Showing results by author "Julia Kent" in All Categories

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.

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.

Ana DaSilva is looking for a palate cleanser. A one night stand. A reboot. Instead, she got fireworks, sparks, chemistry, and the perfect guy. No one wants to meet Mr. Right when he should just be Mr. Rebound, but Mr. Right is so, so right.

Mom owns more holiday decorations than 12 area malls combined. Dad prides himself on hand-chopping the best live tree, while my older sister perfected peppermint cookies to the point of unparalleled bliss, and my younger sister has memorized every Christmas carol with her fingers for a piano bash that goes on and on.

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.

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 last ever-loving thing I ever thought I’d become is a hypocrite. A big, fat one. Joe doesn’t even want me to meet his parents. Trevor’s fine with it, but only if they keep thinking I’m his girlfriend. And only his girlfriend. He doesn’t want that pesky little thing called truth to get in the way. Both of them are my boyfriends. Both.

My mother wants all her kids and grandkids to spend Christmas Eve at her house and wake up on Christmas morning together. Sounds reasonable, right? And it would be. If it weren’t my mother. My husband, Declan, is protesting any involvement, though he’s openly intrigued by the idea of claiming his territory by having sex in my childhood bed. And by intrigued, I mean a series of really hot suggestions that make me whimper when I have to say no. Wait - why am I saying no, again?

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.

I never thought my perp walk would lead to true love. Then again, I never thought I’d be arrested on RICO charges and hauled away in zip ties on camera for the world to see, minutes after closing the most amazing deal of my career. And all of it in front of my biggest rival, billionaire wunderkind Ian McCrory.

I'm not too proud to admit that finding Mr. Right involves swiping right. Right? Welcome to dating in avocado toastland. Here I am, on my first blind date, ever, courtesy of a smartphone app and my two annoying best friends. So what is Chris "Fletch" Fletcher doing, walking across the room, looking at his phone like he's pattern matching a picture to find a real person he's never met before? Oh. Oh, no. The guy I drop-kicked in seventh grade cannot be my blind date. The guy who earned me this infernal nickname.

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.

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.

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.

Kell Luview has decided to make Rachel Hart his wife after two perfect years together, and the man has plans. Big plans.

Colleen Luview's love life is cursed. No—really. The small-town nurse is notorious in her touristy mountain community. After every third date she's ever had, the guy ends up in her emergency room.

As a shocking betrayal shakes the very foundation of everything he believes in, Kell must decide who to trust, who to challenge, who needs him most—and figure out fast whether Rachel’s warnings about his girlfriend are credible or yet another tactical maneuver in a city founded on them.

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.

When I was young and impulsive (okay, it was only five years ago, alright?) I let my boyfriend take, let's just say...compromising pictures of me. (Shut up. It made sense at the time.) Surprise! The sleazy back-stabbing jerk posted them on a website and, well, you can guess what happened. I’m a meme. Now I get tagged on social media whenever anyone shares them. You try getting a thousand notifications a day, all of them pictures of your tatas. It’s time for revenge. But how do you get embarrassingly intimate pictures of your jerkface ex who double-crossed you five years ago?