#romanticcomedy #romance #contemporary #contemporaryromance #holiday #holidayromance
I don’t understand Americans.
Or, as we say in Scotland, I dinna understand ye eedjits.
And I definitely dinna understand the crazy mother-in-law of my cousin Declan. Who in their right mind names a wee dog Chuffy?
I’m stuck in New York after ma agent makes a bloody mess of an otherwise good endorsement contract for a sports towel company, and this crazy American holiday–Thanksgiving–is in two days.
The invitation to spend it in Mendon, Massachusetts, with the Jacoby family is about as appealing as rotten haggis. As far as I can tell, Thanksgiving is about stuffing yerself silly, watching pathetic American “football,” while fighting with relatives ye only see once a year.
If I wanted that last one, I’d head back to Scotland, where we dinna need a holiday to be salty to each other.
Ma firm answer is nae.
Until I remember Amy is part of the family.
Suddenly, I’m available.
Eager, even. Perhaps she’ll pull ma wishbone. I hear that’s part of the Turkey Day festivities, aye?
What I canna admit, though, is how she pulls ma heartstrings, too.
Which shouldna feel better than the wishbone, but it does.
And here comes Amy’s mother with another holiday tradition, this one a bit early.
A sprig o’ mistletoe, dangling right above Amy’s bonnie head.
Shopping for a Turkey features Scottish football player Hamish McCormick and Amy Jacoby as they navigate unusual cultural norms, new traditions, and the undeniable attraction between these two characters, who have appeared as supporting players in Julia Kent’s New York Times-bestselling Shopping series.
It’s their turn to have their own all-new spinoff series. And to pull the wishbone. 😉
He’s been in his birthday suit on sports magazine covers. Done endorsements for regional breweries and energy bars. I know from Declan that he’s close to making it big.
He’s already big.
My eyes dart to his feet.
How big is he?
Heat fills me at the thought, a combination of self-loathing and desire. Which is nothing new for me when it comes to Hamish McCormick.
Why did he have to be here? Now? Of all times, when Mom has a broken leg, Declan’s brother Terry is filling in for her as yoga instructor, and we’re already in disarray? I’m finally finishing my MBA, working another co-op at a venture capital firm. My last one was disrupted by scandal after the high-profile associate gunning for partner turned out to be married to a massive conman. I think I might have gotten my new co-op just for my potential gossip supply.
But my life is smoothing out now. It took me eight years to earn my bachelor’s, but with Declan’s help, the MBA has been full time, which is so much easier. I’ve told him straight out I don’t want any favors, and I refuse to work for Grind It Fresh! Or Anterdec. No nepotism.
Though I’ll certainly network and accept help making connections.
I’m on the cusp of a new life, moving into adulthood at last. I finished a major project yesterday, excited for the Thanksgiving break. I was at the gym, fresh off submitting my group work to our professor, when Dad called about the –
Well. You know.
And now Mom and Dad broke her leg and half their bedroom, my sisters and I have to manage Thanksgiving dinner from scratch, and I can’t stop ogling Hamish’s backside.
That’s too much input.
“Let go of troubling thoughts,” Terry says in soothing, deep dulcet tones as we do triangle pose, our breathing syncing with slow movement. Hamish’s arms stretch out and down. He has muscles on top of muscles, with fine ginger hair all over his arms, darkening as it tapers to his wrists. When we all go into a partial squat, his hamstrings pop like cello strings under his skin, each tiny muscle and tendon in stark relief across a body I could watch forever.
Too bad he has the emotional maturity of a hedgehog.
And that might be giving him too much credit.
“Fine form,” Hamish whispers to Shannon, who blinks fast.
“Thanks. I’ve been doing yoga on my lunch breaks. Even fifteen minutes makes a difference.”
“Aye. People think it’s about doing long workouts but smaller amounts of time really do add up.”
Insane–they’re driving me insane. How can they just idly chat like that while every inch of my skin is on fire? Every breath turns into a proto-orgasm as I watch him stealthily.
Or maybe not stealthily enough. He turns around, catches me watching, and winks.
I hate this. I hate reacting to him like this. I hate that he knows he’s doing this to me, and he revels in it. I hate that he’s so smarmy and overconfident and…
I’m going to assume that when all the blood in my body rushes to the surface of my skin and between my legs, it means my IQ drops a bit; lack of oxygen to the brain is the only explanation I have for finding him so attractive. This is a purely physiological response, driven entirely by evolution.
This is not my fault.
He’s big and strong, and his physicality signals virility and protection. Biology is an amazing science, its processes optimized to drive us to reproduce.
My blushing, my throbbing, the zings running across my arms and legs–it’s just electrical impulses, a response shaped over hundreds of thousands of years to produce the right outcome: hot, sweaty, reproductive activity to repopulate the earth.
It’s really just that simple.
I don’t emotionally desire this guy. Not one little bit. My heart isn’t attracted to Hamish McCormick.
My eggs are.
Bad ova. Bad, bad ova.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 1.5 million books, with 4 New York Times bestsellers and more than 16 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French and German, with more titles releasing soon. 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 children in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down.
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