Some readers of romance really like the alphahole trope. You know, the broody, angsty butthole who thinks he knows best and tries to control everyone around him, including the heroine.
It can be fun in a novel. But in real life?
I had the…I can’t call it pleasure…misfortune? Yes, the misfortune of meeting an alphahole in the flesh. I’m visiting his family and all he’s done is make me feel unwelcome at every turn. But why should I care? He obviously doesn’t. The only thing bigger than the alphahole’s muscles is his ego.
Look, I’m not going to be ungrateful that he is (begrudgingly, grumpily, resentfully) allowing me to stay here, but whew! I’m gonna have to find some body armor to keep myself from getting zapped by his death glare.
Until next time,