Top 5 Ways to Handle a Momzilla at a Billionaire’s Wedding
5. Tiramisu. Preferably with something in it she can choke on.
4. Use the word “Elope” repeatedly, like garlic waved at a vampire.
3. Accept, with defeat, the fact that you’re going to have to wear that tartan thong that matches your dress for the Scottish-themed wedding.
2. Offer her an unlimited budget (hey, you’re a billionaire...).
1. When all else fails, run away. Sometimes the only way to win is not to play. ;)
Shopping for a CEO
Shopping for a Billionaire, #7
Julia Kent
Publication date: September 29, 2015
Genres: Comedy, New Adult, Romance
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.
(Don’t ask.)
He’s the brother of the groom and the CEO of my biggest mystery shopping account, but suddenly he’s refusing to be in the wedding. He won’t talk about it. Won’t see reason.
He’s such a man.
And he still won’t stop kissing me in random closets.
(Thank goodness.)
I’m a fixer. That’s what I do. I can fix anything if given the chance. But when the game is fixed there’s only so much I can do.
The ball’s in his court now.
Game on.
* * *
Shopping for a CEO is the 7th book in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Shopping series. When CEO Andrew McCormick and mystery shopper Amanda Harrington find themselves in the unlikely position as maid of honor and best man in the Boston society wedding of the year, an undeniable attraction and dual stubborn streaks add fuel to the fire in this romantic comedy from Julia Kent.
"Amanda!' Greg bellows as I walk into the office. He's sitting in the reception area with Josh, who looks like someone made him stick his tongue in an electric socket. "You're pregnant!"
"I'm what?" That's news to me, and I think I'd know long before Greg.
He thumbs toward Josh. "And he's the father."
I laugh. "That's not possible, Greg. Josh is gay."
"Gay men can sleep with women," Greg insists. "My Uncle Angus did for fifty-seven years while he was married to Aunt Joy."
"I'm Gold Star Gay," Josh whispers.
"They give out gold stars for it?" Greg asks, incredulous. "Like, a secret society?"
"Yeah," I say. "It's like the AARP. One day the card just comes in the mail and you wonder how they know you qualify."
Greg frowns. “We don’t get gold stars for being straight. I don’t understand.”
Josh rolls his eyes and rallies, the shade of green in his face replaced by a healthy glow. “Gold star gay men are men who’ve never slept with a woman.”
“Never?” Greg asks. I can tell he’s trying to keep his incredulity out of his voice. He accomplishes this by grabbing a donut from the box Carol brought in yesterday and shoving the entire thing in his mouth.
Josh shakes his head.
“Mmmmf evermmmmf?” Greg says. Or tries to say. I’m not sure what he actually says, because I’m dodging the spray of rainbow sprinkles coming out of him.
“Nope. Never.” Apparently, Josh can understand the universal language of Donut.
Greg swallows in one giant gulp, like a snake eating a mouse. He sniffs, then looks at me. “Does that make me Gold Star Straight?”
“Huh?” Josh and I ask in unison.
“If I’ve never slept with a man,” Greg says slowly, contemplating the issue while picking crumbs off his tie and licking them off his fingers, “then I’m Gold Star Straight.”
“He’s got a point,” I admit, giving Josh a look that says, "They don’t pay us enough for conversations like this."
“That’s not how it works,” Josh says in a grumpy voice.
“Why not?” Now Greg is indignant. “You get gay marriage now. We should get our own gold stars. I want a gold star.”
Josh is speechless. I am struggling to decide whether I would rather go on another date with Mr. Anal Gland Hands or spend one more minute hearing Greg talk about his sex life.
Anal glands for the win.
“You want a gold star for what?” Carol asks, walking in with what looks like a bag full of chocolate foil tractors, scarecrow lollipops, and hard candies shaped like ears of corn. She’s wearing denim overalls, a red and white checkered shirt, and her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. If Hee Haw were still on, I’d think she was an extra on the show.
I cock one eyebrow and look at her goodies.
“Farming trade show,” she sighs. “You get the wedding trade shows, I get the cranky old farmers who want to talk about bursitis and soybean futures.”
“Well,” I say magnanimously, stepping behind her and putting one hand on her shoulder, “you can take my place in this work conversation.”
“Talking about gold stars?” she asks, a bit befuddled. “Is there a special reward system I don’t know about?”
“Something like that,” Josh mumbles. “Let’s stop talking about my sex life.”
“Sex life?” Carol snorts, really confused now. She grabs a foil-covered tractor and begins peeling it, taking a bite. The tire snaps off in her mouth. “What do gold stars have to do with sex lives? Now we have sticker charts for sex?”
“That’s what I’m wondering!” Greg bellows, reaching for one of the chocolates. “How come Josh gets a gold star for not sleeping with women but I can’t get a gold star for not sleeping with men?”
“I’m not sleeping with men or women,” Carol says sadly, eating the tractor’s engine now. “What do I get for that?”
I reach across my desk and grab a sheaf of papers, sliding them to her. “You get the sex toy shops I took.”
She looks at the chocolate in her hand. Glances at the papers. Then the pile of chocolate.
“Why are you giving me those?”
“Because Amanda’s pregnant,” Greg explains helpfully, his mouth full of a tractor.
“Work pregnant' or pregnant pregnant?” Carol asks casually. These conversations have become alarmingly normal to me.
“Work pregnant, I assume,” I reply. “Because if I’m pregnant-pregnant, then my vibrator has some explaining to do.”
About the AuthorNew York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She 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.
She loves to hear from her readers by email at jkentauthor@gmail.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/julia.kent.100. Visit my blog at http://jkentauthor.blogspot.com
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