Epilogue 2
Sadie
Three Months Later
It’s been a whirlwind three months between renovating grandad’s cabin, the wedding, and expanding the café with more indoor seating and a nook dedicated to displaying those pinecone crafts year-round.
Ryan and I are finally taking our honeymoon, flying out of Denver this afternoon to spend a luxurious week at an exclusive all-inclusive resort where we don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to make pastries and, as Ryan says, all we have to do is focus on sun, surf, and romance. He’ll make sure there’s plenty of the latter. Blush.
While we’re gone, Judith and Julio are managing the café and doggie sitting Jolt. Maybe my pooch can act as matchmaker for those two who dance around their feelings for each other, neither one admitting how they feel.
Agnes and Wilbur are doing the early morning baking, and I’m hopeful they’ll finally realize they’re meant to be together as well. That is, if they don’t kill each other first. I made Wilbur sign an agreement promising not to alter Ryan’s suggested pricing structure—which has helped take the café from the red and into the black. Knowing Wilbur, he’ll slip in a new local discount while we’re gone, but I can live with that.
We haven’t had a calamity for a long time, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed that none of the appliances break down while we’re gone. If something happens, Ryan is my rock, he’ll help me figure out a solution to the mishap .
The Denver skyline appears, reminding me that before we head to DIA to catch our flight, we’ve got an important stop to make. My curiosity simply could not be contained any longer.
“What are you thinking about over there? You’ve been awfully quiet,” Ryan says from his position on the driver’s side of the Land Rover. “Did you want to drive?” he adds, with a chuckle.
I’ve fallen in love with the Land Rover. This piece of expensive machinery is a pleasure to drive compared to my junk heap. Ryan teases me that I married him for his vehicle. Not true, I love the man first and foremost. But the Land Rover comes in a close second.
“Just thinking about our first stop. That’s all,” I say, finally answering his question.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“More like anticipatedly nervous,” I say, cringing at my choice of adverb. Should it be anticipately?
Shrugging off my grammar dilemma, I add, “For the longest time, I thought you were, well... him.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should be nervous. You’ll meet him, figure out he’s your one true love, and toss me to the curb,” Ryan says. He glances at me, as if reassuring himself that there’s no way what he just described will happen.
I reach across the console and squeeze his thigh. “You know that’s never going to happen.”
A slow smile crosses his face. “True,” he says, and I blush remembering what happened last evening when I modeled my bikini for him. “But he is the guy you thought you fell in love with,” my husband reminds me.
“I fell in love with you despite your trying to be him. Believe me, if I never see a cardigan again, that’s alright by me!” He chuckles. Swiveling in my seat to face him more fully, I say, “It’s always been you, Ryan. Even if I thought you were Jack. ”
He blows out a loud breath. “Well, let’s get this over with so you can assuage your curiosity and so you can focus on showing me how much you love me,” he says.
I squeeze his thigh again, surprised that my hunky husband is showing a teeny lack of confidence over this matter. I insisted that we stop at my brother’s office on this trip so I can meet the real Jack, but just out of curiosity and nothing else.
Waggling my eyebrows, I say, “I’ve got a week to show you that, Mr. Turnbill.”
He laughs. “I’m holding you to that, Mrs. Turnbill.”
Forty-five minutes later we’re riding a posh elevator to the seventh floor in an upscale office building. Surprisingly, this is my first time visiting Sam’s office. Technically it’s Ryan and Sam’s office, but Ryan now works remotely from our cabin.
“Fancy digs,” I say as the elevator whisks us silently and effortlessly to our destination. Between the polished marble floors, the massive walnut reception desk, and this brass-encased elevator, I feel like we just entered The Ritz.
Ryan puts his arm around me, tugging me close. “It is kind of ostentatious, isn’t it? I never really noticed when I worked here.”
“Let’s just say, even though the cabin is remodeled with the latest finishes, it’s a far cry from... this.” I twirl my hand, pointing to my lavish surroundings.
Does he feel like he took a step down? First selling his high-end condo and now trading down his office space?
“Hey,” he says, squeezing me tighter. “I love my life now. I wouldn’t change a thing.” He leans in and plants a kiss on my lips, quickly putting my mind to ease and squashing my concerns. CEO and billionaire Ryan Turnbill loves me, and he’s happy in his new life. The kiss quickly turns passionate, and I lose track of time and place .
Ding!
The elevator arrives at our floor and the doors slide open. Ryan and I slowly pull out of the kiss, only to be greeted by a pair of smiling faces. My neck heats knowing what they just witnessed.
“Newlyweds,” Sam says, shaking his head with a teasing expression.
“TMI for the PDA,” the nerdy-looking guy standing beside him says. He does a snort-laugh, then adds, “Those are abbreviations. Some people think they’re easier to use than real words. It stands for—”
“We know what it stands for, Jack,” Ryan says dryly.
Jack? This is Jack?
The man is at least a foot shorter than my brother and appears to be several years younger than either Sam or Ryan. He’s kind of cute in a nerdy way, the black-rimmed glasses adding to his geeky but intelligent look. He’s wearing a rather nondescript tan cardigan sweater (big surprise), neatly pressed pants (the crease from the iron running up his leg), white button-down shirt, and sturdy black shoes you might expect to be worn by a seventy-year-old. I think Wilbur has a pair exactly like them.
I squint, taking a closer look. There’s a pocket protector in his shirt pocket, along with three pens and a pencil, and there’s something clipped to his belt. Is that a calculator?
“Where’s my manners!” my brother says. “I believe introductions are in order. This is my assistant, Jack Nerdlinger.”
No kidding? That’s Jack’s last name? A laugh slips out, but I deftly cover it with a cough. Ryan gives me a subtle jab to the ribcage as if to say, What did I tell you. Nerd through and through.
Sam tugs me forward. “Jack, this is my sister, Sadie Turnbill.”
I extend my hand to Jack, and we shake. The guy clasps my hand in a death-grip and almost pulls my arm from its socket with his vigorous handshake motion. After releasing Jack’s moist hand, as subtly as possible, I wipe my palm on my slacks .
“Tee hee hee!” Jack twitters. “Sorry about that. I sweat like a pig. Although pigs don’t really sweat, so maybe the correct term is I sweat like a chimpanzee. Those critters sweat.” He snort-laughs again as if what he just said was incredibly funny or insightful.
The three of us stand here in awkward silence, not quite sure how to respond to the guy’s clumsy apology.
“Jack, you’re always a fountain of information,” Ryan finally says, breaking the discomfort.
Jack raises his hand. “High five, brother!” he shouts. Ryan obliges, but almost knocks Jack off his feet in the process.
That laugh wants to sneak out again, but I manage to stifle it. This kid reminds me of that commercial where the people have taken on the persona of their parents. Oddly enough, I remember thinking the same thing about Ryan when I first met him, but Ryan is certainly no Jack. Thank God!
“Shall we go to the break room where we can have coffee and chat?” Sam suggests, motioning for us to follow him down the hall.
“Where were you two headed?” Ryan asks, pointing out the obvious, that Sam and Jack were waiting for the elevator when we arrived.
“I wanted to show Sam our new Mega 8001 printer. It’s a beast! Able to print in full color or black and white, with a printing capacity of eighty sheets per minute. That’s a rate to die for!” Jack exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Would you all like to see it?”
Ryan, Sam, and I exchange amused grins.
“I think we’ll pass,” Ryan says. “Sadie and I need to depart for the airport in about thirty minutes.”
Jack’s face falls.
“We do have time for that cup of coffee,” I say, trying to smooth over our lack of interest in the printer, plus I need another caffeine hit. We only grabbed one cup on the way out of the house since we got up so early to make the trip to Denver .
“Follow me!” Jack says with renewed energy. He runs off down the hall, and within a few seconds I hear the loud gurgling noise of a Keurig as it brews a cup. “First one through the door gets a French vanilla,” Jack shouts.
Sam chuckles. “Jack’s almost as much in love with the Keurig as he is that new printer,” he says.
“What did I tell you? Nerd from head to toe,” Ryan whispers in my ear.
“He’s kind of cute though,” I say, just to pull my husband’s chain.
Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Do I need to haul my cardigans out of storage?”
“You told me you threw them away!” I squeak.
“Come on, you two. You can fight and make up later. We have coffee to drink,” Sam says.
Standing on my tiptoes, I plant a kiss on Ryan’s lips. “I better never see those cardigans again,” I say with a sassy smile. Ryan just laughs, my threat brushed aside like lint on his collar.
As soon as we enter the break room, Sam’s trusty assistant grabs the cup from under the Keurig. “French vanilla for the lady,” Jack chirps, waltzing towards me with a ceramic mug. After three steps, he trips on one of the break room chair’s rollers.
“Gah!” I squeal as both Jack and the mug fly towards me.
My husband’s quick reflexes save the day as he grabs Jack by the upper arm, righting him back to his feet, avoiding a face plant or worse.
A red-faced Jack extends the mug to me and says, “And that’s why I’m not a dancer.”
Laughter bubbles from my mouth but this time I let it escape. Jack’s a walking disaster. However, he did manage to deliver the mug without spilling the contents—the French vanilla somehow survived Jack’s stumble. “Thank you,” I sputter between giggles .
We all take a seat around the break room table without further incident while Jack studiously delivers everyone’s coffee, then plops into a chair.
“So, now that you’ve met me, how did Ryan do at impersonating me?” Jack asks.
My eyes go wide at the unexpected question. “Um, well...” My mind spins trying to figure out a politically correct way to answer. Ryan is sophisticated and coordinated, while Jack is unrefined and clumsy.
Ryan and Sam both grin, neither one showing any sign of coming to my rescue.
Clearing my throat, I say, “He had your outfit down pat.”
Jack nods excitedly. “These cardigans come in a vast array of colors, and I gave Ryan pointers where to purchase them.” I swear I see his chest visibly swell with pride.
“Ah, so why did Ryan only purchase sweaters in boring brown or tan?” I quirk an eyebrow towards my husband.
Ryan shrugs and laughs.
Jack raises his hand, as if we’re in school.
“Yes?” I say.
“In Ryan’s defense, he purchased his cardigans in the fall where mostly brown tones are in fashion. Red sweaters make an appearance around Christmas, green in March, and blue around Memorial Day.”
I count backwards from one hundred trying not to laugh. Jack’s face looks so serious when he delivers his cardigan colors data dump. I don’t dare make eye contact with Ryan or else I will burst out laughing.
“Good to know,” I rasp as I discreetly wipe tears from the corners of my eyes.
“I sure enjoyed driving the Land Rover, though. It’s rad!” Jack says.
“You borrowed Ryan’s baby?” I tease.
Nodding solemnly, Jack replies, “We switched wheels so Ryan could completely take on the Jack persona. ”
“The Land Rover would have blown Ryan’s cover,” my brother adds helpfully.
Turning to Ryan’s cohort in crime, I say, “Sam, did you ever tell Jack about how I recommended that you give him a raise based on that crummy car Ryan was driving?”
Sam frowns. “You were asking me to give Ryan posing as Jack a raise, not Jack.”
Tapping my finger on my chin, I say, “But if Ryan took on Jack’s persona, and I was impressed at all the amazing things Ryan acting as Jack could do, shouldn’t the real Jack who Ryan was impersonating get a raise?”
Ryan and Sam squint at me as if I’ve lost my mind. You’ve got to admit what I just said was some crazy backhanded logic, but Sam should have some consequences for being in cahoots with Ryan.
Jack sits taller in his seat with a fist pump and says, “What she said!”
I arch my left eyebrow and stare at my brother. When we were kids, I always won our stare downs, so I’m not going to blink.
After a few seconds, Sam blinks, then says, “Alright! I’ll give Jack a raise.”
Raising my hand, Jack and I exchange high fives without incident.
Turning to my husband, I say, “Mr. Turnbill, I believe you owe Jack something for borrowing his persona.”
My sweet husband rolls his eyes. “He got to borrow the Land Rover.”
“Bzzzt!” I say. “Wrong answer.”
“I know! I’ll gift my cardigan collection to Jack,” Ryan says, while giving me a stink eye.
“Please do that, but I’m thinking your ‘gift’ should be something much bigger.” I use air quotes around the word “gift.”
“What are you thinking, dear?” Ryan asks, looking like he just took a sip of vinegar .
This little ambush of my husband and my brother is fun. A little payback for them both hoodwinking me into thinking that Ryan was Jack. I’m a firm believer that actions need to have consequences . Payback time!
Swiveling in my chair, I say, “Jack, do you have a hobby that Ryan could fund?”
Jack’s eyes grow big as saucers. “Like my Star Wars action figure collection?”
Unexpected answer, but doable. How much do these action figures cost? I want Ryan to feel a little impact to his hefty wallet.
“Yes, excellent choice. Does your collection need to be expanded?”
Jack looks thoughtful. “I’ve considered getting Admiral Ackbar or Boba Fett.”
I don’t have any idea who these characters are. Ryan nudges my leg under the table, knowing I’m clueless.
“Delightful! Any others?”
“How many can I get?” Jack asks excitedly.
Also having no clue how expensive these things are, I say, “Go wild and crazy! How about get as many as you want?”
Jack looks like he’s going to faint. “I’d love to also get Lando Calrissian, Jabba the Hutt, and Admiral Piett.”
I’ve heard of the Hutt guy, but none of the others.
“Strong choices,” I say. “Why don’t you place the order right now? Ryan can use his fancy black credit card to pay for them. Right, honey?”
Ryan grunts while I flutter my eyelashes at him. He knows this is payback for the switched identity scheme. With his unlimited budget, this won’t even put a dent in the spending limit for that card.
Jack scurries off to get his laptop to place the order, and both men turn to me with steely glares.
“Sadie, that was underhanded,” Sam says .
Ryan opens his mouth, but I leap into the conversation and cut him off.
“Making me think Ryan was Jack was more underhanded!” I exclaim.
My husband wisely clamps his mouth shut.
“You’ve had your fun and got your payback,” Sam grumbles.
“I have!” I say with a giggle and a fist pump to the air. “And Jack is the beneficiary of my wicked ways.”
“Are we even now?” Ryan asks, as he takes my hand, turns my palm over, and kisses it, immediately making my knees weak.
“You don’t play fair,” I whisper.
He smirks.
Jack flies back into the break room, nearly tripping over that chair roller again. He sets his laptop on the table with a bang!
“I’ve got the order ready!” he says in a breathless voice. Poor man must have sprinted back and forth to his office.
While Jack and Ryan complete the transaction, I say to Sam, “No hard feelings?”
“I’d forgotten what a tough negotiator you are,” he says. Our childhood was riddled with me negotiating something from Sam.
“Like that time that I finagled so you had to pay for popsicles for all the kids in the neighborhood?”
He groans. “Yes, like that! I used all my lawn mowing money to pay for those.”
“You only mowed two lawns that summer!”
He laughs. “But still, it took every penny of that money to fund the popsicles.”
I roll my eyes.
“No hard feelings,” Sam says and extends his hand. We shake, just like we always did as kids. “You know, you wouldn’t have met the love of your life without my involvement. ”
“True,” I reply. “But it was still a crummy thing to do to deceive your own sister.”
Sam sighs. “True. And I’ll never do that again.”
A noise over at the laptop draws my attention. Jack is high-fiving Ryan. “Thanks, bro! I don’t suppose you’d want to sell me the Land Rover for cheap?”
“Don’t press your luck, buddy,” Ryan says. He then stands and extends his hand to me. “Are we ready to go, sweetheart?”
I demurely take his hand. “Yes, my darling.”
Sam mutters, “Newlyweds,” and Jack blushes.
I hug my brother; a few tears leak from my eyes. “Thanks for sending Ryan to me,” I say, truly grateful for Sam’s gesture. My brother nods, blinking back tears as well. I exchange another moist handshake with Jack while Ryan slaps Sam on the back and they trade grins.
Once my husband and I are enclosed back inside the elevator, Ryan tugs me into his arms. “That was hot, Mrs. Turnbill! When did you become a corporate-level negotiator?”
“After dealing with Agnes, Wilbur, and the other seniors for two years, I’ve learned a few things,” I reply with a saucy wink.
“You can negotiate with me anytime,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. I brush my fingertips against his cheek as we gaze at each other.
“And what is your impression of Jack? Do I need to worry?” he asks.
I snort. “Ryan, I didn’t feel even an ounce of chemistry with Jack.”
He laughs then touches his lips to mine. We ride the elevator down in a non-PG-13 lip-lock. When we arrive on the ground floor, my hair is a mess and there’s lipstick on my husband’s collar. Oops.
I pretend nothing is amiss as we walk out of the elevator holding hands. The security guy waves, and a couple women’s heads turn when they see my handsome husband. Wondering if they’re any of the stalkers from his most eligible bachelor days, I check out their shoes but there’s not a Louboutin in the bunch.
“You are quite the conundrum,” Ryan says as we walk towards the Land Rover.
“Oh? How so?”
“Sweet on the outside, but a tough cookie on the inside,” he says.
I laugh. If my husband was the leading man in a romance novel, he’d qualify as a cinnamon roll hero. A bit gruff on the outside, with a warm, sweet, gooey inside, just like the pastry.
“Have I told you how much I love you today?” he asks before helping me into the massive vehicle.
When I married him, I didn’t think my love for him could grow any bigger, but it has, and I’ve learned that the depth of my love for him is apparently boundless.
“Yes, but tell me again,” I say in a breathless voice. And he does.
THE END FOR REAL THIS TIME
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