I love love stories, but I do have one rule: all parties to the story have to actually be in the story. This book fails. The reader is given page after page after page of the interior life of J.J. Smith, who is a wet dishrag of a protagonist. Holy trivial minutiae, Batman, this guy is boring. BORING. Claw my eyes out, do not care to know him better, too boring for a first name boring. Then he briefly meets and is brushed off by a gorgeous redhead named Willa Wyatt, and BOOM he is "in love" with her. Because she is so pretty!
Pining after someone is an awful thing that we all go through. This novel tries to make that one-sided angst into something charming and cute. In the process, it walks right past important questions like, "If you want to be in a relationship with someone, is it better to a) talk to her and get to know her, or b) eat an airplane?"
"You've done something beautiful for me," she said, "and I loved it. Every girl in the world wants her prince to eat a 747 for her. I confess. It made me feel special. It's selfish, but every time I heard the grinding noise, I knew you cared."
SAID NO GIRL EVER. Because eating gigantic things to impress a girl is creepy and wrong. I mean, from the woman's point of view, which is a thing the author seems to never have heard of. Yeesh, this book was godawful.