I thought of another reason I didn't like that Brown book.
Love began and ended with hot sex. Love wasn't about trust (they never seemed to reach a believable level of trust and probably never could), or a shared sense of humor, or any little day to day stuff (except maybe a shared love of trees. that was nice) It was all about the out-of-control need for fucking. He knew he loved her when he couldn't fuck other women. She knew she loved him when the memory of him made her all hot.
Even in an erotic romance you want more than that, or at least I do.
And then the leads could show how wrapped up they were with their own sad egos with the two scenes with the dying dad, Cotton (no, really. Cotton.) Instead of making sure he's taken care of, they both try to wring confessions out of him. She tries to keep him from surgery so she can hear his whisperings. As Cotton lies dying, the hero doesn't administer first aid. He tries to get the old guy to call him "son." With kids like that who needs enemies. Yes, the hero and heroine are both his kids but this isn't real southern gothick incest at its best. She's adopted and they weren't raised together. Borrrring.
I finished the book though, so what do I know.
Next up, another SEP (thank God the woman's prolific). Also the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and The Meaning of Everything: The Story of the Oxford English Dictionary.