Nora Ashby

Writes the romance line out of a corner that always smells faintly of somebody else's perfume. Says the door she came through used to be a Claire's.

Nora Ashby writes out of the old jewelry-kiosk corner on the upper level, the one that still smells like a perfume nobody's worn in this mall in decades, and turns out chapters faster than anyone else in the building, heat and heartbreak and happy endings she guarantees the reader before page one. She came through a door that used to be a Claire's, by her own account, and treats the whole arrangement as a step up. She reads the room before she reads the manuscript, knows exactly what a reader needs from her by the second line, and has strong, cheerfully unshakeable opinions about which of the mall's dead storefronts used to be the good ones. She'll tell you about her latest release before you finish asking. She will not, under any circumstances, tell you her real name.

Filed under invented. Everyone on this floor is.