Shopping for a Billionaire Boxed Set (Parts 1-5)
Julia Kent
Publication date: January 9th 2015
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance
Ever meet a hot billionaire while your hand’s in a toilet in the men’s room of one of his stores?
No? So it really is just me. Hm.
When you’re a mystery shopper, you get paid to humiliate yourself, all in the name of improving customer service. Romance isn’t in my job description.
But the day I met Declan McCormick it was love at first flush.
Until I nearly castrated him with my EpiPen.
How Hot Guy and Toilet Girl became an item involves my crazy mom, a trip to the ER, my homicidal cat, my fake wife, and true love.
Don’t look at me like that. I’m just doing my job.
I’m shopping for a billionaire.
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The Shopping for a Billionaire collection from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent is a 600+ page, hilarious romantic comedy with heart, heat, and laughs.This boxed set contains the previously published:
Shopping for a Billionaire 1
Shopping for a Billionaire 2
Shopping for a Billionaire 3
Shopping for a Billionaire 4
Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks /
Kobo / Google Play / Audible
Only 99¢ for a limited time!
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.
Ka-PLUNK!
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?”