Title: Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby
Series: Shopping for a Billionaire #13
Author: Julia Kent
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: April 24, 2018


You know what’s even better than marrying a billionaire? Having his baby.

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.

And by little, I mean stupid.

That’s right.

We’re not just about to try to bring a new human being into the world.

We have to do it better, Faster, Stronger.


McCormick men don’t just have babies.

They engage in competitive billionaire Babythons.

I thought the hardest part about getting pregnant would be dealing with my grandchild-crazed mother, who will go nuts shopping for a billionaire’s baby.


Between conception issues, my mother’s desire to talk to the baby through a hoo-haw cam, a childbirth class led by a drill sergeant and a father-in-law determined to sign the kid up for prep school before Declan even pulls out, my pregnancy has turned out to be one ordeal after the other.

But it’s nothing — nothing — compared to the actual birth.

Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby is the newest book in Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series and is a 400+ page full-length novel.




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“This conception stuff has you thinking. Philosophically, I mean,” Andrew notes, suddenly paying close attention to me.

“Of course. It’s powerful.”

“How? It’s just sex.”

I snort. “I thought so, too. Until I had sex where I tried to get her pregnant on purpose.”

Vince, Gerald, and Andrew all take a step closer to me.

“Bareback,” Vince whispers, like the word itself is holy.


“When you’re shooting your sperm into her and you have a goal. Does it aim better? Do the sperm just know it’s a free-for-all and they’re going for it?” Calculation gleams in my brother’s eyes. He’s not asking because he gives a shit about my emotional state.

He’s analyzing data for future victory.

“How the hell would I know? It’s not like I strap a GoPro to my nuts and videotape it. It isn’t an episode of Ninja Sperm Warrior.”


I want him in me.


I want his baby in me.



“Maybe you’ve made life too good for me,” I tell him, grasping at the right words to describe the feelings inside me. “I think this is your fault.”

“For giving you too good a life?”

“For loving me so well. I can’t imagine it being even better.”


“Bye, Shannon. See you in three minutes.” His eyes drop to the pregnancy test in my hand as he shuts the door.

I prepare to pee alone.

Or… maybe I’m not alone.

I’ll find out in three minutes.


Taking a pregnancy test is basically peeing on a stick. It’s not rocket science. You don’t need a degree in chemistry. You pull down your pants, sit on the toilet, and aim your stream at a little felt absorbent strip that performs some biochemical magic and in the end determines the course of the rest of your life.

Not bad for an $11 box you can buy at any convenience store when picking up lottery tickets and a forty of beer in a brown paper bag.


First morning urine is precious cargo. My Kegel muscles kick in and I halt midstream, panicking, my wet thighs making me slip slightly forward on the toilet seat, and–

I drop the test into the toilet.

“DAMN!” I scream. My vaginal wall muscles are clamped down like the Hoover Dam holding back an unexpected early thaw, and I involuntarily shake the urine off my hand, flinging droplets all over the rest of me. I jump up, turn around, and try to retrieve the ruined test.

Just then, a whuff of cold air assaults my bare ass. Declan has apparently opened the bathroom door.

“What’s wrong? I heard you scream. Are you…” His voice trails off as I look at him, hand in the toilet, naked ass on display, single-handedly proving that taking a pregnancy test is, in fact, rocket science after all.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” he says softly, closing the door before bursting into laughter.

Now I know why they sell pregnancy tests in packages of two.


“Those two are the only men in the world who could invent a babython!” I fume.

“What is a babython?”

“They’re like triathlons, only the swimming portion involves sperm, and running involves basal thermometers and temperatures telling you it’s fertile time. And instead of competing with your husband to see who finishes first–ahem–it’s all about beating your brother-in-law.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. I don’t understand it, either.”


“Just because other people can’t get their act together as parents doesn’t mean we can’t,” I explain. “There is no process that can’t be project managed into a well-oiled machine, babies included.”

Andrew snorts. “You really believe that.”

“A baby is like a disruptive new technology. But our first deliverable is still eight months to a year away. That leaves us plenty of time to update our practices and diversify into new areas. Find the best people, incentivize them, and keep them in their swim lanes.”

I’m getting major raised eyebrows here.

“Optimization protocols, testing, fine tuning, and putting together the right team is all it takes. Drill down to the essentials, find people who are the absolute best at what we need, and that’s it–we build a life based on optimal outcomes.”

“You sound like you’re making a robotic dog, Dec. Not a human.”

“This baby will have a hands-on father. Plenty of love. And with a mother like Shannon, how could we go wrong?” Mother. Calling Shannon a mother does something to my gut. A tug, hard and emotional, destabilizes me for a second.


The pregnancy test is like my mother. It’s always there, waiting to pass judgment. Sometimes it tells you what you want to hear.

And sometimes you want to hurl it into the trash and pretend it doesn’t exist.


Every waking moment of my existence feels like I live in a post-apocalyptic dystopian world called Nausealand District 40. In this society, everyone is deeply sick to their stomach, and the battle between good and evil hinges on the ability to consume just enough calories to maintain the life force that keeps the universe going:

The Placenta Quadrant.


Wrapped in a red bathrobe with white and green tassels all over the cuffs and pockets, Shannon comes into the kitchen and gives me a cheek kiss just as I start the coffee machine for our first cup of coffee on Christmas day. “We have wood, right?” she asks.

I look down at my pajama bottoms. “Sure do.”

“I meant real wood.”

I point. “What do you call this?”

“You want me to stack that with kindling and newspaper and set it on fire?”


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.