Showing results by author "Julia Kent" in All Categories

I’m stuck in New York after ma agent makes a bloody mess of an otherwise good endorsement contract for a sports towel company, and this crazy American holiday - Thanksgiving - is in two days. The invitation to spend it in Mendon, Massachusetts with the Jacoby family is about as appealing as rotten haggis. As far as I can tell, Thanksgiving is about stuffing yerself silly, watching pathetic American “football”, while fighting with relatives ye only see once a year. Ma firm answer is nae. Until I remember Amy is part of the family. Suddenly, I’m available. Eager, even.

How did I accidentally sleep with someone, right? I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped and inadvertently inserted Tab A into Slot B. That’s not quite how it went. But my yoga instructor is really, really skilled with Tab A, if you know what I mean. Slot B never had it so good. What am I supposed to do now, as I walk into my yoga class and find the guy I ghosted this morning… there, in front of the class, perfectly aligned and grinning at me like he remembers touching all my chakras. He's perfect. Too perfect. He's so perfect he's ruining my job.

It all started with the wrong Help Wanted ad. Of course it did. I'm a professional fluffer. It's not what you think. I stage homes for a living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own merits. Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I'll wait. See? That's the problem. My career has used the term "fluffer" for decades. I didn't even know there was a more...lascivious definition of the term. Until it was too late.

Gerald Wright works for billionaires. He never imagined he'd become one.The former Navy Seal is a chauffeur by day, artist by night, so when hotter-than-ever ex-fiancée Suzanne Dayton interrupts his nude model sculpting class to serve him with inheritance paperwork from a man he's never heard of, he assumes it's a joke. Turns out the joke's on him. There's just one catch. A big one. And it might be Suzanne - in more ways than he ever dreamed.

No wedding catastrophe can faze Katie Gallagher because when you plan for the worst, you deliver the best. The best wedding ever. Her company, Wedding Protectors, Inc., promises happily ever afters. Guaranteed. Whatever it takes. But always-prepared Katie? She's steering clear of her own HEA. Love is her job. Not her destiny. So when she falls for silver fox and self-made millionaire Patrick Cooper, she breaks a rule so taboo, it doesn't technically exist: Never fall for the bride's father.

Nessa Martini, the newest and youngest member of staff, is doing her best to fix it all. Starting with her own chaotic life. A one-night stand with a hot bodybuilding social media influencer who turns out to be a minister is not Nessa's idea of personal growth, no matter how much she enjoyed it. When she ghosts on Mr. Perfect after one night of pleasure and he turns out not only to be the TikTok sensation known as "God's Gift," but also the minister at the wedding she's assigned to for work, all of Nessa's careful plans go out the window.

He says we never had a proper honeymoon. So, instead, he’s giving me...a prepper honeymoon? Who knew billionaire preppers were a thing? I guess I’m about to find out.

The series continues with a zany post-Vegas-wedding mess where Andrew and Amanda have to figure out who they married (book nine), the chauffeur/bodyguard has his own second-chance romance (book 10), and Shannon and Declan have a honeymoon with a lot of, erm...bite (book 11). How could you go wrong with so much laughter, heart, and plenty of steamy romance?

You ever really think that you'll win the lottery? Meet Mr. Right? How about two Mr. Rights? Somehow the universe is handing me everything I want (except for that lottery part...), and I don't like it. Not one little bit. Because just when you get all your dreams handed to you on a silver platter, that's when an airplane dumps its sewage on your house. Or your mama's diabetes takes a bad turn. Or your mobile phone gets stuck in your hoohaw. (What? It happens...)

I swear I am not the kind of person who gets her cell phone caught in places that require an ER trip and an OBGYN. But apparently, I am. I’m also not the kind of person who spends all her time thinking about the guy who got away. But apparently, I am, too. Starting a new life in Boston isn’t supposed to include repeatedly embarrassing myself in public, meeting a crazy blond woman who has ties to the band Random Acts of Crazy, and definitely isn’t supposed to include wallowing in a past I thought I’d left behind four years ago.

We're ready. We've studied and planned, read all the birth and labor books, researched parenting classes, consulted our schedules, and it's time. And by "we", I mean me. Declan's just ready for the "have lots of sex" part. More than ready. But there's just one problem: My husband and his brother have this little obsession with competition. McCormick men don't just have babies. They engage in competitive billionaire Babythons.

He is addicted to his phone and his new role as CEO. I’m addicted to getting some on my own honeymoon. One of these things is not like the other. I am pretty sure a serial killer’s lair is the only place in the world where I could stash my new husband so he can’t manage the acquisition of our new company. And that seems a little drastic. But only a little. All I want is one week alone with him. Hours in bed, legs tangled together in ecstasy, room service and long walks on the beach in Hawaii.

Snowbound. Sounds so romantic, with visions of cuddling before a roaring fire, hot chocolate spiked with brandy, and a secret elopement. Wait. What? My fiancé's father won't stop trying to turn our pending wedding into a three-ring media circus so he can get free publicity for his family's Fortune 500 company. My mother has decided she's done with All Things Wedding and asks her teacup Chihuahua for mother-of-the-bride advice. They've all gone certifiably mad.

We skipped right over the whole fiancée thing and went straight from girlfriend to wife. At least, I think that's what happened. I woke up after my brother's Vegas wedding reception with my luscious girlfriend in bed with me. We're both wearing wedding rings. So is her coworker, Josh. And our Vegas chauffeur, Geordi. Who the hell am I married to? Unraveling this mystery will be as difficult as figuring out why Amanda and I are having panic attacks over the thought of being husband and wife.

I'm thrilled to be the maid of honor in my friend's wedding, but the best man, Andrew McCormick, is a chauvinistic pig with a god complex. And I can't stop kissing him in closets.

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.

Ten years ago, my high school crush found me during senior finals week in the student parking lot with my car decorated with items you find behind a drugstore counter and a "Most Likely to..." banner that would make a pro blush. And by "pro", I don't mean golf. In under an hour, everything I knew about myself was turned upside down and inside out, just as our high school career was in its final hours.

It’s Andrew and Amanda’s turn...in duplicate. We’re having twins. Twins. Which means my shooters are stronger than my brother’s. I win. Yeah, yeah, everyone can say it’s not a competition, but it is. And we all know it. Two babies at once means double the fun, and double the misery for my poor wife, Amanda.

I guzzled another flute of Champagne and froze, the liquid in my throat, waiting to be swallowed. Tyler was here. We’d met a few times before, in passing. He was the substitute bass player for the band; I was the lead guitar player’s girlfriend’s best friend. In that weird sort of social circle thing where Venn diagrams get laid over different groups, Tyler and I were bound to be in the crossover once in a while.

I was ready to propose and I got upstaged by a snake. Not a real one. My bandmate. A case of mistaken identity almost derailed my proposal to Amy, but in the end, love prevailed. And my hand hurts from the punch, but it was worth it. She’s worth it. But I really need an ice pack now. Though a kiss from Amy and that yes are even better.