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

whining. The hawk drops her as Marie goes in for one last try, and I aim, barely reaching my arms out in time for falling Muffin to hit my hands, my body stretched as far as it can go in a last-minute lunge that leaves me holding her in my palms, my chest and hips smacking into the solid sidewalk section with a belly-flop that knocks the wind out of me.
    My hands shake.
    Because Muffin’s in them, quaking away.
    “MUFFIN!” Jordan snatches her out of my palms as I try to breathe. I fail. My face is smashed into the rough concrete, the blooming pinprick of a bad scrape seeping in to my consciousness. I can’t breathe, though. It’s like a brick became my lungs. My legs feel like rubber behind me, and my belly is exposed, the lunge to catch the dog pulling my shirt out of my pants. 
    I’m facedown, palms up, breathless, and about to die.
    Then the clapping begins. If I’m going to die because I saved a dog from becoming a Scooby snack, then there damn well better be applause. 
    “That was amazing!” the dad with twins says as Marie gives him back the controller. The little boy looks up into the sky and frowns.
    “Where’s the bird? I wanna attack the bird! My turn! I’m Player 2!”
    I want to say help , but I can’t. I am lying here and it feels like I have a balloon inside me stopping me from breathing. My ribs spasm and my throat gags and then bam!  
    I’m breathing. The feeling is painful and ragged and god-awfully rippling, like I have layers of skin sticking to each other inside wet lungs, but oxygen gets in. 
    You don’t realize how much you appreciate the simple art of respiration until you can’t respire.
    “You used that helicopter so well!” 
    “Mama! Mama was Muffin’s guardian angel,” Jordan cries out. “And you!” he shouts, pointing at me.
    I roll over and sit up. My knees have grass stains on them, my belly and face are scratched, and my hands are covered in what appears to be Muffin’s pee.
    I wipe them on the grass and unwrap my purse from my neck, fishing around for my wet wipes and antibacterial gel. You mystery shop enough men’s bathrooms, you carry those two items everywhere. Who knew I’d be using them to wipe a date’s animal pee off my hands?
    “What’s your name?” Jordan asks Marie. 
    “Marie Jacoby.” She’s laughing, a sound of relief and unfettered joy.
    “Marie, you are my hero!”
    A new round of applause erupts.
    Now, wait a minute. It slowly dawns on me that they’re clapping for Marie. Not me. I’m the one who threw the rock. Who caught the dog. I look at Jordan, who snuggles Muffin and tightens his grip as he gives me a nasty glare. 
    “You leave my Muffin alone!”
    Wha?
    “Excuse me?” I choke out.
    “First you threw a rock at her and almost killed her. Then you nearly missed catching her. Mama was holding her in the light the entire time, and sent Marie the angel to me.”
    I look around. Three or four people are videotaping the entire thing on their phones. A cop on a bicycle appears and stops.
    I can barely breathe, and my cheekbone is wet. I can’t touch it, though, because eww . Dog pee.
    I stand and look around. Bathroom. As I walk down the slight slope to it, I hear Marie say in an excited voice:
    “Repay me? Oh, Jordan. My dear, sweet boy. You never have to repay me for doing a good deed and helping your mother’s precious Muffin. But...if you insist...are you free in July for a wedding at Farmington Country Club?”

Chapter Eleven
    How was your date? the text reads. It’s a number I don’t know.
    Hold on.
    Yes I do.
    It’s AJM.
    Uneventful , I type back, lying.
    YouTube says otherwise, he replies. 
    Oh, no.
    I tap into my phone’s browser and search “hawk dog Boston” on YouTube.
    There I am. Nine different video versions.
    That was, um... is all I can type back. Words fail me.
    You divebomb like that on all your dates? he texts.
    Only when there’s something interesting to lunge at , I reply. I hit Send before I lose my