2.5 stars
Branded started off like a spicy road trip in a convertible with the top down, only to veer into a ditch around the 35% mark and start blasting some questionable 80s adult film soundtrack vibes. I dove into this book with high hopes. Give me a broody hero, a steamy forbidden romance, and some angsty letter-writing, and I’m usually sold. But oh boy, this one had me laughing for all the wrong reasons by the end.
Let’s start with the good stuff: the premise is juicy. Reverie, our heroine with a Kardashian-level body (more on that later), gets roped into writing letters to an inmate as part of a college assignment for her best friend. Except, plot twist, she’s using her friend’s name to pen these sultry missives to a guy named Arsen, who’s locked up and brooding harder than a thunderstorm over a gothic moor. Theres deception, forbidden vibes, and the kind of tension that makes you think, “Oh, this is gonna be good” The first third of the book had me hooked, fanning myself at the chemistry and smirking at the audacity of it all. Kent knows how to write a smoldering glance that could set your Kindle on fire.
But then… *screeching tire noise*. Around 35%, the book takes a hard left into Woe-Is-Me-Ville, population: Reverie. This girl is out here lamenting that no man has ever found her attractive, despite having what she describes as the most sought-after bod in the world... She's got "small waist with big boobs and big ass" okay, so, Kim K curves? I’m sorry, but the math ain’t mathing. Reverie’s self-pitying monologues about her lack of romantic prospects while she’s strutting around with a figure that could stop traffic felt like a soap opera actress crying into her third martini. I kept waiting for her to realize she’s a bombshell, but nope, she’s too busy clutching her pearls and sighing dramatically. The trope is tiring.
And don’t get me started on the ethical rollercoaster of the letter-writing. Look, I get it. Using your bestie’s name for a school project sounds like a harmless favor, but when you’re sending spicy love notes to a convict under that alias? That’s not a red flag; that’s a full-on crimson parade. Arsen is no saint either (he’s got his own name-related fibs), but Reverie’s “whoops, I’m in too deep” attitude had me side-eyeing her harder than a librarian spotting a dog-eared page. It’s like watching someone decide to juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle. Trouble waiting to happen.
The writing itself? It’s got steam, but sweet lord, the terminology. I was vibing until I got slapped in the face with phrases like “college girl sn-tch.” I’m no prude, but that phrase hit me like a rogue dodgeball in gym class. I half-expected a mustachioed dude in a leisure suit to pop out with a boombox blaring cheesy 80s porn riffs. Less “steamy romance,” more “did I accidentally download a script from an adult film set?” It yanked me out of the story faster than you can say “awkward.”
Oh, and the horse-riding scenes? Y’all, I’m a Southerner who’s barely even touched a saddle, and even I know you don’t spend a week galloping around in a tiny dress without consequences. Reverie’s out here riding like she’s auditioning for a Western rom-com, and I’m over here wincing, imagining her thighs looking like they lost a fight with a cheese grater. A quick Google could’ve told Kent that horseback riding for newbies in a minidress is a one-way ticket to Chafe City. The lack of research made me feel like the book was winking at me and saying, “Eh, just go with it.”
Branded did have the potential to be a spicy, angsty delight, but it tripped over its own shoelaces. The chemistry’s there, and Kent’s got a knack for heat, but the melodrama, sketchy plot choices, and cringey word choices turned this into a “meh” for me. If you’re into drama with a side of “wait, what?”, you might dig it. I’m still recovering from the phrase “college girl sn-tch.” Proceed with caution and maybe a sense of humor.