I’m not much one for reading romance novels, so you’ll have to take everything I write here with a grain of salt. It may be the case that all of the things I plan on complaining about are actually the stuff that draw folks to these kinds of books.
For example, the number of times I had to read what an amazing ass the main character had. The number of times she swooned over how manly her love interest was. The sheer predictability of how and when these two people who didn’t like each other were going to hook up. Who knows, maybe this is de rigueur for romances and I have no business whining. Don’t like it? Don’t read it. Right?
However, there were some things that I’m pretty sure had nothing to do with the genre. Like the time the main character was described sticking to the her man “like jelly on peanut butter.” Or how the main character looked up an ID number, using the internet, and got a hold of CIA personnel file.
The front of the book says “thriller” but the main plot point of the second half of the book was “resolved” in a few sentences. Not very thrilling. A friend, who does read a lot of romance novels, told me that this one was, maybe, phoned in by a writer who otherwise usually delivers.
Just my luck that a mediocre effort was the one I happened to read.