Clemmie and Joaquin.
Such a strange story. The “best friends” apparently have been attracted to each other for years, but the MMC has a Madonna/whore complex, so he sleeps with other women but rejects her advance (after which she doesn’t make the same mistake twice). (Sex he can get anywhere, he says, but he doesn’t want to jeopardize his only source of female conversation. 🚩)
Then a car accident & injury open a Pandora’s box. And once they start sleeping together, it’s a quick, boilerplate wrap up.
The strangest thing about this premise was that the writing wasn’t consistent with the “best friends” background. At times, the dialogue came off very much like “just friends”—unusual in a romance novel. But apparently the MMC’s complex extended to never speaking about dating or related topics with Clemmie, so he didn’t even know if she was dating anyone. Whose “best friend” doesn’t know something so basic? And he never told her about his family home in Spain? Like, what do these “friends” even talk about?
And as the sexual involvement developed, there were just lots of instances where it felt like the author was writing a “strangers fall in instalust story”, and forgot her characters (should have) had a long history, with feelings and knowledge that went deeper than “he’s so hot!”.
Beyond that, the MMC felt like no prize. Hot and rich, but not much else going for him as partner material. He’s a “marriage is terrible, love doesn’t exist” MMC. Tries to pitch Clemmie a “casual sex doesn’t mean we can’t stay friends” deal, when that long been his own fear. There’s a point where he’s like, “sleeping with your virgin, best friend suffering from amnesia is not right.” And then goes ahead and does it anyway. Well technically moments after she regained her memory, but she was still injured and coping with everything. He never really redeems himself. (“I know I‘ve blown it.” And “I don’t know what kind of husband I’ll be, but you won’t regret it.” aren’t really high notes to end on.)
Overall, it was pretty meh.