“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.