I just finished Mounting Desire by Nina Killham. It looked cute when I picked it up. That's really the best thing I can say about it.
Jack is a romance novelist. He writes under a female name (which makes me wonder how many of my favorite romance authors are really men...), and writes bodice rippers. Oh man. But he believes in true love. He believes in it so much that he goes celibate for 5 years. Then Molly moves in with him.
Due to circumstances, Molly lost her job and her apartment. She's looking for a new job, and moves in with Jack.
Madness ensues, of course. There's also a bunch of seperate story lines involving: Jack's mother, Jack's sister, Jack's niece, Jack's best friend, the woman Jack might marry, and Jack's cat. Yes, I'm serious.
So why did I waste my night reading it? It was like a train wreck. Or a season finale. They just kept missing each other by an inch. She loves him, he proposes to someone else. He loves her, but suddenly she's pregnant (WTF? Where did that come from?!?). He loves her and is miserable without her, but she's engaged to his best friend.
You just have to keep reading to find out if they get together. Never mind the cheesy dialogue, Jack's annoying insistence of why true love triumphs, the family that you aren't sure if you want to shoot or just toss into the Atlantic, and Jack's weird affection for his characters, and how they have sex on his bed. Yeah, seriously. Okay, so I have no idea why I finished it. It was a train wreck. You don't want to look, but you can't help yourself.
