The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(14)

“Cheese?” he repeated, like she didn’t understand English.

She blinked. “I’ll look, but don’t get your hopes up. Mom doesn’t do dairy, and I practically live on peanut butter and granola.”

A moment later, she slapped a long-forgotten bar of cheddar into his outstretched left hand. His right was occupied with working the pan, tipping, swirling, letting it clatter onto the burner with a loud bang. “Use this at your own risk. I don’t know how long it’s been in there.”

He ripped back the plastic and sniffed. “It’ll do. Grater?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He pulled out a drawer and rummaged around impatiently, pulling out a knife, using his thumb to test its edge. “Cutting board?”

Junie remembered one in the tall, skinny cabinet next to the sink.

“Why just peanut butter?” he asked with his back to her, slicing the cheese into uniform slivers.

She shrugged. “It’s a cheap source of quick energy.”

“You need to get out and get a decent meal from time to time, if only for a mental break. Helps you come back to your work refreshed.”

Yet another reference to a date? What was that—three? Not that she was counting.

“Just one more thing. Be right back.” He flipped off the gas. “Get out a bowl for me?” Then he dashed out the front door.

From the kitchen window, Junie watched him jog out and grab a beat-up duffel bag off the front seat of a late-model black pickup.

Back inside, he pulled a jar and a plastic squeeze bottle from his bag.

“You carry your own condiments?” she asked in disbelief.

“I’ve learned to be prepared.”

“There’s prepared, and then there’s obsessed.”

He flashed her that chandelier grin. “It’s in my blood. Italians love to eat. You don’t know that?”

She picked up the jar and examined it. “I know other Italian people, and they don’t carry around their own homemade seasonings.”

He turned back to the range. “Ah. Maybe they’ve never been stranded in the desert where they had to survive on dried grass for a week. Maybe they don’t know food like I do.” With a flick of his wrist, the blue flame rekindled. Then, one-handed, he broke the remaining eggs into the Pyrex cup she’d found and began whisking them.

Junie sidled over to watch. “That’s a nice pickup you’ve got out there.”

“Sam offered me the use of his while I’m here. Said there was no use in renting one since he usually drives the van anyway, but I’d feel better having my own. Something about a man’s truck. So I went over to the dealership and a guy hooked me up with this loaner for the summer.”

By the time she got some cutlery and a couple of plates, the perfectly turned omelets, oozing cheese and topped with his spices and special sauce, were done.

Manolo scraped in his chair and arranged his napkin on his lap while Junie poured him some coffee.

“Mmmm,” Junie mumbled the moment the rich fluffiness touched her tongue.

He grinned, digging in with his fork. “Yeah? You like that?”

The warm, delicious food served by a warm, delicious man thawed her usual reserve. “Okay.” She swallowed, laughing in spite of herself. “No one just shows up at my house for the second day in a row, helps my mom lift heavy furniture, and cooks me a gourmet breakfast. Who are you, for real? Besides Sam’s Army buddy?”

“Lieutenant Manolo Santos from Hoboken, New Jersey, ma’am.” He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “At your service.”

“Where’d you get the culinary skills?”

He took a slug of his coffee. “I grew up in my family’s pizzeria. While all my friends were outside learning to ride bikes, I was learning the restaurant business. How to sling dough and make marinara.”

“Your parents had their own restaurant?”

“My parents, their parents, and so on, all the way back to Naples. And I’m not talking Florida.” His plate empty, he wiped his mouth and laid his napkin next to his plate. “All that was missing was some good bread. Maybe next time.”

Next time?

He rose to clear the dishes, but not before she finished eating. That small, considerate gesture didn’t go unnoticed by a seasoned waitress like Junie. It must have been one high-class pizza shop where Manolo learned the ropes. The dives she’d worked in rushed service to turn over tables as quickly as possible. But she forgot about that when she saw how he looked behind the big apron sink—as if all the pieces of a puzzle had suddenly fallen into place.

Back when the house was under construction, Mom had scolded Dad for going overboard on a kitchen designed for whipping up elaborate feasts and hosting large gatherings instead of something more suited to a small family in which the mother was at work more than she was at home. Admitting Mom was right felt disloyal to Dad’s memory, but Junie had to admit, the microwave got used more than the stove.

“You didn’t want to continue the tradition?”

He shook his head. “No way. Not for me, all work day in and day out, with no time for a life. And it wasn’t just my father and me. My mother and my three sisters worked, too. Seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Including Christmas.”