Rocky Ridge Books, $0.99, ISBN 978-1386773900
Contemporary Romance, 2013

Judging from the copyright notice, Eden Winters’s Fanning the Flames was first published by Torquere Press back in 2011.

Anyway, this is probably a direct sequel to something, because I am plunged right into a cast of characters with established relationships and they all talk in that way that screams “The author is trying way too hard to be a sitcom writer!”.

Karen’s rant ended with, “Anyhow, what’s up with you? You still treating Mr. Cutie Professor right? He’s a keeper, and if you let him get away, we’ll have words, brother mine, words!”

“We’re doing good,” Barry answered noncommittally.

“Good? Just good? Listen, it’s not enough to light the fire, now you gotta fan the flames.”

That brought a wry smile to Barry’s face, offering the perfect lead-in to why he’d called. “Yes, ma’am, and I bow to your wisdom on fan-flaming, oh she-who’s-been-happily-married-for-twelve-years. What are you getting Jack for Valentine’s Day?”

Who speaks like that? These characters all come off as overwrought try-hard caricatures that likely mouth all their lines in the shrillest manner possible, because this clown car had run over subtlety at least 60 times on its way to town.

Barry entered the offices of Richards’ General Contracting to find his secretary wringing her hands, staring at her computer as though it’d suddenly grew fangs and horns.

“Oh, Barry! I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve got that blue screen again, and rebooting just doesn’t help.”

Seriously, everyone in this story, from major characters to minor annoyances, is constantly overacting and overreacting to anything and every-freaking-thing. It’s exhausting—they’re exhausting. 

Okay, so Barry finds what seems to the perfect guy and wants to introduce the poor guy to his cast of snickering, ranting, theatrical, wailing, complaining, moping, and moaning family members and friends, and there is something about the guy having an allergy and sneezing all over, and then there are welts and rashes too and I start wondering whether I should douse myself with turpentine to end the irritating sensation that I get each time I turn the pages and… wait, the poor guy’s torment and mine seem to blur together as I turn over the pages of this clumsy, over the top, just too over cacophonous calamity with trembling fingers and pained shudders. 

The best thing I can say about this one is that it’s short. Hence, while the pain cuts deep and hard, it’s still mercifully short.