Cinnamon and Spice Conundrum (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

Chapter 19

Ryan/Jack

The remainder of the weekend flies by, every kiss, every touch making me fall deeper and deeper in love with Sadie. I try to follow my own advice and not overthink things, but a nagging voice inside my head tells me that this can’t be a real relationship until I tell her who I really am.

Monday morning arrives before I get up the nerve to tell Sadie the truth. We’re back to baking at the café, preparing for the rush of festivalgoers who will start arriving today for the Pinecone Toss—the activity that kicks off the festival every year. According to Sadie, teams train an entire year for this wacky event to win a giant pinecone trophy and a $100 spending spree to Pinecone Pines businesses.

One team, named appropriately The Cone Chuckers Collective, has won the last two years straight. But the locals feel the winners are ripe to be beaten this year because their main chucker was banned from further competition after testing positive for using performance-enhancing drugs. Who knew pinecone tossing was so competitive?

“The new price boards look terrific,” Sadie comments as she rolls out pastry dough while I mix another batch of apple cinnamon muffins.

The pricing boards were our project last night. We got the idea to use chalkboards, and luckily we were able to find some during a quick late-night run to the 24-hour big box store located in a nearby town. Sadie did a great job of writing out the new prices in different colors of chalk, her artistic ability quite impressive.

“They do, all because of you,” I say. She shrugs, but a telltale blush of embarrassment runs up her neck and onto her cheeks. I pop the muffins in the oven, then turn and ask, “Do you have a bet on what Wilbur will say about the new signs? ”

Sadie giggles. “You mean what he’ll say about the new prices?”

“Well, there is that. But I was wondering if he’d at least compliment you on the clever design.”

Her brows draw together as she ponders her response. A few beats later, she says in a voice mimicking Wilbur’s, “Looks like a classroom.”

Shaking my head, I add in an equally grumbly tone, “Did you use chalk so you can raise the prices every week?”

We gaze at each other, then both burst out laughing. “I’d bet on either one of those,” Sadie says.

“Okay, let’s make this fun. $5 bet on what Wilbur is going to say.”

“How about an additional $2 bet on what Georgeanne and Agnes will say,” Sadie replies, wiping her hand on her apron and holding it out to shake.

“This can’t be done with a handshake; it has to be sealed with a kiss!” I haul her into my arms and plant a smooch on those luscious lips. The warm kitchen, smelling of vanilla, cinnamon, and rising dough, wraps us in a cocoon, sheltering us from any distractions of the outside world. We lose track of time until Sadie pulls back, sniffing the air.

“The muffins are burning!” she squeals. Rushing to the oven, she grabs potholders and pulls the tins out.

“Are they ruined?” I ask, peeking over her shoulder, feeling a tad bit guilty about initiating the kiss.

“No, luckily I rescued them just in time,” she says as she transfers them from the pan to the cooling racks. “Just a little darker than usual, but definitely still edible.”

I chuckle. “Just make sure Wilbur doesn’t get one of those.”

Arching an eyebrow, she says, “Right. And no more betting or kissing while we’re baking,” she says as she points at me.

I shrug, not committing to that ridiculous stipulation. Instead, I document our bets on a piece of flour wrapper paper. “These are such big wagers,” I comment dryly .

“I plan on winning and using mine for a double scoop of rocky road and mint chocolate chip ice cream at The Piney Cone.”

“ Pfft! You’ll be paying for my double scoop of butter pecan,” I reply in a confident voice.

“I’m Too Sexy” starts playing on Sadie’s phone, indicating it’s time to open the café, cutting off our conversation. For the first time since I started working here, I’m looking forward to Wilbur’s appearance and who’s going to win the bet.

Sadie wasn’t kidding when she said the festival draws a huge crowd. Ever since she flipped the sign to Open, we’ve had a steady line of customers waiting to purchase coffee and baked goods. I hope the outfit I’m wearing today—ugly brown cardigan sweater, ill-fitting khakis, and black frame glasses—is sufficient that no one from Denver recognizes me.

My “disguise” hasn’t been tested up to this point, and I wonder whether I look different enough from Ryan Turnbill to pass as my alter ego Jack Ryan. This incognito thing gets tiring, but I can’t afford to be outed by a festivalgoer, especially if Sadie is around. My little white lie about who I am just keeps growing bigger and bigger. I regret ever donning this disguise.

Despite my concerns over being recognized, I rush around serving customers as quickly as I can. Judith is going to start barista training tomorrow, but I wish she’d agreed to start today. I could really use help brewing and filling all these orders. Not one of the out-of-towners complained about the prices. In fact, one woman commented on what a bargain she got on her double shot latte.

At the three-hour mark, Wilbur finally strolls in. I guess he knew from past experience to avoid the early morning festival crowd. His permanent frown immediately changes to a frownier frown if that’s even possible .

Sadie throws me a side-eye look, suppressing a grin as the older man shuffles his way to the coffee bar counter. He glares at the new signs as if they’re insulting him.

“Looks like a schoolroom in here,” he grumbles. Since that was Sadie’s bet—well technically hers was classroom , but that’s close enough—my competitive heart sinks since I’ll have to pay out the big bucks at the ice cream shop.

“Why’d you use chalk?” He squints closer at the boards. “So you could raise the prices even more?” he squawks.

My eyes swivel to Sadie’s and we both bite our lips to keep from laughing. Neither of us are going to win the Wilbur bet, but there’s always Georgeanne and Agnes, who frankly I think are wild cards, so I’m not very confident in my bet on them.

Turning back to my customer, I say, “What will you have, Wilbur?”

He scowls at me. “You still offering the senior discount or has that been eliminated?” he gripes.

“We’re still offering the ten percent senior discount,” I say magnanimously.

It looks like he’s mentally tallying up the prices and then applying the discount. “If I order two muffins, is there a price break?” he asks.

Sadie hops into the conversation because the line is continuing to grow behind the old man as he grumbles about prices and discounts. “We aren’t offering that deal today but will again sometime soon,” she quips.

The glare he throws Sadie and me could peel paint. “I’ll take one of those overpriced muffins and a cup of pricey plain coffee.” Someone in line behind him coughs and a couple other people whisper behind their hands.

I ring up his purchase, he pays with his usual combination of bills and coins, then strolls off to the back of the café to find an open table, expecting us to bring his order to him .

A younger couple are next in line. They smile and place their order without any disparaging remarks. “We can’t wait to watch the Pinecone Toss,” the lady says while I key their order into the cash register. “We’re big fans of The Chuckers,” she adds.

“The rumor is they aren’t going to win this year,” I say.

They exchange looks. “You mean the Cone Crusaders are finally going to have a chance?” the guy asks.

“Well, I’m not sure—”

The woman cuts me off. “Honey, we need to place a bet on the Crusaders!” she says, frantically scrolling on her phone. “What do you think of the Cone Launch Experts?” she asks me as she scans the screen.

I didn’t realize I would be asked to provide Pinecone Toss betting advice, but here I am.

“Bet on the Tossing Titans,” a male voice further back in the line says. “They recruited Charlie Morgan from the Chuckers.”

Excited murmurs float around the room, as several people in line grab their phones and start scrolling. There’s some serious betting going on over the Pinecone Toss.

Does Vegas set odds for this event?

“Thanks for the tip,” my customer says as I hand him his orders.

“Got any insider knowledge about the Cone Crusaders?” the next man in line asks, his finger hovering over his phone.

I nod towards the woman who just vacated the line. “She likes them.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he says, tapping the screen.

Now I can’t wait to go watch this event after my shift is over. Sadie even agreed to leave the café in Nancy and Julio’s capable hands and attend with me. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s already eleven and we haven’t seen Georgeanne or Agnes yet.

Maybe the line is still too long for them ?

I fill order after order, but the two elderly ladies never show. My concern rises, so I plan to go check on them after my shift. After all, these quirky locals have grown on me, and now I think of them as friends.

Before my shift ends, I flit around cleaning tables and busing garbage to the trash bins that the festivalgoers ignored. At least the locals bus their own trash.

When I pick up a discarded newspaper, my eyes land on the front page and my heart drops to my toes. It’s the About Town section from the Denver paper, and the headline leaps off the page as it reads: Where’s the Most Eligible Bachelor Ryan Turnbill?

My hands shake as I quickly scan the story.

“What are you reading?” Sadie says as she tries to read over my shoulder. “Is that the Denver newspaper?”

Wadding the paper into a ball, I say, “They’re having an auction on used office equipment and I thought Sam might be interested, but everything is too pricey.” Before she can comment, I quickly thrust the paper into the trash bin knowing Sadie won’t dig around in there for it.

“Wouldn’t it have been funny if you spotted something your office could use? What are the odds of a Denver newspaper landing in the café,” Sadie says with a giggle.

She wouldn’t be giggling right now if she had discovered that newspaper first. This close call makes me realize that I need to tell Sadie my identity as soon as possible. I’m probably just lucky a Denverite hasn’t recognized me by now.