Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife
By Julia Kent
Synopsis
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?”
Meet
the Author
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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