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.

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 holding. “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.