The BFD (A Big Deal Romantic Comedy Book 1) Read online

  The BFD

  A Big Beal Romantic Comedy

  by

  Harper Bentley

  Check out other titles by Harper Bentley:

  The Powers That Be series:

  Gable (The Powers That Be Book 1)

  Zeke (The Powers That Be Book 2)

  Loch (The Powers That Be Book 3)

  Ryker (The Powers That Be Book 4)

  Drake (The Powers That Be Book 5)

  CEP series:

  Being Chased (CEP #1)

  Unbreakable Hearts (CEP #2)

  Under the Gun (CEP #3)

  The High Rise series

  The Fighter

  Serenity Point series:

  Bigger Than the Sky (Serenity Point Book 1)

  Always and Forever (Serenity Point Book 2)

  True Love series:

  Discovering Us (True Love #1)

  Finding Us (True Love #2)

  Finally Us (True Love Book 3)

  True Love: The Trilogy: The Complete Boxed Set

  The Wait series:

  Thursdays (The Wait Book 1)

  Mondays (The Wait) (Volume 2)

  http://harperbentleywrites.com/

  Copyright © 2017 Harper Bentley

  Digital Edition: September 2017

  Editors: Franca, Mel & Sam

  Cover image licensed by FuriousFotog

  Cover model: Mike Chabot

  Cover Photo design by Jada D’Lee Designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author

  Dedication

  To B

  I love you

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  If you like stories about hot, confident alpha guys who are the shit, you’re in the right place.

  What’s that? You’d rather hear how some poor sexy, cocky bastard was taken down about thirty notches by a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day? Even after it was her fault she delivered the wrong flowers to the wrong chicks and got the guy into all kinds of hot water, and she still hasn’t apologized?

  Then you’re definitely in the right place.

  Let’s start with introductions first, shall we?

  My name is Calder Castleman and I’m an NFL quarterback. Mom calls me sweetheart and Dad calls me son. My twin sister Carson calls me an “obnoxious jerk who’s so full of himself that if he ate too much, he’d probably poop out body parts,” but she says it in the most loving of ways. Heh. My four-year-old niece, Tinley, calls me “Unca Cawda,” and to everyone else, I’m known simply as Castle.

  Then there are the fans. To them, I’m The BFD because they say I’m a big fucking deal.

  And let’s not forget the women. They mostly refer to me as, “Oh, God, you’re huge!” What can I say? I’m blessed. The “D” in BFD doesn’t just stand for “Deal,” ladies.

  But I will tell you, the fans call me that for a damn good reason.

  Don’t think so? Just check the stats: Over 5,000 passing yards this year. Twenty-five touchdowns. And only seven interceptions. For those of you who don’t understand any of that, let me translate: It’s a BFD.

  While we’re on stats, here are some notable ones for you: There’s a 98% chance of women throwing themselves at me or slipping me their phone numbers when I go out—gotta account for the shy ones, hence the -2%. I’d estimate that 99.99% of these chicks want me to fuck ‘em. That being put out there, there’s usually about a 10% chance I’m in. It just depends on various factors, of course, including, did we win that day, is the chick amazingly hot, does she look like Blake Lively—which ups it to 25%—or is she a FAYNTER, pronounced “fainter.” James Hunter, our best receiver, came up with that one when Ty King, one of our running backs, had a female stalker for a while. One day before practice, the chick was on a rampage heading down the tunnel toward our locker room in search of King, and Hunt came flying in yelling at him, “Fatal attraction you need to effing run!” And an acronym was born.

  Now, don’t start thinking right off the bat that I’m an asshole because of all I’ve told you. I mean, I guess I can be one at times, just like anyone else. But my momma raised me to be a true gentleman, and I take a lot of pride in how I treat people, especially women. And believe it or not, I may have had my fun, but I’m not a total manwhore.

  In any event, even though I jumped through hoops to get this flower shop woman to take my calls, or, hell, even look at me for five straight seconds, which hurt, by the way, boy, did it hurt, I’ll share my story with you. Because that’s just the kind of guy I am.

  Buckle up. It’s going to be a wild ride.

  So, the day started out as usual when I woke up with Blake Lively in my bed begging for more—

  Okay, okay, you want the truth. Jesus. I’ll begin again.

  The day started as usual, with my body sore as fuck from being sacked in the game the night before. Happy?

  We’d lost the division playoff game, which meant no Super Bowl, no championship ring, the season was completely over, and we had seven weeks of nothing to do football-wise, which totally sucked ass and threw me into a depression for a while. Listen, it’s kinda like when my sister Carson had my nephew Sam last year and she was gripy for a month afterward, blaming her mood on postpartum. When I’d told her I understood because that’s what I felt each year when the season ended, she threw a shitty diaper at me. But I’m serious. Losing sucks.

  Anyway, after the game, the trainers had had me sit in the ice tub for five minutes of pure fucking hell to repair any muscle tears I might’ve had, so the next day I was going to treat myself. I got up to go to the fieldhouse to get a massage and follow it with a nice soak in the hot tub to work out any residual aches and pains.

  On the way to the stadium—being the thoughtful guy that I am—I decided it’d be nice of me to let a couple ladies in my life know I was thinking of them. Calling the flower shop I’d used various times before, I gave the woman who answered the details.

  “I’d like a dozen pink roses sent to Nevaeh Smith,” I’d told her. Yeah, I know. Heaven spelled backwards, but she’d been pretty fucking heavenly on her knees in front of me in the shower last week. I gave the address and said, “Please put on the card, ‘Can’t wait to see your cute birthmark again. Love, Calder.’”

  The lady took the information with an amused chuckle, then I told her I had
another order.

  “I also need a bouquet of daisies sent to Bethany Chancellor at,” I gave the address, “and the card to say, ‘Looking forward to running my hands through your beautiful blond hair again soon. Love, Calder.’”

  This time the woman taking the order didn’t chuckle. She scoffed.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  I heard her sigh. “Not at all.”

  In spite of Scoffing Ms. Judgy, I’d hung up feeling pretty good about myself knowing I’d have a date that night one way or the other.

  Which was optimistic of me since the shit was getting ready to hit the fan.

  I’m a man of composure. I don’t rattle easily. I can’t, not when I face three-hundred-pound linemen every game who are coming at me with the goal of bathing in my blood.

  I’d just gotten my massage from Kenny, one of our trainers—I’d marry the bastard if I swung that way—and was about as relaxed as a gigolo in a room full of rich widows as I sat in the hot tub, when my phone started ringing off the hook. Several teammates were in the training room getting the treatment too, and they all knew it was my phone when the room was filled with the glorious melody of LMFAO’s “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”

  “Answer your goddamn phone, Castle,” Hunt muttered from where he lay on one of the massage tables.

  “Busy,” I mumbled, eyes closed and head back resting on the side of the tub.

  They all knew I’d gotten that ringtone just to fuck with them, and I’d had a lot of fun with it, especially when Coach Loudermilk, the offensive coordinator, had been screaming at us after practice one day in the locker room and my cell rang. The furious look on his face had said it all before he stormed out, yelling, “Turn that idiotic ‘wiggle wiggle’ shit off next time!”

  A few minutes later when it rang again, I heard groans from all around.

  “You don’t answer that shit, your phone’s gonna be experiencing the full spa treatment along with you in that tub,” wide receiver Andre Jenkins threatened.

  “You guys just don’t know good music when you hear it,” I grumbled as I stood, grabbing a towel and getting out of the tub. I looked at the screen of my phone to see four missed calls each from both of the women I’d sent flowers. “Don’t be jealous ‘cause my girls are calling,” I bragged, leaving the training room amidst my teammates’ comical insults of shit like, “Tell your mom and sister I said hi!”

  I dialed Heaven because she’d called first, and when she answered, I got an earful.

  “I do not have blond hair, Calder Castleman! And I’m allergic to daisies!” she screamed into the phone. She paused for a moment to reload. “Are you seeing someone else? Who is she? I’ll kill her, right after I kill you!”

  Danger, Will Robinson! Fuck. She’d turned into a Pothole.

  What’s a Pothole, you ask? Another acronym invented by a teammate. Psycho on the Loose=PotL pronounced, Pothole. Look, the guys and I spend a ton of time together. And we fuck a lot of women. And we get bored and make shit up. Don’t judge.

  “Hey, calm down, honey. There must’ve been a mistake—” I tried explaining.

  “Ya think?” she interrupted.

  Damn.

  “Baby, come on.”

  “Don’t you baby me!” she shrieked. “We’re over! And you can take these daisies and shove them up your—”

  I hung up before the orifice which I knew she was going to mention puckered.

  “Jesus,” I muttered. Then blowing out a breath, I looked at Bethany’s number and being the brave man I was, before dialing, screwed my courage to the sticking place.

  Ah. Didn’t think I knew phrases like that, did you? Well, I’ve watched Beauty and the Beast with Tinley going on eight million times, so I know things. Also, Lady Macbeth may have said it in that little Shakespeare play they call Macbeth. See? I’m not a total dumb jock.

  “Please say you have a birthmark so you’re not pissed off at me too,” I uttered as I waited for Bethany to pick up.

  “First of all, I do not have a birthmark!” she answered right on cue.

  So much for wishful thinking. And, fucking hell. I knew that when a woman started off with, “First of all,” you were screwed. Christ.

  “You have some cute mark on the back of your left thigh,” I lied. Damn, I was smooth.

  “Liar!”

  And smooth just took the bus home for the day.

  She continued her diatribe. “These were supposed to go to another woman, weren’t they? I told you I think roses are pretentious! And now I know you’re just another stereotypical pedantic, presumptuous prick who’s now perjured himself!”

  I knew I should’ve never dated a lawyer.

  “Baby, I’m sor—” I said to dead air.

  Now, I’ve told you I’m a cool customer, right? But after making these calls, I have to confess that at that particular point in time, I was fucking rattled to the core. Just what in the hell had happened?

  After scooping my ego up off the floor, I decided it was time to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Do I have a story for you.

  It’s about a cocky QB who thought he was God’s gift to women and who was put in his place by yours truly.

  And all because he sent two different bouquets of flowers to two different women with two different flirty notes on the same day on the same phone call. Did you get all that?

  Now, I have nothing against dating around. I think it’s a good thing, you’re getting to know people and see how well they fit into your life, but this guy’s phone call triggered something in me that had me getting all kinds of riled up.

  I also think Mercury could’ve been in retrograde too, if that helps explain my mindset any *cough* excuses *cough*

  So here’s the deal. First of all, imagine yourself having the hangover from hell. We’ve all been there, so I know you know what I’m talking about. Hangovers are no bueno. Next, picture your best friend and co-owner not coming to work because she’s at the dentist, so you’re having to run not only your bakery but her flower shop as well, while having the hangover from hell. Then—and this is important because you’ve been nursing old wounds for some time and you’re ever on the defensive—your love life has been in the shitter for a year and a half since breaking off your engagement after catching your fiancé kissing the wedding photographer.

  Who was a man.

  And they actually looked cuter together than the two of you did.

  Lastly, oh, say, a sexy pro football player calls in for a bouquet of flowers with the sweetest note to a woman, which you think is adorable…until he orders a second arrangement with an equally charming message to be sent to a different woman. And suddenly the mini-you inside starts picketing, stomping around in your head—which is still pounding, by the way—holding a sign that says, “Feminist AF!” and she won’t be ignored.

  Yeah. That was me that day.

  By the way, I’m Rori Flannigan, and I’ll be giving you the play-by-play, so to speak. But just so you know, I’m not a gossiper; it’s just that this story is too good not to share. So, go grab a cup of tea, if you like. I’ll wait.

  Ready? All right, let’s begin, shall we? So more about me: I’m twenty-five years old, I’ve lived in Washington, D.C., my entire life, and three years ago I graduated from the University of Maryland—Go Terps!—with a business management degree. I grew up in a houseful of boys—Ramsey, Reese, Rhett and Roark are respectively ten, eight, six and four years older than I am—and the reason I mention my brothers is to show that I know all about sports. I, mean, I had a football crammed into my bassinet when I was three-days old, courtesy of Roark, for cripes’ sake. Also, every Thanksgiving, when our cousins—all boys, of course—would come visit when I was little, it never failed that I’d hear one of my brothers call, “Rori! Come play now!” and out I’d traipse having shucked the dress and mary janes that Momma’d made me wear—“Randall, I’ll never be able to turn this child into a girl!”—for jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt
so I could play football with them.

  Side note: As I’ve gotten older and considered having kids of my own someday, I now feel kind of bad for Mom since she’d dealt with ten whole years of nothing but rowdy boys until I, her miracle girl baby, had finally come along…only to turn out to be a tomboy. Whoops.

  At any rate, two years ago, my best friend Mara Lewis and I opened our flower-slash-bakery shop, Flannigan’s Flowers and Fare, backed by our silent partner, my grandma Flannigan—who lives in Florida and who I call Mimi Sue, hence the reason my last name’s in the store’s name—and Mara and I have been having the best time. She runs the flower part and I manage the bakery, and we cover for each other if need be. I open the bakery at six a.m. Monday through Saturday while she opens her shop at eight on the same days. Early on, we’d both decided we’d take Sundays off, not only because my very Catholic grandmother wouldn’t approve otherwise, but Mara and I thought we’d probably need a break, which was genius on our part. In the evenings, the bakery closes at five and the flower shop at six, and it all just works.

  So, on the particular Saturday to which I’ll be referring—Mara and I have since dubbed it Castlegate—I was running both shops because the night before when we’d been celebrating my assistant manager Michelle’s birthday, drunk-ass Mara had fallen outside the last bar we’d gone to and broken her damn tooth. It’d been hilarious at the time, but when the alcohol had worn off that next morning, she was in a great deal of pain.

  “I deed doo do kowa oh me dis moaning cud I dink duh woot id etbosed. Bob id on duh way,” she’d said when she called at six-thirty that morning. Translation: I need you to cover for me this morning ‘cause I think the root is exposed. Mom is on the way (in case you don’t speak busted tooth-inese). I’d told Mara, of course I’d cover, to feel better soon and call me later. Then I’d teased, “And next time don’t wear five-inch heels when you’re drinking, or at least don’t walk on the sidewalk grates when we’re in Penn freaking Quarter.” Her answer? Phuck-awf. I don’t think any translating is necessary for that.