The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(13)

Manolo appeared in the doorway, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Love eggs. Eggs are my favorite.”

Mom beamed. “Good! Junie, can you make Manolo some eggs, then, while I scoot?”

Junie faux-smiled and gave her mother a death glare. “Suuuure!”

“Great! I’ll see you later then.” Mom disappeared, only to reappear seconds later when she remembered to give Junie a parting hug and a peck. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.” She cupped Junie’s chin and gave her a wistful parting glance. “I’ll call you.”

Junie trailed Mom out to the porch to find her already skipping down the front steps, her mind three steps ahead of her body.

“Mom, wait—who’s this guy you started to tell me about?”

“Huh? Oh. A friend. Just a friend. I hope you’ll come to like him, in time. He’s very good for me,” she replied, digging through her bag. “Now, where’d I put my keys? Heavens. Oh! There they are!”

Junie watched her mother’s SUV, loaded to the gills, crunch down the gravel drive for her last time as a Clarkston resident. Then the movers fired up the van, fracturing the peaceful countryside.

The comforting warmth of an unseen hand settled on her shoulder. “You’re going to miss her.”

Junie whirled around. “If you knew that, why were you so eager to help her pack?”

He shrugged. “Not much I could’ve done to stop her.”

Junie felt as though her guts had been ripped out without anesthesia and Manolo had assisted in the surgery.

She turned and shuffled back to the kitchen. Taking refuge behind the fridge door, she squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose until later, when she could cry in private.

She came out holding the egg carton. “How do you like your eggs?” she asked in a lackluster voice.

Six feet, three inches of man planted in a wide-legged stance in the center of her kitchen made it seem suddenly smaller. All traces of mockery were now gone from his face. Junie shivered. They were all alone in this big old house, miles from anyone else. Anything could happen.

“You going to be okay?”

Damn, he was good. He had her almost believing he was sincere.

He walked over and rescued the cardboard carton from where it drooped precariously in her hand. “I’ll do it.”

“You?”

“I really screwed up yesterday. You won’t let me take you to dinner, so . . .” He took over, opening and closing cupboards with a clatter. “Your mom must have left you a pan around here somewhere—”

She walked over and grasped the other end of the egg carton. “You don’t have to do that.” She tugged. The carton fell to the floor, a few eggs cracking open on impact. She lifted a foot. Ew. A clear, viscous membrane stretched out between her toes and her flip-flop.

Before she knew it, Manolo was wiping up the mess with one hand and scraping out a chair leg with the other. “Sit while I rinse this dishtowel.”

Mutely, she obeyed. Tramping around would only make a bigger mess.

He was back in a flash. “Pull your pant leg up.”

The stretchy fabric folded up smoothly over her knee. Last night had been shaving night. Thank God for small favors.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Chocolate-brown eyes smiled up at her.

Not stubborn. Just determined.

Manolo wrapped her calf with the steamy towel, drawing its warmth down over her ankle . . . her foot . . . her toes. Then he folded it over to the clean side and did it again.

She stared down at him, at a loss. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. She didn’t know how to react, what to do with her hands. Her fingers itched to reach out and ruffle his crown of thick hair. Her bird’s-eye view of his shoulders made them appear even broader, his waist narrower. The movements of his biceps stretched the fine knit of his close-fitting sweater. Her lower belly tightened traitorously.

“Good news is, they’re not all broken. Now, where were we? You got that pan?”

She got up and handed him a copper pan.

He twirled it expertly. “This looks barely used.”

“That’s because it is. When Mom’s home—that is, when she used to be home—she practically subsisted on bean curd and kombucha tea.”

“What tea?”

“Kombucha. You know. It’s green and it looks like it has pond scum growing on the top.”

Manolo was already drizzling the pan with olive oil. “That some kind of Left Coast thing?”

Junie shrugged. “One of those ew-tricious fad foods. I never traffic in the stuff, myself.”

“A girl after my own heart. Can’t go wrong sticking with the classics. You shouldn’t keep your olive oil above the stove. It gets rancid when it’s exposed to heat. Got any cheese? Any kind will do. It’s the wrong time of the year for tomatoes, unless you got canned. Back east, I only buy fresh ones in season. They’re only good in August and September. Ah, here’s the salt. Same deal with your spices. You ought to move them away from the stove.”

Junie watched, mesmerized. He had the moves of a professional chef. Both arms were in constant motion, one tipping the pan to swirl the oil, one rummaging around for ingredients. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered over his shoulder. His thick, muscular shoulder. With every movement came the ripple of biceps and his rugged yet sophisticated scent. She stood so close that if he weren’t so into his task he’d probably have felt her breath on him. So close, she jumped when he whipped around unexpectedly.