Rose gawked. “Benji Andor?”
I pointed at her with the wooden spoon. “That’s it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I kid you not.”
“Lucky!” Rose barked a laugh. “He’s hot.”
“Yeah I know—how do you know?”
“He was in a whole Thirty-Five Under Thirty-Five thing in Time Out a year ago. He used to be an executive editor over at Elderwood Books before they folded. Where were you?”
I gave her an exhausted look. She knew exactly where I was a year ago. Making depressing mac and cheese for a different reason.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, it’s nice to see he’s still in publishing, but at Falcon House’s romance imprint? Wow.”
I shrugged. “He probably likes romances? Do I know any books he worked on over at Elderwood?”
Rose put the packet of powdered cheese back into the box. “The Murdered Birds? The Woman from Cabin Creek?”
I stared at my roommate. “So . . . gothic murders?”
“Gruesome, morbid gothic murders. Like I’m talking Benji Andor is a modern-day Rochester, but without the wife in the attic. I hear he even had a fiancée once, but he left her at the altar.”
I gave Rose a look. “Do you even know what happens in Jane Eyre?”
“I’ve sorta half seen the movies. Anyway, that’s not the point. So, you have publishing’s hottest bachelor editing Ann’s books now. I can’t wait until he gets to your sex scenes. Seriously, they’re some of the best I’ve ever read, and I read a lot of smutty books. And fanfic,” she added as an afterthought.
“He won’t,” I deadpanned. “I have until tomorrow evening to turn in the book.”
“Wow, you really couldn’t get another extension, huh?”
I groaned and put my face in my hands. “No, and if I don’t turn it in, he’s getting legal involved. And then the cat’s out of the bag! Hi, I’m the ghostwriter! But I can’t even do ghostwriting properly, and then they’ll start wondering where Ann is, and then some really grizzled detective will come around questioning me and then everyone’ll start wondering if I murdered Ann Nichols—”
“Hon, I love you, but you’re jumping the shark here.”
“You never know!”
“Is she dead?”
“I don’t know! No!” Then, a bit calmer: “Probably not?”
“Why don’t you just tell your editor about being her ghostwriter?”
I sighed. “I couldn’t. You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when I asked to write a sad romance instead. It was like I killed his favorite puppy.”
“You say that like he’d have more than one puppy.”
“Of course. He seems like a multi-dog kinda person. But not the point. The point is, I didn’t. Couldn’t.”
“So instead, you’re going to ruin your career and disappoint your one literary hero.”
My shoulders drooped. “Yeah. Now can I please eat my mac and cheese and wallow in my despair?”
Rose’s face turned to stone. “No,” she said as sharply as her cat eyeliner, and grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me out of the kitchen and down the hallway to our bedrooms. “C’mon. We are going out. We are forgetting our worries. We are going to conquer this stupid, loud, exhausting city tonight! Or die trying!”
At the moment, I’d rather have died.