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The Dead Romantics
A 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
"One of the Summer's Hottest Reads"-Entertainment Weekly
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.
"I LOVED this book! ...Funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy."-Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
"One of the Summer's Hottest Reads"-Entertainment Weekly
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.
Editorial Reviews
"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."-The New York Times
"We could all use a good summer ghost story, and you can't get much better than Ashley Poston's adult fiction debut."-Entertainment Weekly
"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. The Dead Romantics 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."
-Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
"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."
-Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow
"The Dead Romantics was an absolute and unexpected delight. Voicy and quirky and fun; the pages will probably sparkle (but with black glitter)."
-Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"The Dead Romantics 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!"
-Rachel Hawkins, New York Times bestselling author of Reckless Girls
"This boo...
"We could all use a good summer ghost story, and you can't get much better than Ashley Poston's adult fiction debut."-Entertainment Weekly
"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. The Dead Romantics 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."
-Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
"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."
-Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow
"The Dead Romantics was an absolute and unexpected delight. Voicy and quirky and fun; the pages will probably sparkle (but with black glitter)."
-Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"The Dead Romantics 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!"
-Rachel Hawkins, New York Times bestselling author of Reckless Girls
"This boo...
Readers Top Reviews
Readaholic Book R
The Dead Romantics surprised me in the best way. A ghostwriter who is in a writing slump but also sees ghosts - yes! I love a good story with a paranormal aspect to it and Ashley Poston delivers with The Dead Romantics Florence is a ghost writer for a famous writer and she is supposed to have a manuscript due, but there's one small problem - she has writers block and can't get the story on paper. After a bad break up, Florence isn't even sure she believes in love. Growing up with an eccentric family in a funeral home, Florence knows what true love is - she's seen it often enough between her mom and dad. She hasn't been home in ten years - after the town solved a case with the help of Florence and the ghost she communicated with. She's not ashamed of her gift, but she also doesn't want to deal with the small town that made her life miserable. Except she has to go back when tragedy strikes close to home. Not only will Florence have to grieve the death of her father, but she also has to help a ghost who she's absolutely surprised to see - her new editor, Ben Andor - who she just briefly met. Will she be able to help Ben and put together a funeral for her beloved father? The Dead Romantics is easily one of my favorite books of the year. I loved each and every character that was written throughout this book. I have so many passages highlighted throughout this book that resonated with me. I'd find myself laughing out loud one minute and then shedding tears the next. This book deals with grief - the grief of moving on, the grief of ending a relationship, the grief of having to bury a family member. But it also celebrates life and the living in the here and now. I highly highly recommend The Dead Romantics! I received a complimentary copy from the publisher.
EllenReadaholic B
Romance isn’t dead after all! Sometimes you just need a light, quirky romance and ‘The Dead Romantics’ is that book! No angst, just lots of very original characters and tons of pop culture references. And a smart, handsome (dead? 😉) hero! Take a look at the synopsis, this story is absolutely perfect for fans of Christina Lauren. I had no idea what this book was about going in and I’m glad I didn’t. I loved the endearing heroine Florence Day and her very odd past! Her secret is that she can see ghosts. She’s had her heart broken by her ex and she’s having a very tough time finishing her latest book which is way past deadline. Well, not really her book, it’s for the author she ghostwrites for! She doesn’t think anyone besides a close inner circle knows her secret ghostwriting identity. When she meets Ben, the new editor assigned to her, sparks fly. He’s gorgeous! Lots of twists and turns follow, including Florence having to attend a funeral back in the small town she grew up in. This is a sweet, funny romance, with lots of inside references to the publishing world, authors’ egos, and the romance genre in general. ”I tried publishing once. It didn’t work out. And I definitely did not make millions.” He had barked a laugh. “Well, that’s because you wrote a romance.” “What’s wrong with that?” “Oh, bunny, you know you can do better.” I faltered. “Better? . . .” “No one’s remembered for a romance, bunny. If you want to be a good writer, you gotta make something that lasts.” Quelle horreur! Romance readers will enjoy this lovely romance, a wonderful escape on a summer day. Loved the cover and the cast of characters and Florence and Ben.
Short Excerpt Teaser
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 ...
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 ...
