I paid twenty-five cents for this Harlequin romance paperback being discarded from my friendly local public library, which will for better or worse go on record as my first completed read of 2026.
Based on the book's crisp condition, I suspect it enjoyed low circulation since it was only published in 2021 and was on the weeding cart beginning of 2026.
Still, as a 43-year-old man, I figured I would actually read a bona fide paperback romance novel rather than continue to operate purely on assumptions about the genre at large. This was my first. Turns out, the assumptions provide pretty accurate heuristics.
After reading, I find it interesting that conservative-leaning would-be book banners rarely raise hell about romance novels in public libraries but will fly off the handle if a character in a YA novel happens to be gay. In terms of explicitness, for example, this book may not use the words penis or cock or vagina or clitoris but we are never very far from them. That is in fact, it seems, the point. Their surrogates are in use a lot. And certainly breasts and nipples and mounds are thoroughly explicated.
The plot here is laid out neatly and repeatedly explained to us: a gorgeous virgin fashion model is forced by her ruthless and handsome step-brother into walking around his Greek villa naked for a week as part of a revenge plot to punish her mother, then taking a whirlwind press tour of some sort pretending to be in love while he variously arouses and shames her.
It cannot really be a spoiler that in the end the pair fall in love by virtue of their, shall we say, genuine lust and actual lifelong mutual desire finally openly admitted; the otherwise abhorrent guy learns forgiveness; the girl's heart remains true; her virginity is sacrificed; and, after much somewhat hot sexual activity occurs, she bears him four children.
Somewhere in there is a half-hearted critique of architectural digest magazines concerning rich people's furnishings and floor plans.
There are also provocative passages such as these gems:
"He fished around for his trousers, pulling out protection and sheathing himself with one hand."
"Then his thigh was between hers and she found herself pressing the place she ached the most against his brutally hard, deliciously tough thigh."
"He knelt there before her, drawing one leg over his shoulder so he could lick her straight over the edge."
Throughout, she does a lot of melting. He does a lot of thrusting. And in the end there is an advertisement for more readalikes in the series.
This book is pretty much exactly what you imagine it will be based on the cover, and that is why the genre -- like pornography -- continue to exist. They fulfill human desires. They simplify the complex. They appeal to psychological truths. They cut beneath the mind to the gut and loins. I don't utter this paragraph ironically. It seems to me to be evidence of what humans want and need within the culture or cultures available to us. There is a reason these things exist and persist. We should not pretend to deny that.
This book is easy to read in that the author -- who to her credit is quite prolific and obviously an efficient master of the genre -- tells the reader over and over again precisely what is happening, why the characters are doing what they are doing, thinking and feeling what they do, and reminding us of their simmering desire.
To her further credit, there is a level of twisted psychological realism to the characters' key relationships and how much internal double-talk occurs because she wants it to work the plot out, which is probably one thing that appeals to perennial readers of the genre even more than the overt sex scenes. Everyone is from some kind of damaged family relationship, and for these quasi-Freudian dramas to be played out by the pawnlike characters on the field of white and black provided by the romance novel checkerboard, creates a sense of order from the chaos.
The writing is clear, breezy, repetitive, yes, but in the way that redundancy is baked into DNA sequences or unneeded consonants strung into words beyond their soundings. It is not in itself spectacular writing, but it is accomplished rough-hewn craftsmanship, as though one simply continued typing all day to narrate a story without much if any editing, and we should respect that this form of storytelling persists and continues to evolve almost in an extension of the oral tradition.
It's not to me terribly potent. The level of arousal provoked by this book is more of the eyebrow-raising rather than core-temperature-raising, but there are a few hot spots. They exist within a really unbelievable emotional transformation arc, though, so you have to take everything lightly because to continue to read the book is to accept a willing sense of disbelief throughout.
In terms of itself, I imagine this is an effective genre read. That is pretty much what it is: a lesson in the commerce of book buying and selling. Sex sells.
I'm glad I read it: to face and experience something I had not before. Learning does imply discretion for future choices, however, and so I can say that this is not a book or a genre to which I imagine I would return for its own sake.