New Release and Giveaways! SHOPPING FOR A BILLIONAIRE’S FIANCEE by Julia Kent (Shopping for a Billionaire #6)

Something feels off. I sit up, moonlight streaming through the expanse of glass behind my headboard, the ticking silence of the middle of the night grey and ethereal. My mouth is dry and my skin tingles with danger.

My own home isn’t safe.

Clicking sounds in the distance pierce my closed bedroom door. I quietly open my closet and pull out the aluminum baseball bat I store in there for moments like this.

Whatever this is.

Later, I realize I should have called 911. But when you’re in the haze of being woken by a home invasion, you don’t think clearly.

Besides, evolution has primed me for this very moment. Testosterone oozes out of my pores. This is a moment men imagine from the time they’re small little beasts with superhero capes and nerf guns.

Defending our turf.

Quiet as a ninja, I walk on the balls of my feet, opening my bedroom door and proceeding down the hall. Andrew is silent, too, his feet hanging off the end of my couch, the blanket pooled on the floor beneath him. His mouth is open and he’s drooling a little, my nice leather sleek and shiny in the moonlight.

He’s useless against the seven-foot, muscled cat burglar who is obviously here to steal my soul and my valuable electronics.

My eyes dart to the door, where an inch of light from the hallway peeks in, illuminating the library table where I dump my mail.

A knee appears, with a shiny high heel at the foot.

Interesting cat burglar.

Then more knee. A thigh. Hips that make hot blood pound through me, the rest of Shannon entering the room on tip toes. She rotates and closes the door with such precision I start to wonder if she breaks into people’s houses for a living.

I flatten myself against the wall where she can’t see me, and slowly set the baseball bat on a small wool area carpet. We’re both creeping around my apartment in silence, but for very different reasons now.

She cuts behind the couch and stands in front of the breakfast bar, slipping off her trench coat.

Oh, sweet merciful universe.

She is naked except for the high heels.

Merry Christmas in August.

Those come-fuck-me pumps are candy apple red and scream out my name. No, really. I can hear them, tiny little voices that only my now-rising-to-the-occasion little head can hear. It’s like those shoes communicate on a radio frequency that my testicles can tune into.

And…I’m at attention.

What is she doing here?

“Shannon?” I whisper, stepping out into the moonlight, hoping I don’t scare her.

She startles and freezes, hand on one breast over her heart. Her hair is loose and flowing, and she’s curled it. She painted her face, eyes big and bright, lips red and stunning.

She shifts her weight to one hip, eager and a little shy, but also bold.

“Let’s make up,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “And happy birthday!”

Happy Birthday?

Oh, man. That’s right. I’d completely forgotten.

Andrew’s head pops up from the other side of the couch and he gapes at Shannon. “Dec? You hired a stripper? I knew you and Shannon were on the outs, but damn, man, you can’t just—”

“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEE!” Shannon screams. If this whole marrying a billionaire and working in corporate America thing doesn’t work for her, she has a future in horror films.