Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Erin
“Are you coming with me?” Barbara, my roommate, asks for what feels like the millionth time. “Tell me you’re coming with me, Erin, please.”
Arguing with her is exhausting. My friend is addicted to online dating apps, so she has a new prospect almost every weekend. Except this time, she insists I tag along and make it a double date.
A double disaster sounds more like it.
“This man is amazing. He works at a fancy financial firm here in San Francisco, and also—”
My head is spinning. Today was pure chaos at my little flower shop, and all I wanted was a relaxing evening at home, wrapped in my coziest blanket with a glass—or three—of wine.
Instead, I walked through the door and straight into Barbara’s whirlwind of excitement, her voice buzzing with relentless enthusiasm as she tries to persuade me to go out.
Not happening.
I have a massive headache, my feet are throbbing from standing all day, and tomorrow is Saturday, which means another early morning at the shop.
My love for flowers is undeniable. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of owning my own flower shop.
Now, after years of hard work—endless shifts at a prestigious florist, attending community college at night, building a client base from scratch—I finally have it.
And I’m not about to sacrifice my precious sleep for a date with a stranger.
Especially not after today’s disaster.
A bridezilla stormed in at three o’clock, wailing about a dream her mother had, which apparently involved an entirely different set of table arrangements.
For two excruciating hours, I had to channel every ounce of patience to convince her that changing everything this late would be a logistical nightmare.
In the end, my most persuasive technique was simple: charging double.
Funny how quickly she decided to stick with the original plan after that.
“I have a wedding tomorrow, Barbara. This girl needs her beauty sleep.”
“Please, Erin,” Barbara pleads again, trailing after me as I head to the kitchen.
Ignoring her, I grab a chilled bottle of white wine from the fridge, contemplating whether to pour it into a glass or just drink it straight from the bottle.
“Listen to me and pay attention,” I say, finally facing her as I pop the cork. “I’m not going. I’m fucking exhausted, my head is pounding, and all this chatter is making it worse.”
I sink onto a stool at the kitchen island, filling a glass and taking a slow sip.
The wine is crisp and refreshing. Barbara watches me with an expression that’s equal parts frustration and amusement as I spear a bite of cold pasta carbonara straight from the container.
Yep, I’m that tired—too drained to even bother microwaving it.
This is adulting at its finest.
“Erin…” she whines dramatically. “I need to get ready. You know how long my hair takes.”
Ah, yes. The hair. Barbara’s blonde locks are practically a full-time job—regular salon visits, conditioning treatments, endless styling sessions.
I, too, am blonde. But I’ve never colored my hair, and my daily routine consists of either a ponytail or a braid—functional, easy, done.
“I know I can convince you if…” she begins, her voice taking on a cunning lilt.
I take another sip of wine. “You have nothing to bribe me with.”
She smiles slyly, and I instantly regret those words.
“I know you want to trade rooms with me. You’ve been eyeing my little balcony, walk-in closet, and en-suite bathroom for months.”
My jaw nearly drops.
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” She places a hand over her heart, feigning solemnity. “I’ll move my stuff first thing in the morning. But only if you come with me tonight.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Where are we going? I need to dress the part.”
She grins victoriously. “Some Japanese place on Clement Street.”
I know the restaurant, though I’ve never been there. At least there’s sushi. That softens the blow a little. And it isn’t far from home. Maybe—just maybe—this won’t be so bad.
Barbara practically vibrates with excitement as I finish my glass of wine. She taps her foot impatiently, watching as I take my sweet time, savoring every sip. If I’m being dragged into one of her wild dating schemes, she can deal with me moving at my own pace.
“Are you going or not?”
I sigh, relenting. My own place—that’s what I need. Soon. In a few months, I should have enough saved up to afford an apartment of my own. No more roommate drama. No more spontaneous double dates.
“I’m coming,” I grumble, setting my empty glass down. “But you better start moving your stuff without my help tomorrow so I can switch rooms on Sunday. I’ll be at the wedding all day.”
“Done,” she chirps, practically bouncing with joy. Whoever this guy is, he must be something special for her to go to such lengths.
Good for her. Even better for me.
After a quick shower and two Advil, I feel slightly more human.
I slip into a white off-the-shoulder top, black skinny jeans, and my trusty animal-print ballerinas.
My blonde hair is swept into my usual ponytail, but I swipe on a bold red lipstick to mark the occasion—celebrating my upgraded living situation.
A spritz of perfume. A final glance in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all.
“Move that ass!” Barbara hollers from the living room.
I wink at my reflection.
Show time.