knowing exactly what I meant. And I would rather have that than Tabitha Margraves looking at me with those sad, dark eyes and asking, \"Why don't you believe in love anymore, Florence?\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":44886398828773,"sku":"NP9780593336489","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593336489.jpg?v=1767738957","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-dead-romantics-a-gma-book-club-pick-isbn-9780593336489","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}