The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(16)

“Do you have a distributor?”

A burst of laughter escaped from her throat. “You’re kidding, right? I’m still hand watering the vines myself from the world’s longest hose that I pieced together. No. Sam’s been using his connections to help me look, but he hasn’t found anyone yet. It’s tricky. Distributors are looking for businesses that are already established, but how are you supposed to get established without a distributor? I manage my own website and hire Keval to help out with occasional promo. During the crush time, I take on part-timers to do the picking and pressing.”

“Tell you what,” Manolo said as he opened the truck door and slung his condiment-filled duffel over onto the passenger seat. “I’ll get a handle on Sam’s project, then come back in a couple days and you can show me what you got in the barn. It won’t take long to slap that porch together. Hell, I’d pay you to let me do it, do it just for the fun of it. Nice change of pace from supervising others. Then you can put that behind you and focus on your grapes. . . .”

Junie’s work-weary heart swelled as she watched him climb into his truck. The door slammed shut, the engine roared, and the window slid down. Manolo draped his elbow out the window, looking as at home in his rented truck as a cowboy in a well-worn saddle.

“Not that I think you have a snowball’s chance in hell of being successful at this.”

Before she knew what she was doing, she hauled off and gave his truck a mighty kick.

“Hey!”

“You self-righteous . . . misogynistic . . . moron!” She should have known better than to let down her guard.

“You’re lucky this is a rental!”

“For your information, I don’t need your help, Mr. High and Mighty. I’ve got this. I’ve got another guy coming at noon.”

With that, she turned and flounced away. There were no breaks in this life. Everything always came back to cold, hard reality: The only person she could depend on was herself.

Manolo yelled to her back, “Where’d you find this one?”

“None of your business!” she hollered without bothering to turn around. This next guy had better work out. The crush could start as soon as August, and if the porch was still unfinished during the high point of the tourist season, it wouldn’t look good. Not good at all.

He called out over the engine. “Check his references, and this time don’t pay anything up front. You change your mind, you got my cell.”

Change her mind? She whipped around, hair flying, and jammed her fists on her hips. “That’ll be the day! I wouldn’t take your help if you were the last builder on earth. You hear me? No way are you laying so much as a finger on my porch!”

“Suit yourself.” He grinned, lifting a paw-like hand in a wave.

The truck’s suspension bounced audibly over the uneven ground before fading into the distance. Junie didn’t look back again until she reached the front door, just in time to see taillights disappearing over the rise.

Her anger wilted almost as fast as it had sprung up. Now she was really, truly alone.

Still, being alone was better than putting your trust in someone only to be let down yet again.

Her toe started to throb.





Chapter Eight


All the next day, until twilight chased her indoors to the hush of the empty farmhouse, Junie kept an ear peeled for an approaching vehicle while she ran her gloved hand down every trunk of every vine to remove unwanted suckers.

But the porch guy never showed.

Saturday night, since her favorite couch was gone, she plodded upstairs to watch Worst-Case Scenario in bed.

She woke at dawn on Sunday morning with a swollen toe and a half-empty jar of peanut butter for company.

She limped through the clanging door of Poppy’s Café as she did every Sunday morning, to find Poppy and Red already cradling mugs of coffee. The smell of Stumptown’s Holler Mountain mingled with relief.

Once she was tucked into their favorite corner booth, Poppy and Red gave her their advice.

“No.” Resolutely, Junie folded her arms. “I’m not going to do it.”

Poppy reached across the Formica and squeezed Junie’s hand. “Listen to Red. She wasn’t voted Clarkston’s best family therapist for nothing. Everyone knows she gives the best professional advice money can buy, and she gives it to you for free.”

Junie studied the ceiling. “I know. I know you’re right, but I can’t take Manolo Santos up on his offer.”

“Why not?” Poppy pleaded.

“So many reasons!” She massaged her temples.

“Let’s take them apart, one by one,” Red counseled.

“Why do always you have to be so logical?”

Red smiled evenly. “I call it being objective, and I can do it because I’m not emotionally attached to your issues. Not to say I’m not concerned about you. I consider you a dear friend, not a client.” Red folded her hands and waited patiently for Junie to begin.

“Okay. Well, for starters, he’s so freaking cocky! Strolling in like he owned the place, strutting around my tasting room like a rooster . . . you should have seen them. Manolo was all like, ‘To the Beaver State!’ And Sam and Heath and Rory are all like”—she lowered her voice several octaves—“‘Yeah!’ I’m telling you, in a single afternoon, Manolo Santos erased a million years of progress for the men around here. One minute they’re sensitive, twenty-first-century human beings, the next they’re bumping chests like Neanderthals.”