Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) by Julia Kent

don’t, I’ll say something I regret.
    Now I understand.
    And a lightbulb goes off.
    At one of the late night tactical weapons meetings...er, wedding planning sessions, Marie mentioned that the best florist in town was booked three years out.
    Montelcini Flowers.
    Rescue yoga, indeed. Suddenly her gracious act of bad-date assistance becomes more evident for what it really is.
    “How can I do weddings when the bliss of Mama is gone? No one can make her red sauce for me. I had to learn how to do laundry! And make my own bed!” he wails. “Hospital corners are haaaarrrddd .” 
    “That is so difficult,” Marie says, completely shining him on. Some part of her genuinely cares about the man’s pain. Hell, I sure do. But another part of her is clearly emboldened by the idea that she might be able to book the premier wedding florist in Boston. The society coup of this one would give her a Momzilla orgasm.
    Jordan leans in to Marie’s hug, his face pressed against her bosom. He lets out a series of small, hitched sobs. “You smell a little like my mama.”
    And then he leans in and just cries.
    Muffin toddles off, sniffing in a crooked line in the bright sunshine, still within twenty feet of us. It’s probably the most freedom that poor little two pounds of flesh has ever had in its coddled little life.
    Like Jordan, right now.
    As Marie pats him gently on the back, I stand there, my mind occupied by the earlier hour at Anterdec. The kiss. The kisses. Andrew’s words cycle through me, his on-off switch so easy to flip, his obvious anger at my “date”—who is now burrowing into Marie’s arms in an alarming way—leaving me with more questions than answers.
    And then the silence (other than Jordan’s sobs) is pierced by a strange cry from the sky.
    A red-tailed hawk swoops down and in what feels like slow motion, descends to the grass, plucks little Muffin in its talons, and lifts up, wings pushing down with the effort of getting greater lift with its dinner in its hands.
    “Oh, my God!” I scream. Jordan and Marie look up. I’m pointing at the horrific scene as Muffin quakes in the hawk’s grasp, twelve feet above us, eyes bulging in terror. 
    Or is that how she normally looks? It’s hard to tell the difference.
    “MUFFIN!” Jordan screeches, scrambling to his feet. “No, Muffin! Mama will be so mad if something happens to you!”
    “Do something!” Marie cries out, running after the bird, who is lurching up and down as it struggles to hang on to Muffin the Hawk Munchie.
    I grab a rock and throw it. I have the pitching arm of a four year old, so all I manage to do is hit a passing dad pushing a stroller as my anemic throw ends in a parabola of shame.
    “Hey!” the dad shouts. “Watch it. Babies here.”
    Great. I hit a dad with twins. The karma on that one is going to be massive.
    “Don’t hurt Muffin!” Jordan screams at me. “That rock could maim her.”
    Right. Because throwing a rock to make the hawk drop her is exactly like having her eaten alive by the bird.
    Jordan is definitely on my permanent list of people I will never, ever touch.
    Marie sprints over to a little boy who has a remote control in his hand. She says something to him and he hands it over. I look up.
    A tiny little silver toy helicopter makes a giant U-turn and dive bombs the hawk.
    “MUFFIN!” Jordan screams.
    In a split second, I race over to the ground under the hawk and Muffin. Someone has to catch the little dog, because at this point, the hawk’s a good twenty feet in the air. If he drops her, she’ll be a Muffin pancake. 
    “BOOYAH!” Marie shouts as she manipulates the helicopter. The dad of the twins in the stroller jogs over to the little boy and says soothing things to him. They watch Marie attack the hawk with the toy helicopter.
    “Daddy, it’s my turn next, right?” the little boy asks. “I wanna hit the hawk. Twenty points!” 
    Suddenly, the silver copter buzzes loud in my ears, and I hear Muffin