Cinnamon and Spice Conundrum (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

Chapter 17

Ryan/Jack

To use a trite fishing analogy, I’ve fallen for Sadie, hook, line, and sinker.

Watching her tumble into the lake almost gave me heart failure, then seeing her in that wet T-shirt—and her modest, unsexy bra—almost gave me a heart attack. The organ tried to beat its way out of my chest. I’ve dated some beautiful women, but Sadie beats all of them hands down. She’s perfect from head to toe.

Wowza!

How can we ever go back to being just friends?

The minute the canoe hits the bank, I mutely watch her dash off towards the cabin. I’m sure we both felt the intense tug of attraction between us, based on the steamy shared looks and the silent canoe ride back to shore.

As I wrangle the canoe into the shed, my mind spins with thoughts about how to take this relationship with Sadie to the next level. Admit I want to date her and see where that takes us. But there’s one small hurdle. I need to reveal who I really am and date her as Ryan Turnbill, not as Jack Ryan.

How do I set things straight?

Waltz into the cabin and say, “Hello, I’m Ryan Turnbill, nice to meet you.” That’s the rip off the Band-Aid approach.

Over dinner, suavely work in this conversation starter, “Sadie, there’s been a teensy little misunderstanding as to who I really am.” But it’s hardly a misunderstanding, is it? I intentionally took on a different identity and misled her .

Keep my mouth shut and hope that an opportunity eventually presents itself to reveal that I’m Ryan not Jack. That’s the frightened man’s approach. Or some may call it chickening out.

When I spot her through the window, dried off, looking like the sweet girl next door in her messy ponytail and tight blue jeans, I simply can’t tell her the truth today and ruin this fabulous day together.

Why rock the boat? Wincing at the terrible analogy, I put on my game face and head inside.

We’re going to share a nice dinner, I’m going to explain the pricing spreadsheet, and everything between us will go back to normal. After she moves back into the apartment above the café, I’ll have a little space and can formulate a strategy for introducing my real self to her. As Ryan, not Jack.

Sounds like a plan, right?

Cluck! Cluck!

An awkward atmosphere greets me when I stroll into the cabin after getting my thoughts in order. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” Sadie says without making eye contact. She’s furiously stirring something in a saucepan on the stove while a pan of noodles boils on another burner. Jolt gives me a stink-eye from his dog bed in the corner, picking up on his master’s discomfort.

“Okay. I’ll be, um, working, er, on a project for Sam until you need my, um, help,” I say, the words getting tangled on my tongue. I quickly retreat down the hall to my bedroom; my feet can’t carry me fast enough as another white lie awkwardly sprouts from my lips.

There’s no project for Sam. In fact, I’ve been unable to focus on work while I’ve been here. Sam’s going to demand that I return to Denver soon if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain. I promised not to let my responsibilities slip while I’m here, yet my email inbox is full and I need to review the project schedule for our latest software release .

Closing the bedroom door with a loud snick , I sink down on the bed, the noisy creak resonating around the room. Note to self: Purchase that WD-40!

Resting my head in my hands, I groan at that clumsy get away. Why can’t I just tell Sadie the truth? The truth about how I feel about her. The truth about who I really am.

Cluck! Cluck!

Grabbing my laptop, I snap it open and review the pricing spreadsheet for the twenty-first time, formulating what I’m going to say when I talk to Sadie about this later. Focusing on the numbers helps take my mind off the beautiful woman just down the hall. Minutes pass while I’m absorbed in the worksheet, the formulas, and the logic that led me to my pricing recommendations. If my calculations are correct, the new prices are going to drastically help her finances.

Crash! Clang! Clank!

The sound of metal banging against something catches my attention. I grin when a loud “Fudgesicle!” drifts down the hall. Deciding that I’ve hidden out long enough, I emerge and tiptoe silently to the kitchen, then peer around the doorway. My eyes go wide.

Sadie must have used every pan in the kitchen with the number spread out across the counter. A cutting board with the remains of an onion sits next to the sink. She’s muttering to herself as she cleans up what must be the noodles for our dinner off the floor. The scowl on her face almost makes me do a quick retreat down the hall again.

“Anything I can do to help?”

She glares at me from her kneeling position. “No, things are going just peachy,” she says in a sardonic tone. She keeps scooping noodles back into a pan, scraping them off the old linoleum floor with a spoon.

“Were those the noodles for the stroganoff?” I ask, then want to suck the words back down my throat.

“Good guess, Sherlock,” she replies through gritted teeth .

I approach, hoping that she doesn’t toss a handful of pasta at my head. Holding out my hand, I wiggle my fingers, motioning for her to stand. She blows out a loud breath, sets the spoon down with a clank, then takes my hand. I pull her to a standing position.

“I appreciate all the effort, but we can do something less complicated for dinner,” I say, tilting her chin so she’s looking at me.

She purses her lips, the expression the same as if she just bit into a stalk of rhubarb. “But I wanted to make a nice dinner. You’re always making dinner for me,” she wails, then blows out a loud breath. “You make it look so easy.”

Squeezing her hands, I say, “Hey, I’ve had plenty of dinner disasters. One time I scorched spaghetti sauce so badly I had to throw out not only the sauce but also the pan. That was a peanut butter and jelly night.”

A small smile twitches her lips. “We might have to resort to PB&Js tonight. We don’t have any more noodles in the pantry.” Her eyes drift towards the floor and the remaining noodles.

“Let’s order a pizza. While we wait for it, I’ll help you clean up.”

She grunts, looking around the kitchen disaster with a shudder. “Okay.” The word comes out begrudgingly.

“You place the order,” I say, handing her the cabin’s landline phone. “The pizza place is number 2 on speed dial,” I add with a grin.

“Grandad did love pizza,” she says with a giggle.

“Go crazy, get whatever kind you want,” I say as I resume her position on the floor and begin scooping up the soggy pasta.

“What’s your stance on anchovies?” she asks.

My nose automatically wrinkles, but I did tell her to order whatever she wants. “If you like them, go ahead and order them.”

She laughs. “I hate those things! I just wanted to see what you’d say.”

I fling a handful of noodles at her as she scurries away, still laughing.

The pizza is estimated to arrive forty-five minutes later, giving us plenty of time to clean up the kitchen mess. There’s no longer any evidence of the noodle disaster. Jolt was a big help as he licked the faded linoleum clean. I probably should still mop, but I’ll leave that until tomorrow morning.

“I have a confession to make,” Sadie says, joining me at the counter.

Pausing in loading the dishwasher, I say, “A confession?” Guilt laces my voice knowing that I have a confession of my own, but I simply can’t bring myself to do it.

“I’m a terrible cook.”

I bark out a laugh. “What? No, you’re not. Look at all the yummy food you make at the café.”

She picks up a dish towel and starts drying the large pans that I had to hand-wash because they don’t fit in the ancient dishwasher. “I make mostly sandwiches or wraps. Sometimes quiche or an occasional kolache. All baking-related. I intentionally don’t offer a dinner menu.”

“Hum. I just thought you didn’t want to compete with all the other Pinecone Pines restaurants who serve dinner.”

“That’s part of it,” she admits. “But I mostly don’t want to have to cook anything that requires so many complicated steps. Sauté the meat... Make the sauce... Boil the pasta... For lasagna, you layer everything in a pan and then have to bake it.”

“Your stroganoff sauce was delicious. I tasted it before putting it in the fridge,” I confess. “We’ll get more noodles and try that meal tomorrow night. A do-over.”

She points her finger at me. “I’m in, as long as you’re in charge of noodles.”

We both laugh .

When the doorbell rings, I’m wiping down the counters, the last step in our cleanup routine.

“That must be the pizza! I’m starving,” Sadie says as she trots off to answer the door.

I’m so glad that I was able to restore her cheery mood. Plus, we were too busy cleaning the kitchen to let awkwardness fall between us. Maybe we can just pay no attention to the off-the-charts attraction we felt on the lake and return to being friends.

Fat chance. Something tells me that my attraction to Sadie is a conundrum I won’t be able to ignore.