Books with author Julia Kent

An all-new STANDALONE from New York Times bestselling author Julia KentIt all started with the wrong Help Wanted ad. Of course it did.I’m a professional fluffer. It’s NOT what you think. I stage homes for a living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own merits.Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait.See? That’s the problem. My career has used the term “fluffer” for decades. I didn’t even know there was a more… lascivious definition of the term.Until it was too late. The ad for a “professional fluffer” on Craigslist seemed like divine intervention. My last unemployment check was in the bank. I was desperate. Rent was due. The ad said cash paid at the end of the day. The perfect job! Staging homes means showing your best angle. The same principle applies in making a certain kind of movie. Turns out a “fluffer” doesn’t arrange decorative pillows on a couch.They arrange other soft, round-ish objects.The job isn’t hard. Er, I mean, it is — it’s about being hard. Or, well… helping other people to be hard.Oh, man…And that’s the other problem. A man. No, not one of the stars on the movie set. Will Lotham – my high school crush. The owner of the house where we’re filming. Illegally. In a vacation rental.By the time the cops show up, what I thought was just a great house staging gig turned into a nightmare involving pictures of me with an undressed star, Will rescuing me from an arrest, and a humiliating lesson in my own naivete.My job turned out to be so much harder than I expected. But you know what’s easier than I ever imagined?Having all my dreams come true.

It all started with a game of Truth or Dare…It’s bad enough I got arrested for prostitution on Christmas Eve. Alleged prostitution, mind you. I didn’t do it. Of course I didn’t. The cops say I offered up a certain sex act for a $5 gasoline gift card, but honey? My sex acts are worth way, way more.So when I tried to explain what happened to the person who came and bailed me out of jail, she wasn’t exactly impressed.Because it was my boyfriend’s mother.Now, I got two boyfriends, so Murphy’s Law said it had to be the mother I hate the most. And she hates me right back. Even more now that I lost her son.That’s right. Where in the hell are Joe and Trevor? It’s Christmas Eve, and I keep getting pictures on social media showing Joe and Trevor all oiled up in g-strings that look like candy canes, dancing with a bunch of well-coiffed older women.I, on the other hand, am wearing Santa pants, flip flops, and smell like jail cell pee.That game of Truth or Dare turns out to be way more dangerous than anyone expected.And our savior? It ain’t the baby Jesus. Not the three wise men. No little drummer boy. Not even the donkey that carried the Virgin Mary on its back while she howled for an epidural.Nope. Can you guess?That’s right.Mavis the Chicken.Can she help us out of this clustercluck?* * *Merry Random Christmas is the eighth book in the New York Times bestselling Random series. Join the gang on Christmas Eve as Darla is unfairly arrested, Trevor and Joe are forced to become strippers, and candy canes appear in places where sugar is a bad, bad idea in this crazy, rollicking romp.

BOOK SEVEN IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING RANDOM SERIES:I guzzled another flute of Champagne and froze, the liquid in my throat, waiting to be swallowed.Tyler was here.We’d met a few times before, in passing. He was the substitute bass player for the band; I was the lead guitar player’s girlfriend’s best friend. In that weird sort of social circle thing where Venn diagrams get laid over different groups, Tyler and I were bound to be in the crossover once in a while.He looked so hot. Short brown hair. A few days of beard. Bright green eyes that were more guarded than a Russian mobster’s. He was sleeved, the colorful tattoos a tapestry, but every time I met him I couldn’t quite see them. We only saw each other in dark concert halls, or tonight, under the stars.He gave Sam a rare smile and a hearty handshake, forearm muscles bulging. I wondered what it would be like to have those hands on me. My fingers tracing those tats. Listening to him tell me the story of his body while he forgave mine.Forgave it for failing me.I shook my head fast to banish the thoughts that drew me into places so dark they became black holes of the soul. The gravity of trauma had a way of sucking all the good into it, and tonight I wasn’t going to let that happen. The opposite, in fact.Tonight I was going to sleep with Tyler.He didn’t know it yet, but that was okay. He would. Soon.* * *Random on Tour: Los Angeles is the 7th book in the New York Times bestselling Random series, the ongoing story of the up-and-coming rock band, Random Acts of Crazy. When the band's bass player, Joe Ross, gets injured in an unfortunate sex act that gains nationwide coverage, it's tatted-up Tyler (aka "Frown") to the rescue for their first big concert. There's only one problem: the morning of his flight to L.A. he wakes up to find someone's stolen all his money, his bass, his ID, and his pride. When he shows up at Maggie's doorstep to ask her to drive him from their hometown of St. Louis all the way to L.A., these two damaged people learn quickly that being independent doesn't always mean being free...Warning: This book deals with the very difficult topic of sexual assault and rape, and I’ve taken great care to address this with the sensitivity and respect it deserves.None of the scenes in the book contain sexual violence, though the characters do tell their stories of past sexual violence. None of those descriptions is graphic or gratuitous. This book is about hope and healing, but the characters do have past trauma that they discuss.