It would be way too convenient for Marie to just happen to appear in this exact moment at this specific park, right? It’s not. We arranged it. You know how some people arrange “rescue calls”? Marie offered some “rescue yoga” for me. She moved her class outdoors for fun, and also to help give me an out when I described Jordan to her.
She’s so giving.
“Is that your mother?” Jordan asks a little too eagerly. “She’s angelic.” His voice goes dreamy and soft, and now...yep.
He’s crying.
We walk over to Marie and her outdoor yoga class. Well, I do. Jordan follows about three paces behind, sniffing with each step.
“What are you doing here?” Marie asks as she gives me a hug. The question is rhetorical, and she gives me a wink. She’s sweaty and radiant, and still manages to smell like lavender even when she’s in the middle of teaching a strenuous outdoor class. When I sweat, I smell like a teenage boy’s locker and tainted cinnamon.
“Hello,” Jordan says formally, extending his hand to shake hers. Marie gives me a questioning look but offers her hand, which Jordan rotates slightly so he can kiss the back of it.
How courtly.
And slightly creepy.
Marie gives me a look I can’t quite read. It’s somewhere between How sweet and Call the police.
“My name is Jordan Montelcini. This is Muffin.” He gestures toward the dog, who is either excited or having a seizure. It’s impossible to tell the difference.
Marie’s eyebrows go up. Her mouth twitches. Nineteen gears involving my sex life click into place in that scheming mind of hers, and one of them involves Andrew, because she tilts her head, blinks in Morse code, and if I could decipher it I’m sure she’d be saying, What about Andrew?
Yeah. I know, I blink back. What about him?
“I’m here with Amanda on our first date. Muffin approves so far. It’s so nice to meet Amanda’s mother.”
Muffin puts her jaw on his forearm and closes her eyes. Right. Seal of approval.
Marie looks at the dog. Looks at me. Frowns.
“I’m actually Amanda’s best friend’s mother,” Marie explains, correcting him. Her face explodes into an expression of sheer delight. “Did you say your last name is Montelcini?”
Jordan puffs up. He’s almost tall enough now to ride a roller coaster at Six Flags. “Yes.”
“Of Montelcini Flowers?”
The man’s face spreads with a joyous glow that makes me inhale sharply, for he becomes luminous. It’s like watching a caterpillar turn into a butterfly before my very eyes.
“Yes. You’ve heard of us? I mean,” he frowns, swallowing hard. “Me. It’s just me now.”
Marie looks like she’s been slapped. “Just you? But the Montelcini team is renowned for—”
Jordan wails as he drops to the ground with a sob that even his mama must surely hear in heaven. Or, um, wherever she resides.
I’m deeply confused. Who exactly are the Montelcinis, and why is Marie looking at Jordan like he invented salted caramel ice cream?
“Mama!” Jordan sobs. Muffin begins spazzing out and walks three feet away to tinkle on a stray dandelion. A dandelion that is bigger than the dog.
“Is your mother okay?” Marie asks, dropping to the ground and putting her arm around the poor man’s shoulders. I’m watching all of this with a strange sort of clinical detachment, as if Jordan isn’t my date.
That’s because he isn’t my date.
So far, we’re two for two with DoggieDate men. Two weirdos. Two showstoppers.
And I have eighteen more to go.
“My mama is deaaaadddd,” he cries.
Marie’s eyes fill with tears. A few of her yoga students pop their heads up in response to Jordan’s cries.
“I’m so sorry, Jordan.” She rubs his back. He’s genuinely mourning, and I feel for the guy. I do. I’m in my twenties and while my own mother can be an anal retentive, uptight pain in the butt, I love her and don’t know what I’d do without her. Jordan seems, to put it mildly, like a mama’s boy, and I can only imagine that losing your mom and business partner would be devastating.
“Does this mean Montelcini Flowers isn’t doing weddings right now?” Marie asks softly.
Aha.
I roll my tongue inside my mouth and then bite it. If I 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.