Author:
Julia Kent
Release
Date: June 2, 2014
Genre:
Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance
Description:
When mystery shopper Shannon Jacoby meets
billionaire Declan McCormick with her hand down a toilet in the men's room of
one of his stores, it's love at first flush in this hilarious new romantic
comedy from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent.
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links:
Author
Bio:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes
romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock
stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she
writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for
a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a
men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with
her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever,
down
Social
Media Links:
Website:
http://jkentauthor.com/
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/jkentauthor/
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/jkentauthor
Excerpts
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?”
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