Chick lit, as this is categorized, is apparently not my preferred type of literature. Books, not literature, that is.
This book, in my humble opinion, is vapid and pointless.
Rich, lucky people whine about not being richer and luckier.
It’s irritating how many times Dempsey made sure to talk about Naugahyde sofas and Bentleys and Mercedes and flashy clothes. I get that it’s L.A. and that the characters are “players” on the scene, if local news in L.A. is A-list, but I couldn’t make myself care about it.
It was free, so there’s that, but I read it to be done with it.