The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(12)

Somehow the sofa had gotten stuck. “Bring it back in and turn it the other way,” directed Mom from inside the house.

“Push!” said the older mover to his partner, contradicting her.

“I can’t, goddam it! I gotta set ’er down a minute!” came the voice of the shorter, potbellied one, clutching the end that jutted out onto the front porch.

Then, as if by magic, a third pair of strong arms appeared from out of nowhere to tip the couch strategically by a few degrees. “Now,” said a soft, deep voice. “Bring it through. Careful.”

The couch slipped through the doorway like a greased pig. The opening filled with sunshine again, only to be darkened by the silhouette of a man so perfectly proportioned that the negative space was transformed into the cover of a romance novel.

“Morning!”

Junie squinted, suddenly horrified by her sweatpants and shapeless tee. “What are you doing here?”

“Junie!” her mother scolded. Deftly rearranging her face into a company smile, she sauntered over to the door. “Hello there! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jennifer Jepson-Hart.”

Manolo nodded and took the hand she offered. “Manolo Santos, friend of Cap’n—er, Sam Owens. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Well now. I just love a man with manners. Don’t you, Junie?”

Junie’s flip-flops slapped across the floor. “What are you doing here?” she repeated. She trusted him about as much as a nun doing squats in a cucumber field for exercise.

“I heard there were two ladies who might need a hand this fine morning.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

Poppy’s. If Manolo hadn’t pieced it together himself, her gossipy friends would have gladly filled him in. One person’s honesty was another’s oversharing.

“Doesn’t matter. That big Mayflower van sitting outside pretty much confirms it. Now”—he rubbed his hands together briskly, like there was nothing he relished more than a good moving day—“how can I be of assistance?”

“If you saw the van, then you must’ve seen the two rent-a-hulks that came with it. That’s all we—”

“I have just the job for a big, strong man like you,” Mom interjected. “Upstairs.” She headed toward the steps and crooked a finger. “Follow me.”

Behind Mom’s back, Manolo gave Junie the V sign for victory.

How dare he show up uninvited, aggravating an already stressful day? She watched him ascend the steps to the part of the house that was reserved for family, close friends, and anonymous movers she’d never see again. Her heart stopped when she remembered that yesterday’s panties were still on the floor where she’d dropped them and her bedroom door was open.

The sight of his rear end conjured up pure leashed energy. No doubt he’d have sprung up those steps three at a time if Mom wasn’t in front of him, slowing him down. Manolo smelled like a honeyed blend of Middle Eastern spices and hot city sidewalks. If that scent were bottled, it’d be called Citizen of the World.

For the next hour or so, Manolo hoisted armload after armload of heavy objects out to the truck like they weighed nothing. A slipper chair, a sprawling schefflera in a terra-cotta pot. A large framed print in one hand and a box marked LINENS in the other.

What was it about Manolo Santos? Mom had known him ten seconds and she’d picked him over the bonded and insured movers to handle her most precious possessions. If that wasn’t proof positive Manolo wasn’t to be trusted, nothing was. How many sketchy characters from Matchup had Mom already taken a chance on, only to be disappointed? According to Red, lots of book-smart women got taken in by flashy smooth talkers. It was sheer luck that Dad, the man she’d married, had turned out to be the best of men.

For the next half hour, Junie stayed out of the way, rearranging the things left behind as Manolo lugged more of Junie’s beloved childhood knickknacks out to the van to be wedged in between the larger pieces. There were the heavy, antique brass candlesticks and the box holding her paternal grandmother’s crazy quilt and hand-embroidered tablecloth. Finally, she heard the heavy truck doors slam shut and the bolts screech into place, followed by footsteps coming back into the house.

“What else?” Manolo still seemed fresh as a daisy.

“Whew! That’s it.” Mom sighed. “Junie and I already packed up my car before you got here. I don’t know where you came from, but I’m awfully glad you showed up when you did. How can I thank you?”

In the kitchen, where Junie stared into a wasteland of a cupboard containing only three mismatched mugs, she rolled her eyes at the way Mom sucked up to Mr. Hot and Handy.

“It was nothing. Just glad I could lend a hand. Sorry I didn’t get here earlier.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Mom. “Now, I apologize, but I have to be going. I want to get to my new place before—er, the movers . . . Junie?”

Junie peeped out from behind the cupboard door.

“That’s it. The movers are ready to go. I’m going ahead so I can get there first and unlock the door to the townhouse. Do you think you could fix Manolo a little breakfast, for all his trouble?” She turned to Manolo. “I’m afraid you caught us a little shorthanded, but I know there are some eggs in the fridge. Do you like eggs?”