The heroine’s boss is always a posh slave-driver called something like Letitia or Olivia.
Women in their twenties have the emotional maturity of nine year olds, with a overweening sense of entitlement to everything without the least shred of compromise: if they don’t have a ruggedly handsome yet inwardly sensitive boyfriend, a glamorous job as a jetsetting fashion editor, a lavish apartment and the body and face of a Guess jeans model, this is somehow the fault of the universe. It must be put right.
Well, at least that’s plausible, for some cases at any rate.
Was The Shell Seekers an exception to the age limit rule?
Then too, sometimes romantic things happen to women over forty (ninety, even!) and they still like to read about it.
What I learned from chick lit: Women are always the same age on the inside.