Somehow over the past two years, reading romance has moved from a pleasurable past time to an addiction. I remember when I used to only read romance novels during a vacation, or if I happened to find a few at a garage sale. I never kept track of authors or series, so my selections were fairly ecclectic. And, after reading and enjoying them a time or two, I would later sell them or donate them to the library.
Now, two years later, I have a collection of two hundred romance novels (seventy of which were '80s Harlequin romances I bought in a lot off Craigslist. Awesomely bad covers). I have lists upon lists tracking the romances I read: by author, by title, by series, by what I plan to buy, what I plan to read but won't buy. Even without those lists I track everything again on Goodreads, which I check more than my Facebook.
All this popped into my head today when I went to the library to return ONE book and came home with THREE. I already had a large pile of TBR books from the library sitting on the floor, not to mention the two shelves of TBR books that I own. I finally understand what it means to have an "addictive personality" >.<
I'm fairly apathetic about this book. I didn't dislike it, but I found it too dull to merit a real review. There wasn't much tension and most the events seemed disconnected. I couldn't figure out what was keeping Charlotte and Rafe from getting married way sooner other than contrived stubbornes. 2 out of 5 stars