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

  Anyhow, I’m usually at work by five a.m., but arrived ten minutes late that morning, and I was hurting, because having downed a seventh Sazerac just three hours before does not a sober nor punctual girl make. Unlocking the back door, I’d gone in and hurriedly started making the dough for cinnamon rolls. The frozen rolls from the day before, I’d pulled from the freezer and had thawing on their sheets, and the mixers were going full force for the next round of rolls as well as for the various muffin types.

  “Boom! Take that, absinthe!” I’d challenged, holding my arms out at all I’d accomplished when Michelle came in and was looking much the same as I did, i.e., drunken bag lady pas très chic.

  “Remind me again why we try drinking ourselves to death on our birthdays, which only raises the probability of not seeing our next birthday?” she grumbled as she put on an apron.

  I snorted then grimaced because, hello, hangover. Through my wincing, I offered, “Because die young and leave a beautiful corpse?”

  Michelle cut her eyes at me, let out a tch sound, then shuffled through the swinging doors to start the coffee as well as check the refrigerated case in front that held the cakes and pies as she usually did.

  And just as every morning, when our doors opened at six, people came pouring in. The hustle and bustle of it all, with my three workers yelling out orders then calling the customer’s name when their order was ready, always reminded me of those old movies where the stock traders yelled at each other on the NYSE floor amidst tons of chaos. And I loved it. Well, I would’ve loved it more if it hadn’t felt like the heavy metal band Manowar had set up residence inside my head and was trying to make it into Guinness again, or the fact that I’d only had time to chug one cup of coffee between baking the assorted goodies, and my body—along with my brain—was begging for more.

  At seven-fifty-eight, I’d left Michelle to manage the bakery—which had been crazy busy for some reason—and gone through the Dutch door Mara and I’d had put between our shops. Let me tell you, that Dutch door had been a fabulous idea because with the top half of it open, we figured if someone was in the bakery, they’d see the flower arrangements and wander in and buy something. Or if they were in the flower shop and smelled the sweets from the bakery, they’d do the same. Worked like a charm! Anyway, the moment I opened the front door of the flower shop, I guess since it was the end of January and the anti-procrastinators were on their game for Valentine’s Day, the customers and calls started coming in immediately, and the flower shop became just as busy as the bakery.

  Around nine, I couldn’t take it anymore. Putting my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece so the customer I was helping wouldn’t hear, I whisper-begged to Shannon, Mara’s little sister and part-time assistant manager, who was also busy at the counter with a customer but I was desperate, “I need water! And coffee! Please!”

  She’d been the designated driver the night before and was feeling just peachy, so snickering and shaking her head as she wrote down the customer’s information, she ordered Olly, the latest college student Mara had hired and who was busy putting roses into a box, to get my drinks.

  Olly, who I could tell was tired of being low man on the totem pole and having to fetch things, gave her a look then murmured, “Hydration coming up for the alkie,” under his breath as he walked his lanky body toward the door to the bakery.

  I’d noticed a bit of sadistic flirting going on between them, and although this new guy appeared to have an acerbic wit, Shannon was an even bigger smartass than Mara, so good luck with that, Olly-boy.

  “Watch that shit, gofer!” Shannon snarled after him which got her a growl back. With bared teeth. Oookay. Then without missing a beat, looking sweetly back at her customer, Shannon asked if there was anything else they needed, as if she hadn’t just sworn and bitten off Olly’s head.

  I shook my head and after taking an order, had just hung up when Olly set my coffee cup and water bottle down on the counter in front of me. I’d almost cried. Instead, I’d thanked him but taking the first sacrosanct swig of java, before it could even go down my throat properly, another call came in.

  Since there happened to be no customers present just then, I mock answered, “Fucking Flannigan’s Flowers and Fucking Fare. How may I fucking help you,” making Shannon snort, before I actually picked up the receiver and stated politely, “Flannigan’s Flowers and Fare, how may I help you?”

  And that was my first encounter with Loverboy himself, Mr. Calder Castleman.

  At first, I’d thought his order was sweet as I wrote it down, but when he placed the second one, all my red flags went to whipping hard in the strong winds of hoodwinkery.

  “What a jerk,” I stated after hanging up. At Shannon’s questioning look, I explained who’d called and what he’d ordered.

  “He’s hot!” she squealed. “He’s called in a bunch of times before.” She stood watching as I read from the notes I’d taken from his order and typed them into the computer.

  “You’re lingering,” I mumbled. “That’s never a good sign with you.”

  “You should totally call him back and ask him out!”

  I stopped what I was doing to first give her an incredulous look and next to throw my head back and let out a huge guffaw.

  “What? He’s cute! And he’s rich! And he seems nice! And you haven’t gone out with anyone in over a year!” she advocated before finally admonishing. Ergh.

  As I began typing again, I explained, “He doesn’t pass the ‘List’ qualifications. Matter of fact, he demolishes the first three all to hell.”

  Yep. I had a dating list. And the cocky pro quarterback and obvious womanizer hit the top three hell-to-the-fucking-nos on my Never Not EVER dating list:

  #1. Arrogant

  #2. Pro athlete

  #3. PLAYER

  The reason I even had a list was that Mara, insisting it’d be therapeutic, had made me make one after my now ex-fiancé Noah and I had broken off our engagement. Noah was brimming in confidence, played triple-A baseball, technically making him a professional athlete, and as you’ve found out, he was a player; therefore, the first three items were all about him and I didn’t want to go there again. Ever.

  “Rori, breathing is your number four!” Shannon scoffed. “If you stick to that list, you’ll never date again!”

  “That’s the point,” I answered, continuing to type until the phone rang and we got busy again.

  I guess somewhere during that convo with Shannon, I may have accidentally put the wrong address under the wrong name of Castleman’s orders, but whatever.

  Sue me.

  That afternoon, Mara called all loopy on her meds. “I’m getting a puppy!” she shared when I answered. Then she added breathily, “I have a concussion too!”

  Well, she so could’ve been a spokesperson for the magic effects of nitrous oxide if I’d ever seen one.

  “That’s…great?” I replied.

  She giggled. “I know! I threw up all over the assistant! A brown one!”

  I frowned. “A brown assistant?”

  She whooped out a laugh. “No, silly! A puppy!”

  “Please tell me your mom’s driving.”

  “Mom!” Mara cackled. “Rori thinks you’re driving!”

  Shit. “Give the phone to your mom, Mara!” I demanded.

  There was clattering on the line before Mrs. Lewis finally answered, “Hello, Rori. Sorry. Mara dropped the phone. Oh, boy. My daughter is stoned.” She whispered the last word. Mrs. Lewis was the sweetest person ever, never cursed or talked bad about anyone, and how she’d raised two of the biggest smartasses I knew, I had no clue. But she was also a pushover, so Mara could very well have been behind the wheel taking out various unsuspecting street vendor carts along the way.

  “She’s not really driving, right?” I asked with a wince, bracing for the bad news but hoping it wasn’t true.

  “No, honey. She wanted to, but I put my foot down this time!”

  I let out the breath I’d been hol
ding. “Good for you. So, I’m assuming she’s not coming to work?” I laughed when I heard Mara in the background randomly yelling, “Tell Rori my Tamagotchi’s name was Petal!”

  When Mara kept bugging her mom to tell me, Mrs. Lewis finally gave in and informed me of the digital pet’s name then confided, “She wanted to come in to work, but I was afraid she’d lose business, so I’m taking her home with me.”

  “Good call, Mrs. L.” Phew! “Tell her I’ll stop by tonight after I get outta here. Take care of our girl and I’ll see you later!”

  “Okay, dear. I’ll make your favorite fried chicken.”

  “Oh, that’s awesome! I can’t wait! See you soon!”

  Mrs. Lewis made the best fried chicken ever, which she marinated in buttermilk for several hours before frying, and lord have mercy, it was the best thing ever. My mouth watered just at the thought of it.

  I finished up the orders in the computer then went to check on the bakery, completely unaware that I’d done anything wrong.

  Yolo.

  Chapter 3

  I drove my pickup truck to the flower shop that was located in Logan’s Circle wondering how the hell they could’ve mixed up my orders, oblivious to the fact that in a matter of minutes, I was about to get my balls handed to me.

  I admit I was pissed since what happened had made me look like a royal schmuck. I mean, I liked Bethany and Nevaeh, don’t get me wrong, but their knowing I was dating other women wasn’t the issue here. I know you’ll think I’m a jerk for saying this, but it wasn’t like I was gonna be waiting in a tux at the end of the aisle for either of them.

  Hey, women have that saying about kissing a lot of toads before finding their prince, right? Well, not trying to burst any bubbles, but that rule applies to us guys, too. We just don’t let the female population in on it ‘cause we don’t wanna hurt anyone’s feelings that they might not be “the one.” Which might mean no sex. And that would suck. A lot.

  I’ll just let testosterone take the fall for those last comments.

  So, back to my balls.

  Pulling into a parking space in front of Flannigan’s Flowers & Fare, I choked down a metaphorical chill pill before getting out of the truck because, being who I am, I have to be careful of doing anything that might end up on the evening news. Or even worse, ESPN. I was used to checking my emotions at the door, so all I wanted to do was go in, voice my complaint, get their apology and move on.

  The bells hanging on the door jingled when I walked in and it was then I was positive I’d found my new favorite place. I knew it was a flower shop, but had no idea it was connected to a bakery, and my mouth immediately began to water at the smell of all things fucking delicious.

  “May I help you?” I heard a woman call.

  I looked down to see her squatting behind the counter. She sounded like the lady I’d ordered from, so I got ready to calmly ask her about the delivery mishap. When she stood, she had a handful of those clear, plastic devil pitchfork things that hold cards in bouquets, and giving me a quick glance before turning to some vases of flowers and sticking the pronged holders in, she asked again, “May I help you?”

  I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open, my heart skipped a goddamned beat and my dick twitched so hard it almost knocked me back on my ass. Because standing before me was what I deemed the most perfect woman I’d ever seen, which is saying a whole fucking lot.

  She had this auburn hair, unbelievable auburn hair, that was a mass of long curls that framed her face in a messy bedhead kind of style and it was sexy as hell. Her face was flawless, her skin so creamy and fair it literally glowed, and when her emerald eyes met mine, the sooty lashes surrounding them made them even more striking and I sucked in a breath.

  Hand to God, at that moment I thought to myself, this is the kind of girl I’m gonna marry.

  But several months before, I’d come up with a five-year plan where I’d decided I wouldn’t marry until I was thirty-two, which was still four-and-a-half years away, giving me plenty of time to sow my wild oats, as they say, before settling down. Sowing didn’t necessarily pertain to women, although that worked for me. The thing was, I really just wanted to be sure I had sown those oats before making a commitment. I’d witnessed too many divorces of my teammates who’d married young and obviously weren’t finished, well, sowing, and I didn’t want to go that route. So, as in all aspects of my life, my motto of “In it to win it” applied to marriage too, and I was not going to fuck things up.

  Scanning her body next, because, you know, horny male, I took in the dark green, fitted, button-down shirt—that was mostly unbuttoned—that she wore over a white t-shirt that conformed to her tits making them look fabulous. The tight jeans she had on cupped her ass in the most amazing of ways, so much so that I was still staring at it when she looked over her shoulder at me.

  “Sir?” I heard her say in an angelic voice.

  It took me a few seconds to drag myself from my lust-filled reverie before I articulately muttered, “Huh?”

  “May I help you?” she repeated for the third time, and it was then I realized her voice wasn’t as angelic as I’d first thought because she was pretty much snapping at me.

  “Oh. Hi. I’m—”

  “Calder Castleman, professional football player, quarterback, holds the season record for over five-thousand passing yards this year, yeah. What can I help you with?” she stated blandly before turning back to the vases.

  Any other time, I would’ve been thrilled that a woman not only knew who I was, but had my stats at the ready to toss out at me. But as I watched the words glide from those gorgeous, pouty lips of hers, I heard a stoicism I wasn’t used to when fans talked to me.

  I narrowed my eyes, curious as to why she hadn’t, you know, excitedly crooned that information out or instantly asked for my autograph like everyone else did. Better yet, jumped up and down and made those perfect tits bounce.

  I approached the counter. “Uh, yeah. About three hours ago, I called in to have two orders deliver—”

  “Yes, one on Thirteenth Street Northwest and one on Ninth Street Southeast,” she interrupted without looking at me, still poking the holders into the vases.

  “Yeah. About that. They got switched up, so the wrong flowers and cards went to the wrong person,” I explained.

  She turned and gave me a pretty frown then moved to the register, and picking up a piece of paper, scanned it with her eyes. Next, she clicked around on the register’s keyboard and pulled up a page. Glancing down at the paper then back at the screen, I saw her eyes go wide. Ah, she realized her mistake and I got ready for her apology, which, of course, I’d graciously wave off as no big deal then ask her to dinner the next evening. We’d eat the best steak and lobster in the entire state at Grumpy’s Surf and Turf, where I’d be my charming, gallant self, leaving her no other choice but to fall in love with me.

  So, there I stood, waiting on her to admit her mistake and ask me to forgive her. But, no. What she did do was bite her lip as she took a deep breath and let it out, flip her eyes to mine for a split second, then she started laughing.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

  Amidst her giggles, she held a hand up. “I’m sorry.”

  Yes. There was my apology.

  Then she went on.

  “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

  She was only apologizing for laughing. Huh.

  As she continued chuckling, she put a paper on the counter right in front of me, which I thought might be my orders but saw it was actually a printout of messages, and then she began writing the messages on the cards. I watched for several moments as she’d write on a card, put the card in an envelope, move a finger across the printout, turn and find the correct plant, stick the card in the pitchfork, then move on to the next one. This went on for several minutes while I waited, pretty dumbfounded that I guessed, according to her, our conversation was over.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” she offered, quickly
shooting her eyes my way before they turned back to what she was doing.

  I let out humorless huff. “I was kinda expecting some sort of apology.”

  She stopped what she was doing and stared down at the counter for a moment before glancing at me again. “I did apologize.” And back to work for her.

  Squinting my eyes, I stated, “You apologized for laughing.” I heard her snort then saw her bite her lips as if to keep from laughing. Again. She might be beautiful, but I was tired of being disrespected. “How about this. Can I talk to the manager?”

  “You got her,” she uttered, still not sparing me a glimpse.

  Okay, it was time to pull out the big guns. “All right. Then can I talk to the owner?”

  Her eyebrows came up as she wrote and she stated, “Still got her.”

  Jesus.

  “And you are?” I queried.

  “Rori Flannigan,” she replied with a bored sigh.

  I decided another tactic was in order to get her to respond to me. “How do you know who I am?”

  She stopped writing and actually looked at me for more than three seconds. “I have four older brothers who recite stats like they’re a life source.” She went back to writing just after tacking on, “And I read Petra Hyatt’s column every now and then.”

  Ouch.

  Petra Hyatt was a Hollywood gossip columnist who’d recently named me “Player of the Year,” but not for football, my social life. What can I say? I like a good party and I like women. But that really wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted this woman to base who I was on.

  “That stuff’s exaggerated,” I claimed.

  That got her attention and me almost five full seconds of face time. “So, the picture she posted of you passed out in bed with four half-naked women was, what, Photoshopped?”

  Damn. This chick was hard. I felt the blood creeping up my neck. “Yeah. It probably was.”

  I saw her roll her eyes as she kept writing before I noticed a collection jar on the counter with a picture of the charity in which I was involved.