The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)
Heather Heyford
Chapter One
Rap rap rap!
Juniper Hart was agonizing over which of her wine business’s creditors would luck out and get paid this month when she heard a loud knocking at the door of her tasting room.
Her head shot up from her bills. She scrambled out from behind her desk, heedless of the papers she set sailing. Inches short of the threshold, she skidded to a stop to smooth down her faded T-shirt emblazoned with WE ARE PINOT NOIR. From the other side of the door, she heard a familiar voice.
“Last I knew, Lieutenant, you had women in, let’s see—Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, and New York City. And that’s just stateside.”
Though the words meant nothing to her, Junie recognized the timbre of her old friend Sam Owens’s voice. Sam had racked up numerous awards for his military service before moving back to his hometown. These days, he made a living ferrying tourists around in his Clarkston Wine Consortium van, introducing them to Willamette Valley wine. And now, from the sound of it, here he was, delivering eager wine enthusiasts right into the palm of Junie’s hand.
She pasted on her best smile and threw wide the door. “Welcome to the pinot state!”
“Hey, Junie!” said Sam warmly. “Like the new greeting.”
“Sounds way better than ‘Welcome to Broken Hart Vineyards,’” deadpanned Keval, thumbing his cell phone without looking up.
Junie cringed at the innocuous-sounding nickname. Keval Patel might be the town of Clarkston’s god of IT, but he could use some help in the tact department.
But wait—these weren’t Junie’s desperately needed new customers making a detour off the established wine trail. Despite their chins sporting some degree of hipster stubble, to her, these guys would always be the same fresh-faced, coltish boys they’d been back at Clarkston Middle School. Ever since her dad died and her brother left town, they were practically all the family she had left. All except the one with the Ivy League haircut, dressed more for a job interview at Brooks Brothers than a drive in the wine country.
“Thought you said Oregon was the Beaver State?” the stranger asked Sam, eyeing Junie up and down. “Because, damn . . .”
Heath Sinclair’s burst of laughter was cut short by Sam’s swift elbow to his ribs.
“Why else would I leave a city where women outnumber men to fly all the way across the country?”
“Thought it was to do a brother a favor, Lieutenant.” Sam raised a weary brow. “Sorry, Junie. We’ve done two tastings already, and some of these bozos forgot how to spit.”
“I had all good intentions of expectorating when we started out.” Heath straightened, still clutching his side. “But I’m a beer drinker. Beer drinkers swallow. It’s what we do.” Heath should know—he was the founder of Clarkston Craft Ales.
“Juniper Hart”—Sam stretched out an arm toward the stranger—“this is Lieutenant Manolo Santos.”
The lieutenant nodded in curt, military fashion. “Pleasure.”
“Manolo’s a construction guy from back east. Came out to give me some expert advice on the new consortium building.”
Junie examined Manolo dubiously. Tall and broad shouldered with a flat belly, it was easy to imagine him in a sweat-stained work shirt, hefting a load of two-by-fours. But the quick gleam in his eye, the pride in his bearing, and his impeccable grooming pegged him as more than just your typical manual laborer.
“Construction guy?”
“Construction engineer, technically,” he replied.
“What exactly does a construction engineer do?”
“The official U.S. Army definition?” He flashed her a blindingly white grin. “Someone who works a twelve-hour day/night shift seven days a week on a rotational basis in a remote location.”
Sam gripped Manolo’s shoulder affectionately. “What the lieutenant here does is solve problems. Converts ideas into reality. Manny’s helped design roads, schools, and hospitals from Arizona to Iraq.”
“Is that so?”
Manolo shrugged off Sam’s compliment like a too-tight shirt. “Think of me as kind of a combination Jason Bourne and Bob the Builder.”
“You’re forgetting horndog,” added Sam, to backslaps and shrieks of mirth.
Junie dismissed Manolo and slanted her eyes at those she knew better. “You guys sure you can handle another one?”
They straightened their spines, trying their best to look contrite.
Keval tsked and gave her an incredulous look. “Are you serious?”
“C’mon, Junie. Let us in,” pleaded Rory, whose family’s apple orchard adjoined Junie’s land.
“I’m designated driver.” Sam jerked a thumb toward his log-splashed van parked out in the field, some distance away.
She propped her hand on her hip and pretended to consider her options. If not for Sam roping them in, no tourists would ever find their way off the main road to her boutique winery. Junie owed Sam big-time.
When she figured they’d suffered long enough, she broke out in a conciliatory smile. “C’mon,” she said, stepping aside.
The men shuffled past Junie into the tasting room in single file, with Tall, Dark, and Sketchy bringing up the rear.
“After you, ma’am.”