The last time I read of a heroine who was this much of a self-absorbed ditz, I was reading a book by Linda Howard.
Ok, so our heroine was out clothes shopping (while unemployed and broke) with her friends. She runs into some singer she has a crush on, a charm falls off her bracelet, some tabloid photographer snaps a picture of her retrieving said charm under the guy's chair. Naturally it gets published with the worse possible spin. She bolts later and ends up in a hotel constructed for the sole purpose of illicit affaires. Hmmm… And there's no photographer hanging outside said place recording who goes in and out? Can't imagine it being that discreet if everyone knows about it.
Over the next few days, we're treated to her drama, her attraction to the owner - the H, more of her drama, and, for grins and giggles(?) her emails to some wedding planner or something back in Texas - essentially trying to plan her brother's wedding for him - some other time/place.
At least Blaire (the Howard ditz) had a little intelligence or…something.
There were moments of humor, but also many moments of…how many more pages in this book?
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