Cinnamon and Spice Conundrum (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

Chapter 11

Ryan/Jack

My wardrobe sucks! Obviously it’s atrocious if sweet Sadie suggested a makeover. I’m starting to get vibes that she’s attracted to me, er, Jack, but is my gramps outfit putting her off? I wince when I replay our conversation over in my head. Even my argument for wearing these cardigans sounded like it came from an eighty-year-old man. I’ve been burning up in these things! And I will never, ever purchase another shade of brown cardigan in my life.

Why did I think I had to emulate Jack’s clothing from head to toe? Sadie has never met him, so she wouldn’t know if I showed up in something more stylish than these dowdy sweaters and pressed khaki pants. Plus, ironing that seam down both legs of these trousers every day is a real pain.

Maybe I will show up in my Ryan clothes one morning and see what happens. I’d love to see the look—hopefully of admiration—on Sadie’s face if I shed Jack’s outer persona and looked like Ryan again. But there is a very good reason for this disguise, my inner voice reminds me.

The most eligible bachelor list . . .

The women stalking me . . .

The reason I’m hiding out here . . .

My life, the one I’ve successfully escaped from for almost a week, comes crashing back around me. Someone from my Denver social circle could come here and recognize me. Or even a stranger who read that article too closely because the journalist felt compelled to include tasteful headshots of those of us unfortunate enough to get on the list. Ugh! I need to keep up the Gramps look and stay incognito at least until after the festival .

When I get back to the cabin, I shrug off my cringeworthy wardrobe and jump into creating a spreadsheet of costs and prices for all of Sadie’s baked goods and beverages. I did a little reconnaissance of local prices so I’m not comparing to Denver rates. Sadie also gave me a shoebox filled with the receipts from her recent ingredient purchases.

Just as I’m starting on the project my phone pings. I chuckle as I look at the screen.

Sam: SOS. You weren’t kidding about the female stalkers!

This deserves a phone call; I swipe the screen and dial.

“Hey buddy! What’s up?” I say after Sam mutters a grumpy hello.

“Your stalkers are relentless! Yesterday one of them followed poor Jack to our office and accosted him, quizzing him about where you’ve disappeared to,” Sam says with a huff.

Oh no! Knowing Jack, he folded like a poker player holding a pair of twos.

“What did Jack say? He didn’t give me up, did he?”

“He said you were out of town, but not specifically where, so he didn’t blow your cover. But get this, she asked Jack why he’s driving your car,” Sam adds.

She knows my car? My heart rate notches up a level. I thought I was safe hiding out here in Pinecone Pines, but if one of these women wants to track me down, they’ll be persistent until they find me.

“How did Jack explain that?”

Sam chuckles. “I overhead everything. His response was quite brilliant, actually.”

“Well, what was it?” I grumble.

“He said you wanted to make sure your vehicle was driven during your absence, so the battery didn’t discharge. Then, in typical Jack fashion, he went on to explain in excruciating detail exactly how the electrical system on the Land Rover works. A few seconds later, the woman bolted like she just spotted Ryan Gosling. ”

If only that Ryan had been named to the most eligible list, I wouldn’t have to hide out in the boondocks. Of course, Mr. Gosling isn’t a bachelor like I am.

“I appreciate you and Jack keeping up the ruse. Hopefully in a couple weeks, Sadie will find a replacement barista, the hype over that list will blow over, and I can return to my old life.”

“Aren’t you enjoying small-town life and impersonating Mr. Rogers?” Sam teases.

“The wardrobe is a pain; if I never see a cardigan sweater again, I’ll be happy.” Sam’s amused snort floats down the line. “But the town has its charms, it’s been nice to get some fresh air, and the fishing has been good.” I keep my feelings about Sadie to myself—not sure how her brother would feel about me falling for his sister.

“Sadie’s sure grateful you’re helping her out. Gotta run! I’m late for a call with our prospective client. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

Shaking my head, I ponder how glad I am that I skipped town. Dealing with the locals, their gripes about plain coffee, and their discounts is far better than warding off women who only care about my money. If I’m honest, Pinecone Pines and its quirky residents are growing on me. Especially a gorgeous café owner.

Focusing back on my pricing project for Sadie, I chuckle at the crumpled pieces of paper in the shoebox. I need to organize and show her how to do everything online via easy-to-use accounting software. I’m so glad I can help her get a better handle on her business metrics, which in turn should help improve her finances.

Forgetting about dinner or fixing Sadie’s junker, I concentrate on analyzing the café’s costs. Using a rule-of-thumb of a three-to-five-times markup, I calculate a new pricing structure where she’ll make a profit. The afternoon flies by as I become absorbed in the analysis.

Ding !

My phone pings, and I’m shocked that it’s already past six. I’m going to have to scramble to get dinner ready and pick up Sadie on time.

Sadie: How about we go out to dinner since you’re picking me up?

Lucky break! Plus, it will be fun to try out one of the many charming Pinecone Pines restaurants dotting the main street. I’ve noticed the eclectic storefronts, but I haven’t had an opportunity to taste their food although I did browse their prices so I could compare to Sadie’s.

Me: Great idea! Your choice as to where to go.

Sadie: (thumbs up emoji)

Tossing my phone down, I wish I could ditch the Jack outfit for the duration, or at least for tonight. I’d wear my new Cody James jeans paired with my light blue cashmere sweater. Each item—carefully curated by my personal shopper—is trendy, stylish, and purchased because it fits my tall frame perfectly. It would be heaven donning my own clothes again! No more wearing these ill-fitting high-water khakis or dowdy sweaters.

If I slowly introduce my clothes into the rotation, wouldn’t Sadie just think I took her wardrobe advice? Although I’d probably have to have driven to Denver to purchase most of those trendy brands. So how would I explain having fashionable clothes with me while I was wearing something every day that my grandfather would wear?

Frowning, I begrudgingly accept that it’s wiser if I keep up all the elements of the Jack persona, including the atrocious wardrobe. For now.

When I get to the café, Sadie pops out the back door and jogs to my vehicle. The aroma of vanilla and cinnamon accompanies her as she slides into the passenger seat .

“I put Jolt upstairs and we’ll come get him after we’ve eaten. He has separation anxiety, and I’m worried he’d eat your car’s lovely interior.”

My eyes go wide. She thinks this is a lovely interior? Followed closely by , how would I explain damaged leather seats to Jack? I’d probably have to give him my beloved Land Rover on a permanent loan. “Good idea,” I say, and she giggles. “Where are we going?”

“Turn right out of the parking lot. It’s about a mile down on your left.”

We crawl along at the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, and only a few people stroll the sidewalks at this hour. The street is well lit with twinkling white lights hanging from the trees lining both sides of the thoroughfare. “Are these lights up year-round?” I ask because they give off a Christmasy vibe.

“Yep. The mayor, Agnes Merryweather—she’s a regular at the café—got a bee in her bonnet one Christmas a few years ago and insisted that the business association purchase lights. She had seen something similar in Vail and thought the lights would give our main street a more upscale atmosphere.” Sadie shifts in her seat, looking straight at me. “What Agnes hadn’t counted on was the cost of stringing the lights. When the business association had to pay $2,000 for installation, Wilbur called an emergency meeting and we voted to keep them up all year.”

“Wilbur’s part of the business association?”

“He’s the president.”

Agnes is the town mayor and Wilbur is the business association president? These seniors sure occupy influential positions.

“What business does Wilbur own?” Up to this point I’ve only seen the old man drinking coffee and fishing.

“He used to own the Fir Cone Bait and Tackle shop, but it went under,” Sadie says with a shrug .

“So he’s the ex-president of the association?” Why would you have a guy whose business failed continue to be president?

“No, Wilbur is still president. No one else wanted to take over.”

I stifle a laugh. “Is anyone on the association, other than you, younger than say... sixty?”

She gets a thoughtful expression on her face. “I think Dilbert, who owns the Conifer Garage and Body Shop, is in his fifties. Although he might just be aging well; his grandfather lived to over ninety.”

Is this why I never see any younger patrons at the café? Is this town a retirement mecca? Although apparently the retirees don’t retire, they own a business—or a failed business.

“By the way, any progress on getting my car to start?” she asks.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I got tied up on another project. We can ride together again tomorrow.” That also gives me an excuse to bake with Sadie, something I really enjoyed doing this morning.

“I’ll get Dilbert to tow it and take a look. He’s the one that keeps Bessie running like a top.”

She named her car? She thinks that sputtering heap of junk runs like a top?

“Pull over! We’re here,” she shouts, pointing to an open parking spot.

My brakes squeal as I parallel park in front of a chalet-style building with a green awning and drawings of pinecones in the windows. A large sign at the top of the building reads: The Strobilus Bistro .

“What’s a strobilus?” I ask as I squint at the sign.

Laughing, Sadie, says, “A few years back we had a business-naming contest. Everyone had to use pinecone or a form of the word in their business name.” I join her on the sidewalk, and we stroll towards the entrance. “Strobilus is the botanical name for pinecone.”

Ah, that explains a lot. Can this town get any quirkier ?

“What about the café’s name? Cinnamon and spice don’t have anything to do with pinecones,” I say.

“I applied for an exemption, and the café’s name was grandfathered in. Wilbur approved it,” Sadie says.

I pause outside the door, there’s got to me more to this story. “And?”

She giggles. “Of course, that’s why I offer a local and a senior discount. It was a stipulation of being able to keep the name. Agnes really wanted me to rename the café to Piney Spicey Café, but it doesn’t have the same ring.”

Apparently Wilbur is as cunning as he is curmudgeonly. I need to remember that.

The warmth and tantalizing aromas hit me instantly the moment I open the door to the bistro. My nose detects a mixture of tomato sauce, garlic, and yeast. A sexagenarian wearing a forest green dress covered by a white frilly apron greets us. She looks like she belongs in the Alps.

A Swiss-inspired pizzeria? What an odd combination.

“Welcome! I wondered when I’d get to meet the new guy!” she says to Sadie in a lilting voice. Pulling two large menus from a pile, she leads us to a booth in the back even though most of the closer booths are open. “I’ll be back with water,” she says, handing us a menu as we slide onto the bench seats across from each other.

“That’s Francine DeBois. She comes from a prominent Denver family,” Sadie whispers although the woman is no longer anywhere within hearing distance.

DeBois? I quickly flick through Denver socialites in my head, wondering if I’ve ever met this woman. She could blow my cover. Thank goodness I’m wearing my Jack disguise.

Glancing through the menu confirms that this is a pizzeria and pasta place. “Why the Swiss theme if they serve pizza and pasta?” I ask .

Sadie chuckles. “This used to be George’s Pizza and Pasta House. When Francine took over, and after we had the naming contest, she adopted the Swiss theme because she wanted to be like some of the restaurants you see in Vail or Aspen, but she kept the menu and changed the name to the pinecone-approved theme.”

Thump!

Francine plops two mason jars filled with water none-too-gently down on the table. Instead of focusing on the spilled water, I wonder how that drinkware fits into the Swiss theme.

“Don’t I know ya?” she says, peering over a pair of half glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“I don’t think so,” I rush to say.

“This is Jack. Jack Ryan,” Sadie says, hopping into the conversation. “My fill-in barista. He works for my brother in Denver.”

The older lady’s eyes drill into mine as she continues to look me over. A trickle of sweat runs down my neck.

“I guess it’s because you remind me of that guy on TV,” she says a few beats later.

My shoulders sag in relief that she hadn’t recognized me from my picture on that darn eligible bachelor list.

“On TV?” Sadie asks.

A loud cackle slips from our waitress/greeter’s lips. “Yeah, you know, the guy who wore those sweaters and sang songs.”

“Mr. Rogers?” Sadie asks.

Francine grins and points her pen at us. “Right! That guy. You’re a ringer for him.”

I grimace. While I’m not exactly thrilled about being compared to Mr. Rogers, my disguise is obviously working.

Poising her pen back over the tiny pad in her hand, Francine asks, “What can I get ya? ”

“Let’s get the fourteen-inch Swiss Alps special,” Sadie says, pointing to one of their specialty pizzas on the menu. “Jack, is that one okay with you?”

I locate that pizza on the menu—it stands out because of the three-pinecone rating given by readers of the Pine Daily Register—and scan the list of ingredients. It sounds like what other pizza places call a Supreme, with a raft of veggies plus pepperoni and sausage. “Sure.”

Francine starts scribbling. “Onions okay?”

Sadie and I bob our heads in agreement.

“How about our famous hard cheeses and chocolate board for dessert? There’s a delicious Gruyere and Appenzeller on there, plus Lindt chocolate.”

This must be the bistro’s nod to Switzerland. I look at Sadie, deferring to her as to whether to order it.

“I doubt we’ll have room for that, Francine. Sorry,” Sadie says.

The lady shrugs. “Just trying to push the Swiss stuff. Finn gets cranky when I don’t.” She flounces off in a swirl of lace and ruffles, her orthopedic shoes squeaking across the linoleum floor.

“Finn Friedli is her boyfriend,” Sadie explains. “He’s also the cook.”

Let’s hope that a guy with a Swiss-sounding name makes a delicious pizza.

Sadie takes a sip of ice water, then says, “What did you do this afternoon? Any fishing?”

I’m not ready to discuss my pricing analysis with her yet, plus I suspect that topic will make her crabby, so my reply is intentionally vague. “I got caught up in some spreadsheet stuff.”

“Tell Sam to quit working you so hard! You need to have some fun on your vacation.”

Oddly enough, digging into Sadie’s business numbers was fun. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I’ve got so many ideas to help get her finances back in the black .

“I don’t mind,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Plus, Wilbur wasn’t around, and he seems to know all the good fishing spots.”

“Would you like to go fishing with me?” she asks, her voice sounding wistful. “The café is closed on Sunday afternoon and evening.”

My business brain wonders how she can afford to be closed on a weekend day, but I push that thought aside to puzzle over another time. Maybe I also need to address café business hours in my analysis.

Resuming the conversation, I say, “I’d love to take you fishing! Do you think Wilbur would loan us his boat?”

“We can use Grandad’s canoe in the shed,” Sadie replies excitedly.

I’m not sure a canoe is the best watercraft for fishing, but I hold my tongue because Sadie looks so excited over the expedition. “It’s a date!” I reply.

Seconds later Francine trots out from the kitchen with our pizza. She places the steaming overloaded pie on our table, along with plates and forks. My mouth instantly waters at the zesty smell.

“I’ll check back with ya in a few minutes. Enjoy!”

When I bite into a thick, cheesy slice, my tastebuds cheer. In between chews I say, “This is one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had.”

Smiling, Sadie replies, “Finn makes a mean pizza. Sam loved it when I brought him here. That’s why I wanted to bring you to the Strobilus.”

We eat in comfortable silence for the most part, other than the occasional comment about the amazing food. Between the delicious pizza and the beautiful woman at my side, I have an amazing time.

This eccentric town is starting to grow on me, and I’m developing a huge crush on my boss.