I read this book in my bathtub on a Tuesday night. Water went cold. I didn’t notice.
Here’s the thing about Dolly Brick. She’s the kind of woman who fixes everyone else’s problems before breakfast. Flat tire on a stranger’s car? She’s got a jack and knows how to use it. Her family’s about to lose their home? She moves back to Rhode Island for the summer, dragging her teenage son along, ready to renovate and rescue. Her brother’s struggling? She handles it. Her dad’s overwhelmed? She steps in. At thirty-nine, Dolly has built her entire identity around being the one who shows up, the one who never needs saving.
Which is exactly why Stewart Whitfield’s proposal throws her off balance.
He’s the heir to the town’s richest family, awkward and anxious about taking over the business. When a photo of him helping Dolly with a flat tire hits social media, he asks her to be his fake girlfriend. Dolly needs money for the house. He needs to look stable for his board. It’s a transaction. Clean. Professional. Nothing real.
So why does she keep thinking about those sunset boat rides? Why do his small gestures—the way he shows up for her son, the way he remembers exactly how she takes her coffee—hit her bloodstream like something she can’t name?
What this book understands, and what I didn’t expect to find, is something about the exhaustion of being strong.
The Weight Dolly Carries
Dolly is not your typical romance heroine. She’s not waiting to be rescued. She’s not secretly longing for a prince. She’s tired in a way that feels familiar to anyone who has ever been the responsible one, the eldest daughter, the parent who holds everything together alone.
Her relationship with her son Gus is the heart of this book. She’s honest with him about things most parents would hide. She doesn’t pretend the world is safe. She teaches him how to change a tire, how to be kind, how to stand up for himself. And when Stewart starts spending time with them, Dolly doesn’t swoon. She watches. She waits. She keeps her distance because letting someone in means risking the carefully constructed wall she’s built around herself.
The fake dating trope works here because it’s not really about pretending. It’s about Dolly finally allowing herself to be seen. Stewart sees her competence and doesn’t feel threatened by it. He sees her vulnerability and doesn’t exploit it. He sees her exhaustion and offers to share the weight.
But here’s where the book made me uncomfortable, in the best way. Dolly does not change for Stewart. She doesn’t soften. She doesn’t become less capable or less independent. What she does is slowly, painfully, learn that being strong doesn’t mean being alone.
The Quiet Terror of Being Taken Care Of
The core theme of this book is not love. It’s permission.
Permission to let someone else hold the flashlight while you fix the roof. Permission to cry in front of your teenage son. Permission to admit that you don’t have all the answers. Permission to let someone take care of you without feeling like you owe them something.
Monaghan’s imagery is grounded in the physical world of Whitfield. The smell of fish being sold at the docks. The rosemary she plants in her mother’s garden. The sleeping porch that Dolly considers the coziest place on earth—a space that’s neither inside nor outside, neither fully hers nor fully abandoned. That porch becomes a metaphor for Dolly’s own liminal space. She’s not quite the woman who left town, and not quite the woman she’s becoming.
There’s a scene near the end where Dolly finally yells at Stewart. And I mean really yells. She’s been holding so much in, for so long, that when she finally lets it out, it’s not elegant. It’s raw and messy and a little ugly. And that’s exactly what makes it work. She’s not performing strength anymore. She’s just being human.
The book’s problem, and I should be honest about this, is the third act conflict. Stewart makes a decision that feels out of character, a moment of cowardice that seems designed to create drama rather than emerge from who he is. It frustrated me. But the way Dolly handles it—the way she refuses to accept scraps and demands to be treated as an equal—almost makes up for it. Almost.
Who This Book Is For and What It Leaves You With
This book is for people who have ever felt like they have to do everything themselves. It’s for the eldest daughters, the single parents, the ones who show up to every crisis with a toolbox and a smile. It’s for anyone who has ever secretly wondered if being strong means you’re not allowed to be loved.
It is not for people who want their romance heroes to be flawless. Stewart is awkward and anxious and makes bad decisions. He’s also kind and thoughtful and willing to learn. But he’s not a fantasy. He’s a person.
What I took from this book is not a lesson about love. It’s a reminder that letting someone see you struggle is not weakness. It’s a kind of courage I’m still learning.
The question the book left me with, and maybe it’s the same one you’ll carry: if you’ve spent your whole life being the one who takes care of everyone else, what happens when you finally let someone take care of you?
