There is a particular type of author insert fiction that is so undeniably privileged, cis female, and capital w White, that is becomes not just cliche, but indigestible. Like Gwenyth Paltrow's diet, there's not a lot of sustenance here. There is, however, a petulant and perfect-all-along female main who was always compared to others being not enough or "too much"- aka a bigger girl, a secret and secretive rich aunt who leaves her everything when she dies, and a male love interest with broad shoulders. This is a motivational speech disguised as a novel, and you can easily tell because it is repetitive, derivative, and, dare I say it again, wearing its White privilege on its sleeve. (Frankly, I should be more sensitive to such privilege in novels, and I don't want to keep hammering the same point, but it was so overwhelming here, it could not be ignored.) There are unearned apologies and reconciliations galore and no character growth to be found. The last hundred pages felt like everyone apologizing to our main Poppy for... existing? It is clear that this is what the author wanted or wants to hear from her own important family members. While the writing and the pacing was good, those alone cannot save this story.

Also, side note and possible tiny spoiler, Poppy is offered $750,000 for her aunt's home and "business" that she's inherited- one million max. The home is a villa in the south of France. For that alone, come on now. The author couldn't have spent an afternoon on Zillow, yearning for stupid expensive homes in beautiful places they could never afford like the rest of us, just to get a tiny idea of how much houses actually cost? I should have stopped reading at this point because I'll be damned if that didn't completely destroy my suspension of disbelief.