Shopping for a
Billionaire’s Wife
Shopping for a Billionaire, #8
by Julia Kent
Publication date: March 23rd 2016
Genres: Comedy, New Adult, Romance
Who needs a SWAT team to escape
from their own wedding? Me.
My Momzilla turned us into
hostages at our own ceremony, so Declan and I are getting married the good
old-fashioned way, just like everybody else.
By calling in his private
security team, stealing away before the ceremony by helicopter, connecting to
his corporate jet and heading for Las Vegas.
The Boston wedding of the year is
about to become a trashy Elvis drive-thru ceremony.
Until the best man spills the
beans and Mom, Dad, my sisters, his brothers, my maid of honor, my friend Josh,
and even my cat, Chuckles, all come along for the ride.
I can’t win, can I?
Oh. Yeah. I already did.
Love conquers all.
Even my crazy family.
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife
is the 8th book in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Shopping for a
Billionaire series. After Declan convinces Shannon to escape from their own
wedding minutes before the ceremony begins, the madcap adventures are just
getting started. When the mother of the bride pries their location out of the
tortured best man, the whole crazy crew follows the bride and groom to Las
Vegas in this romantic comedy from Julia Kent.
Buy Links:
Bzzzz.
“I’m
ready to throw my phone into a running jet engine,” Declan says against my
mouth, the vibration of his deep voice making me shiver.
“Better
than throwing in my mother,” I joke.
His
silence makes me stomach clench.
“Declan!”
I say with a nudge.
He
laughs, the chuckle a tactile sensation I feel through his chest. My hands are
still on his neck and back, and he’s pressing his forehead against mine.
“Let’s
not talk about Marie right now,” he says.
“Agreed.”
Without
effort, we pivot and return to the path toward the terminal. My wedding dress
has a long train, covered in silk, tartan, tulle and what feels like chain
mail. Declan seems to anticipate any potential mishap I may experience,
expertly shoving various pieces of fabric out of the way so I can move with
freedom and grace. Who on earth thought this monstrosity of a wedding dress was
a good idea for a July ceremony in Massachusetts?
Oh.
Right.
She
Who Must Not Be Named.
I
love my mom. I do. But I don’t love what the wedding made her become.
We
enter the private airport lounge, where a large, thin-screen television is
bolted to the ceiling in one corner. When I was a little girl, Dad liked to
bring me, Carol and Amy to the local small airport. The place had a diner in
it, and we’d order French fries and strawberry milkshakes, spending an hour or
two watching the planes land and take off. If we were lucky, a helicopter would
come along.
Once,
a really friendly pilot let us climb in his plane.
The
place is nothing like that little
airport. This is where millionaires and billionaires go to avoid the TSA.
The
rich really do live different lives than the rest of us.
This
lounge is all clean glass and smoky brown leather. If you told me that the same
interior designer who decorated James McCormick’s office at Anterdec had done
this job, I’d believe you.
It
looks like Teddy Roosevelt came back from the dead and demanded his own
airport.
The
small bar chairs, dark brown and creased with the kind of patina and age that
looks shabby on cheaper leather, but chic and old-world sophisticated among the
wealthy, are filled with a smattering of men and women, most in their fifties
on up.
All
of the servers and bartenders are in their twenties, and not a single one has
an extra ounce of fat on them. It’s like Crossfit decided to hold a bartender
school.
As
we walk into the lounge, every single pair of eyes swivels to take us in.
“Why
are they staring at us?” I ask Declan, clutching his arm.
“Because
you’re wearing a wedding dress and I look like something out of a BBC
documentary?” he answers smoothly.
I
look down at myself. Look over at him. Take in the kilt, the socks covering his
calves, the laces on his special Scottish shoes.
“Oh.”
One
of the patrons, a man who is sitting next to a woman who looks like an
adventurous traveler and not a mannequin on a rich man’s arm, points to the
television, then back to us.
“You
two on the run?”
Author Info
New York Times and USA Today
Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult
books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock
stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike
Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
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