Free Rom-Com—Shopping for a Billionaire (Book 1, Shopping for a Billionaire series) by Julia Kent (@jkentauthor)
Author: Julia Kent
Release Date: June 2, 2014
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance
When mystery shopper Shannon Jacoby meets billionaire Declan McCormick with her hand down a toilet in the men's room of one of his stores, it's love at first flush in this hilarious new romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent.
Google Play➜ http://bit.ly/2BaBq6j
Amazon US➜ http://amzn.to/2owfjn0
Amazon UK➜ http://amzn.to/2oDUPrW
Amazon CA➜ http://amzn.to/2FEKbJz
Amazon AU➜ http://amzn.to/2F4hAMH
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down
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Read a teaser
Whoosh! Whoosh! I flush both urinals, then rush over to toilet #1. Whoosh! I stand in front of the stall to #2 and get ready to flush that one.
I’m in my own little world and let my guard down to ponder the question. I am also exhausted and most definitely not in top form, because I let a few seconds go by before realizing that someone is coming in the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I see a business shoe, and that becomes a blur as I scurry into one of the stalls and shut the door.
Heart pounding, I stare at the dented back of the stall door. Then I look down. Chipped red nail polish peeks up at me from my open-toed navy shoe. Aside from being outed as a transgendered person in here, there’s no plausible reason why any men’s room stall occupant should have red toenails.
I quickly scramble to perch myself on the toilet, feet planted firmly on either side of the rim, squatting over the open bowl like I am giving birth. Because I am genetically incapable of balance—ever—and as my heart slams against my chest so hard it might as well be playing a djembe, I lean carefully forward with one arm against the back of the stall door, the other clutching my phone.
The unmistakable sound of a man taking a whizz echoes through the bathroom. I can’t help myself and look through the tiny crack in the door.
It’s Mr. Sex in a Suit, his back to me. Thank goodness, because if I got a full-frontal shot right now, then how would I answer the “aesthetically pleasing” question from a strictly professional standpoint?
The tiny bit of shifting I do to peer through the crack makes my right foot slip, and I make a squeaking sound, then lose my grip on my phone as my arm flails.
You know that sound, right? I know, and you know, that I’ve just dropped my smartphone in the toilet, but he thinks the man—he assumes it’s a man—in here just delivered something the size of a two-hundred-year-old turtle into the toilet.
I look down. My phone is still glowing, open to the question “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?”
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