Available Now: SHOPPING FOR A CEO’S WIFE by Julia Kent


Julia Kent’s hilarious SHOPPING FOR A CEO’S WIFE is available now! You don’t want to miss this next installment in her bestselling romantic comedy series.



The New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series continues…

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.
Then the stress from the wedding puts my mother in the hospital, I scream at my future father-in-law in front of a camera crew and the video goes viral, and the romantic wedding that started with Andrew’s grand Pride and Prejudice proposal looks less like Jane Austen and more like Dostoyevsky.
So what do you do when you’re a fixer and you can’t fix something?
You give up on it.
Not on Andrew, silly.
The wedding.

Shopping for a CEO’s Wife is the 12th book in Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling Shopping series. As Shannon and Declan enjoy their newlywed bliss, Andrew’s father wants to exploit Amanda and Andrew’s nuptials, much to Amanda’s chagrin. Can she learn to stand up to her future father-in-law and fight for what’s right? But the real question is: will Spritzy the teacup Chihuahua end up being a flower girl?

Get your hands on SHOPPING FOR A CEO’S WIFE:

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Get a Sneak Peek:

Flash! Flash! Click! Click! Click-click-click-click-click!

Sounds remarkably like machine gun fire.

Paparazzi follow us everywhere now. Everywhere. You know all those pictures on the front of tabloid magazines in the grocery store checkout aisle? Or the myriad websites devoted to celebrity gossip? The paper magazines are bad enough, but the websites are a separate category.

People make money from running advertising on those sites. Which means they need a constant stream of pictures to draw eyeballs, to make a micro-cent per ad on the page.

That’s right.

I’m eyeball lure. Someone, somewhere, wants to see a picture of me without makeup or kissing Andrew or climbing out of a limo without underwear or buying a rival company’s products, or just being.

My presence in Andrew’s life has turned my very existence into money for someone else.

And a picture of me and Andrew, naked in a hot tub, will draw so, so many eyeballs.

“Is my side-boob showing?” I murmur against his nipple, which is now taut with either protective stress or the seventeen-degree air. Not sure which.

I do know that the main event has turned into a not-so-main event. So much for afternoon hot tub sex.

“Sweet tits, Mandy!” one of the photographers shouts. “Show ‘em to us, baby! Don’t let Andy have all the fun!”

Mandy. Andy.


A ferocious growl starts in Andrew’s throat, reverberating through him as he pins me closer. Panic floods me. Bad enough I have recurrent nightmares about being naked in public, but having a photo of my boobs on the internet – monetized – is pretty much anyone’s biggest nightmare.

Aside from taking an exam in a class you forgot you were enrolled in.

“GET OUT!” Andrew commands, dropping his legs slightly, making me sink deeper into the water as he holds me up. The girls bob like apples at a kids’ Halloween party, though, uncooperative in remaining hidden.

“Turn this way!” someone else shouts. I can’t help myself. That voice is different. I start to turn.

Flash! Flash!

“Don’t look,” Andrew commands. “Gerald’s on it.”

“Is there more than one?”

“Looks like three of them, and one is on some kind of ladder, because his face is right there. ”


The voice is very close, so close I look up to find a grinning asshole with a simple phone, snapping photos as fast as he can, thumb on the camera button so it autoclicks.

“You two look so hot,” he says. Click. Click. Click. Click.

“Go away!” Andrew says, peeling me off him.

“Stay under water. Hide yourself.”

“What are you doing?”

“Going after him.”


“Gerald!” Andrew shouts.

“Got it!” booms our bodyguard’s voice from the right as Gerald makes a running start and gets to the camera dude, grabbing the phone out of his pocket, tossing it into the hot tub, then grabbing the two sides of the ladder.

“Hey!” the photographer squeaks, shaky and grasping the top rung with a look of sheer terror. “You can’t!”

“I can.”

“I’ll sue!” Gerald shakes the ladder. The guy drops something, looks down, then looks back at Gerald, who has the face of a middle school spelling bee judge.

Less than zero emotion.

“You can’t do this!” the guy screeches.

“Just did.” Gerald looks over at Andrew, whose legs are now tensed and ready to lunge. I am preventing that from happening by the simple act of being in his lap. The feel of so much coiled power in his muscles is an aphrodisiac.

I must say something. Now.

Leaning in, I nip his earlobe and whisper, “You’re really hot when you’re protecting me.”

He jolts, his head moving away from my bite. Andrew’s staring at Gerald and the photographer, but he moves his cheek against mine and says, “Really? You have to share that fact with me right now?”



“Because you’re turning me on.”

“You – you’re turned on by having the paparazzi take pictures of us naked in a hot tub?”

“No. I’m turned on by how your legs and chest and abs and — ” I use hand gestures to indicate a different body part– “feel right now.”

“Duly noted.”

“I think you’re doing more than noting that fact,” I say, as said body part rises to the occasion.

“Amanda,” he warns, voice half angry, half aroused.

“What?” I pretend to be innocent. I’m really good at it. I’m a former mystery shopper, after all, and most of the job involves pretending to be stupid.



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.

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