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  The Last First Date

  Rockyln Ryder

  Copyright © 2020Rocklyn Ryder

  All rights reserved worldwide

  No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

  The Last First Date

  The Do-Over Pact book 1

  by

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Molly

  Bottomless mimosas, bitchfests, and brunch.

  That's what we do on Sunday mornings.

  The Lakeside Laundry & Boat Dock Cafe is the quirky sort of place you'd expect to find in a much trendier city like Seattle or Portland-- or at least some place that actually had a lake.

  But no. There's no lake, no laundry, and no boat dock but there's a pretty damn good cafe.

  "Looks like the guys hired a new waiter," Abby mentions with interest as she slides into a turquoise wing back chair and makes a grab for a mini scone.

  "Spencer," Sierra informs us without so much as looking up from her sketchbook, "they know him from college, I guess he hiked the PCT after graduation and then had a hard time with re-entry so he's gonna do the vanlife thing while he re-centers. He's gonna help the guys out through the summer and then he's planning on heading to Baja."

  Abby and I stare at Sierra with interest.

  "Sounds right up your alley," Bailey tells Sierra in her patented you should totally hit it voice.

  Sierra looks up from her doodling-- not that Sierra "doodles." No, Sierra is a mad talented artist that makes what most of us consider doodling look like someone tied a pencil to a turtle.

  "How do you figure?" Sierra asks, genuinely perplexed at Bailey's suggestion that this Spencer guy might be her type.

  Bailey sizes up Sierra in a glance, "Seriously? You don't think homeless hipster dude in the man-bun is your type?"

  Sierra looks back at Bailey, deadpan, reaches for her mimosa and takes a sip before knitting her brows together.

  Then she turns her head to study the man-bunned specimen in question.

  "No," she finally answers, slightly grossed out, "No way."

  "Oh my God!"

  Paige enters the scene. Late, as usual.

  "Have you guys seen the new server?" Paige flops into a wooden ladder back chair painted in yellow and green, "Holy shit!"

  Everyone else looks at Sierra and Sierra looks at the ceiling and laughs.

  "What? What'd I miss? Did See already call dibs?" Paige sounds pretty put out, "Dammit, I never get the good ones."

  Paige reaches for a glass and the pitcher on the table.

  This week it's honeydew thistle mimosas.

  They don't suck.

  "This is pretty," Paige remarks on the pale green liquid as she fills her glass from the pitcher.

  "You should see how they serve them by the glass," Bailey says, holding out her own glass so Paige can refill it, "they float them with Chambord and garnish with fennel and starfruit. Makes a nice presentation."

  "So what'd I miss?" Paige asks, "Other than out on the McManbun hottness apparently?"

  Paige is sort of the group secretary. Not that we have assigned roles. It's just that she's always the last one to arrive, so nothing really starts till she gets here, and as a professional event planner, she's also the one who remembers every little detail so we've all come to rely on her to remind us where we left off.

  "Well, for starters," I quip, reaching for the pitcher to refill my own glass, "Sierra thinks McManbun Hottie is gross, so he's still up for grabs."

  The first pitcher is empty and everyone is here.

  Brunch has officially begun.

  * * *

  "So did everybody get an invitation to Tory's baby shower?" Abby opens with.

  The groan is collective.

  "Wait, now Tory's having a baby?"

  Sierra's pencil stops moving as she looks up from her sketchbook and gapes.

  Paige nods solemnly.

  I shrug apologetically-- like it's my fault someone from the graduating class two years behind us is already married and having kids.

  Even Bailey's look of disgust looks slightly more jealous than grossed out.

  "How can she already be pregnant?" Paige demands miserably as Bailey raises her hand in the air to signal that we're ready to order food-- and another pitcher of mimosas.

  "She's only been married a year," she adds.

  "Well it's not like she waited to start trying," Bailey says sarcastically.

  I snort, "Oh I don't know," my own sarcasm matches Bailey's, "I think 21 years is plenty long enough to wait."

  Abby and Paige look at me curiously.

  "What do you mean?" Paige asks.

  "She means Tory was a virgin when she got hitched," Sierra says, her hand back to it's constant movements, even while her eyes dart back and forth from us to her work.

  "No way!" Paige says, "No one's a virgin anymore!"

  Instant silence at the table.

  Bailey and I do our best not to giggle at Paige's obvious pain as Manbun McHottie arrives with our next pitcher of the house's weekly special mimosas just in time to overhear Paige's exclamation.

  "You ladies ready to order?" He asks-- keeping it very professional, despite a slight smirk.

  "Lavendar buckwheat pancakes," Abby tells him, handing her menu to him.

  "Same," I say, "Only I want syrup."

  "You want the syrup with the lemon honey drizzle?" He asks.

  I feel guilty for not wanting it the way they make it, but I feel even worse for wanting plain old boring maple syrup.

  I shake my head apologetically.

  Manbun nods, "No problem, do you want huckleberry or vanilla bean syrup?"

  "Um," I stall.

  "She wants Mrs. Butterworth," Bailey quips on my behalf, "but she'll settle for the Vermont maple since Gil doesn't stock that crap. And I would like an order of the blueberry rhubarb crepes," she adds with unerring confidence, "with a hazelnut drizzle and toasted almonds."

  Manbun stares at her, completely unsure of how to react.

  Bailey's order isn't on the menu.

  "I'm sorry," he tells her, "I'm not familiar with that item."

  "Just tell Gil what she ordered, Spence," Sierra says calmly.

  "Oh hey, See," Spencer turns around at the sound of a familiar voice and looks utterly relieved to see Sierra with us, "You think Gil's cool with it then?"

  Sierra nods, understandingly and hands him her menu, "yeah, it's cool, Gil knows us, he's used to Bailey."

  "Ah, OK," Spencer mumbles, his pencil scribbling on his waiter's ticket pad.

  "Upside-down cold oats with raspberries," Sierra orders when he's ready.

  "Honey on top?" he asks.

  "No sir," Sierra says with an emphatic head shake.

  Spencer coughs nervously as he turns his attention to Paige, who blushes furiously.

  "Just the omelet," she blurts out too quickly and virtually throws her menu at the poor guy.

  "Um," Spencer seems almost as flustered as Paige, "Which omelet?"

  "The special one," Paige mutters without looking up at him.

  Spencer's confused gaze mov
es across each of our faces, looking for an answer.

  I notice his nervous glance at Bailey and I realize he's not sure if there's a "special" omelet just for Paige or if she means the omelet that's on today's special menu.

  "She means the Farmer's Market special," I explain.

  "Cool," Spencer says with a smooth smile as his eyes dart back to Paige, "Got it."

  "And another pitcher!" Bailey calls after him before he can get too far from our table.

  Spencer nods in acknowledgment and heads detours toward the bar.

  "He does have a nice ass," Bailey observes.

  "I can't believe he heard that," Paige moans.

  "I can't believe Tory Bowman is married and pregnant before any of us," I say.

  "I can't believe she was still a virgin," Bailey pitches in.

  "Lot's of people are virgins," Sierra pipes up.

  We all give her the stink eye.

  "Seriously."

  Sierra actually sets down her sketchbook and pulls her chair up to the table, "It's a thing, really."

  She's met with four sets of skeptical eyes.

  "Summer's saving herself," See tells us, refilling her mimosa with the last of pitcher number two. "And so are Amber and Gavin."

  "Why?" Bailey asks, obviously not a supporter of this new information about Sierra's younger sister and her friends. "Why would anyone save themselves for marriage these days?"

  Paige's fingers trace tiny heart patterns in the condensation on her glass, her shoulders lifting and dropping quickly in a very brief shrug.

  "I don't know, I think it's kinda romantic," she says sheepishly.

  "Well, it's not all about waiting for marriage," Sierra explains, "Summer and her friends are into the idea that sex is special and you should wait to share it with someone that deserves the gift of your body."

  See takes her sketchbook off the table and slips into the leather messenger bag hanging off the back of her chair.

  "They just don't want to regret their first time," Sierra tells us, "It's pretty cool."

  "Smart,"I agree, "I wish I'd thought of it that way before I lost my virginity to Scooter Tanning."

  "Scooter? Abby asks, apparently this is news to her, "You lost your virginity to Scooter?"

  I roll my eyes.

  "I told you we had sex!"

  "Yeah, but you didn't tell me it was your first time! OhmyGod, I can't believe you gave it up for Scooter." Abby is amused and grossed out.

  "Never lose your virginity to a guy with a dumb nickname," Bailey says sagely.

  "Where were you my junior year?" I ask.

  Laughter erupts around the table as we all start reminiscing about our high school days, our friendships, and our regrettable sexual histories.

  "I definitely would change my first time if I could do it over again," Paige commiserates-- just in time for her newest crush to show up with the next pitcher.

  Spencer looks a little embarrassed himself and tries to pretend he didn't overhear that.

  "Food's coming right up, ladies," he says before heading back to the kitchen.

  If he was trying to give us fair warning that he's coming right back, it falls on deaf ears as me and the girls start in on the new pitcher-- and a whole lot of "If I could do it overs."

  Reagan

  Landsburg isn't so bad. It's kinda small at only twelve thousand people or so, but it's pretty.

  I pull the truck in to the lumber yard and follow the signs to the rear loading dock where the Contract Supply Liaison's office is.

  Sounds pretty lofty for a small town builder's supply outfit, but it's also the only game in town.

  The office is your typical modular building set in the back without any indication where I'm supposed to park my rig.

  So I pull the GMC up where ever and kill the engine.

  There's a bell tied to the inside door knob that jingles when I push the door open and I hear her voice before my eyes can adjust to the dimmer light inside the trailer.

  "Welcome to Landsburg Lumber, can I help you?"

  The feminine voice is coming from behind a high counter off to my left and something about the sweet tone has me eager to get a look at its owner.

  "Yeah, I'm supposed to talk to Molly," I answer, my eyes still working to get used to the dull overhead fluorescents after being outside.

  Slipping my sunglasses onto the collar of my polo, I make my way over to the counter that separates the office from the lobby.

  "That's me," the woman answers, "What's your name?"

  Wow.

  The pretty voice belongs to an even prettier girl.

  She's about my age, with her hair pulled back in a casual pony tail. Like it was in her way whiles she was typing or some shit so she just tied it back while she's at work.

  Her desk is pushed up against the wall right next to the only window in the damn place that I can see and the sun pouring in really highlights the cinnamon color of her hair and the cute little line of freckles across the tops of her cheeks.

  "Um," I stall. I forget. What did she just ask me?

  Oh yeah! My name. Duh.

  "Reagan. Like the president," I finally remember the answer.

  She tilts her head to the side and looks up at me with half a smile that just does something to my insides.

  "What's the first name?" she asks as she looks at a desk calendar to her right.

  Her change in tone kinda takes the wind out of my sails, if you know what I mean.

  I liked it when she was looking up at me with that look in her eyes that said maybe. Now she's all business and I'm wondering what I have to do to get back to maybe and change it to yes.

  "Reagan," I tell her, "Reagan is the first name, last name Price."

  "Like 'is right?' "

  There's that cute little smile I got a glimpse of before. This time she gives me the whole thing and I swear I fucking melt inside.

  "I usually go with Vincent," I say, "but if you can get closest without going over, I am willing to let you be next."

  I think I'm being charming and I give her my best cheesy grin in case I have to convince Molly.

  "Oh wow, that's--"

  She's laughing as she gets up from her desk and heads toward the counter.

  "Clever?" I offer, "Adorable?"

  She shakes her head after each of my suggestions, but she's still laughing and I can't help but feel like maybe she appreciates my humor after all.

  "Good enough to get your phone number at least?" I go for broke.

  "I---" she drags the syllable out and I hold my breath, "--don't know about that."

  "Heart, meet floor," I say out loud.

  Molly rolls her eyes at me.

  It's the cutest thing I've ever seen.

  Molly is the cutest thing I've ever seen.

  "Lunch?" I go for Plan B, "Low commitment, no pressure, no way for me to drunk text you at two in the morning."

  She glances at the clock on the office wall.

  It's says 4:39.

  "Kinda late for lunch, Reagan," she quips sarcastically, "how about you just tell me what it is you need?"

  This girl is proving to be a challenge.

  Good thing I like a challenge.

  "Wood," I answer seriously, "And I hear you're the girl to get it from."

  Shit. That was not on purpose.

  "Oh my go-- I am so sorry, I didn't mean..." Shit.

  But Molly is cracking up while I stand here stammering like a fool, trying to pull my foot out of my mouth.

  "It's fine," she gasps, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes.

  "Um," I clear my throat and try to start over, "I mean, yeah, I was told I need to talk you about getting some..."

  We both start laughing again.

  "OK, you know what?" I say when I'm pretty sure I'm done blushing, "Now you have to let me take you out, just to prove I'm not really an immature creep."

  There's that little maybe smile again.

  "I guess dinner does seem f
air if you're expecting wood from me later," she teases.

  I definitely expect this girl is going to give me wood, and not just the order of cedar and 3 ply I came to pick up.

  Molly

  Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. Why did I agree to this?

  The thing about Reagan is that he's great.

  In every way great.

  Like I could see myself really getting into this guy great.

  "So I promised the baby bro I'd come up and help him build out his van over the summer and so here I am," he finishes up the story he refers to as the "brief history of Reagan" and reaches for the iced tea he ordered with dinner.

  "How 'bout you, Moll? What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like Landsburg?"

  "Dinner" is actually burgers and fries at the Hungry Hut after I got off work.

  Reagan kept his promise of keeping things casual-- and he's been very clear that this is not a date.

  But the butterflies in my stomach feel more like hummingbirds anyway.

  "I was born here," I say with a shrug, "I mean, I was born in town, because Landsburg didn't have the hospital back then, but-- yeah--" another shrug "been here my whole life."

  "You never wanted to leave?" he asks, stealing an onion ring.

  Why did I order onion rings?

  What if he wants to kiss me?

  What if he expects more than a kiss?

  "Not really, Langsburg is home, you know?"

  I can't help but smile when I look over at him, and when he smiles back, the hummingbird butterflies go into a frenzy.

  "I did live in town for a little while after high school," I clarify, "Doing the college thing, but--"

  This time my shrug is just a way of not finishing the sentence.

  "So you came back to the home town with degree in hand and landed the prestigious 'contractor supply liaison' position at the lumber yard?"

  Reagan gives me a wink, but I think he might actually think it's a prestigious position.

  I laugh. Hard.