If you've been looking for a series that's the perfect mixture of hilarious and swoon-worthy, New York Times Bestselling Author Julia Kent has the series for you!
SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE is out today - you don't want to miss the wedding of the century!
Find out more about SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE below, plus get a sneak peek, get the scoop on a .99c sale, and enter the chance to win an epic prize pack that includes a Tiffany & Co bracelet!
About SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE
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.
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Need to catch up on the series?
The previous books in the series are on sale now for a limited time, just .99c each!
Shopping for a Billionaire: The Collection
Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee
Shopping for a CEO
Read a Sneak Peek of SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE'S WIFEWe are at a private airport I’ve never seen before. The sky is that glorious shade of blue that seems to deepen as you look up, with a smattering of clouds that draw the eye to them. It’s a perfect, idyllic July day in Massachusetts. A great day for an outdoor wedding. Declan and the helicopter pilot, whose name I never caught, exchange a few words in Russian before I rib my soon-to-be husband and whisper, “Would you please speak in English?” “Why?” “Why?” He just stares at me with that intimidatingly blank face. “That doesn’t work, you know,” I tell him with a pointed sneer. Or, at least, I try to sneer. I’m not so good at the sneering thing. That’s more Jessica Coffin’s area of expertise. He doesn’t twitch a muscle. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want me to know what he and the pilot are talking about. Fine. Fine! But this alpha-male dominant crap—you know, the stuff I fell in love with him for—is getting on my nerves. “Declan, please,” I concede. No change. The exasperated hiss that comes out of me makes my body flush with fury. “It’s our wedding day. I am supposed to be kissing you at the altar right now while the minister pronounces us husband and wife. Instead, I listened to you and went along with this crazy scheme to run off to Las Vegas and leave everyone—everyone!—behind.” Side note: I know that’s not true. The decision to ditch my mother was mutual. But right now, I have zero leverage, and he’s giving me that granite look like he’s an Easter Island statue, so I have to find some kind of vulnerability in him. I’m saving sex for the nuclear option. His lips purse, jaw grinding, as he finally opens his mouth and says, “No one forced you into the helicopter.” The words feel like knife blades against my heart, scraping lightly rather than plunging straight in. He’s right. His eyes fill with a kind of measured kindness, as if he understands I’m falling apart in stages. I am. The Russian thing isn’t helping. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re talking about with the pilot?” “Because it’s a surprise.” He can play this immutable look game for as long as he wants. Two years ago, it worked. I’ve lived with this man for nearly a year. I know him intimately now. He knows me thoroughly (though, perhaps, not as intimately as his mother’s engagement ring knows me, but let’s not go there...). I leave. Turning away from him and bumbling out of the helicopter in my tartan-and-white monstrosity of a gown isn’t easy, but I accomplish the near-impossible and disembark without assistance. I’m a good twenty feet toward a metal-sided building at this tiny airport before he grips my elbow. “Shannon, stop.” I keep walking. “Shannon, I said stop.” His voice is an emotionless growl. He sounds like a CIA agent barking orders. The catcalls continue, the voices more numerous. “Why?” I continue, giving him a taste of his own medicine. I can be cool and composed. I can show no more emotion than a cucumber. I can be neutral and blank, slack and granite, a sophisticated ice queen who gives nothing away. He stands behind me, a wall of heat pressing against my back, hands on my elbows and stopping me from proceeding. Declan leans down over my shoulder, his lips brushing against my ear, and says: “Because part of the back of your dress is tucked into your tartan thong.” Oh, crap.
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About Julia Kent
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.