Disclaimer: I'm back to my habit of reading shitty books again, because they're easy to finish betwixt Transfer of Property and Criminology.
So once again I find myself disliking a rather well-liked, er, book. I cannot understand why some female writers find it so difficult to write something from the perspective of the male character. It's been done before; in fact, many writers continue to do it. I read about the first sixty-five percent of the clusterfuck pretty diligently, and after that, I just skimmed.
First of all, this is 425 pages long. 425 pages of single motherhood, and sex, and some stupid FBI investigation, and so much sweet tea (which I believe is iced tea?), I'll probably throw up if I'm given tea anytime soon. The characters are all narcissistic, self-absorbed, and impossibly attractive if they're the good guys, and horrible, fat, and ugly if they're the bad guys, because this is definitely the kind of thing that we should be teaching kids today. To judge people based on how they look. The amount of Southern "charm" in this book is greater than what you get in New Orleans on Mardi Gars. Oh, wait...
As a big fan of the Southern accent, and Matthew McConaughey, I like the South. Kind of. I know for a fact that not everyone there is a religious nut, or well, a perfect gentleman. But as a Southerner herself, Ms. Calvert portrays Southerners so stereotypically, it makes me sad. So Southern gentlemen are well-bred, college-educated, astonishingly good-looking, and don't let their ladies take taxi-cabs, because why the fuck not. They say things like
“What kind of past would you hold against me?”... “A reputation of being extremely friendly with an overabundance of gentlemen.”
Especially so when they have a habit of humping everything that's hot, tall, and leggy. Because men can sleep around, and women cannot. You know, he's a stud and she's a slut. It also harps on the whole "If you ain't Southern, you nothin'" bullshit, because
Those (Northern) women seemed to have lost their feminine edge in the rough city— the one tool all females possess to render a man helpless.
Because if you aren't feminine and vulnerable, your boyfriend will feel insecure. Teaches you a lot about "manhood", doesn't it? Southern ladies, on the other hand have to dress classy, complete with a string of pearls, because they're all that rich. They may be amazing, and brilliant, and clever, but still, for the sake of their roots, they need to let their
Southern men win
. Can we also for one second talk about how Sam panics because they did the deed on the beach in view of god (sorry, God)? Honey, god doesn't really care where you have sex. I'm pretty sure the bedroom and the beach are the same to him. Provided he can see you have sex, of course. This is probably why I can never be a lady. Ah, well, their loss.
The amount of self promotion these characters do is laughably pathetic. I mean come on, Mac or whoever you are, you do not need to harp about your family name, and/or extensive Ivy League education at every point. Shut the fuck up. Please.
"As a seasoned agent for the FBI in the white-collar crime division, I had the unique distinction of being a Harvard-educated Southern gentleman, who incidentally packed heat. I had a big brain, a big gun, and a big dose of charm I commanded as the occasion dictated. It had always served me well."
I had the displeasure of reading this gem on literally the second page of this book. What the fuck, even? *rolls eyes*
Sam, our Princeton-educated business professional, on the other hand has other things to brag about. Like
"...a pale lavender Valentino silk dress with tiny straps, which accentuated my muscular arms and small waist. I might be a mother, but I still wore a size two.
The fact that she also had an Ivy League education is mentioned once. Once in 425 pages.
Also, one of the main reasons I had a problem with the male POV was that Mac liked describing everything to a painful detail. Men who are literally seconds away from getting laid do not think about their black boxer briefs. Or about the number of steps that you have to climb to get to their four poster bed. Or for that matter, even about the four poster bed. They definitely do not refer to her clitoris as her sex. No, really, I even checked with my boyfriend.
My biggest problem, however, was with the bareback riding. And I'm not talking about horses here. So the first time Mac and Sam have sex, days after they've met, Mac asks Sam to trust him, and then proceeds to enter her unsheathed. Because he'd had mumps before, and he's sterile. Because the only thing condoms protect you against are unwanted pregnancies, right? And then, post-coitus, they discuss about his sterility, and that he's "clean". Fuck you, Ms. Calvert for taking unprotected sex so lightly.
Also, the amount of product placement in this book was just too much to handle. Armani, Louboutin, Valentino, Rolex, Grey Goose, Breitling, Collins, Ray Ban, Aston Martin, Range Rover...do you need me to name more? I mean, come on! First of all, how does an FBI agent afford Armani, a Rolex, and a Breitling? Also, how does a woman who's been unemployed for three years, and is a single mother of three year old afford Louboutins? The nation wants to know. My second, and more important point being did these companies pay Ms. Calvert? I mean, with the number of times they've been mentioned, I was kind of hoping they actually did.
Also, for the love of god, Ms. Calvert,
I drug myself out of bed
is not a thing. The past tense of drag is dragged, not drug. Cocaine is a drug.