Book Blitz information for: SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE
Book Blurb:
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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Excerpt:
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 Bio:
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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