The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(17)

Poppy giggled. “I would have loved to have seen that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” replied Junie. “It wasn’t pretty. Even Keval was caught in his spell!”

“Sounds like men being men to me,” said Red. “Add a little alcohol, stir, and you’ve got a pissing contest. I wouldn’t make too much of it.”

“You’re forgetting . . . I was stuck there in the middle of them.”

“Things aren’t always as they seem. Sometimes people act overconfident—show off—to compensate, when deep down inside, they’re insecure.”

“Insecure? Manolo Santos? Wait till you meet him. Then tell me he’s insecure. He had the nerve to tell me that even if I did let him work on the porch—for fun, mind you—there was no way I could ever make my winery successful!”

“He came in here yesterday with Sam and the rest of them,” Poppy told Red. “He reminds me of someone. I’ve been racking my brain, but I can’t think of who it is.”

Poppy even scowled prettily.

“Daryl Decaprio,” Junie breathed, methodically shredding her napkin into confetti. “Manolo and Daryl look like twins. They even smile the same way, with that little curl of their upper lip.”

“That’s it!” Poppy pointed at Junie.

Practically every woman in Clarkston had had a thing for Daryl at one time or another.

Red tilted back her head and gave Junie a wise, Freudian look—if Freud had had freckles and strawberry-blond eyelashes. “Just because he looks like Daryl doesn’t mean he’s unreliable.”

“If that’s all it was, I wouldn’t be so concerned. But he’s also a huge flirt. I’m not sure how to take him.”

“But Manolo is old friends with Sam. What better recommendation is there than that?”

“Says the one who’s madly in love with Sam!” Junie shot back with a friendly grin. “Don’t pretend you’re not. Everyone saw how you ‘accidentally’ spilled your Riesling down Sam’s shirt at his homecoming party.”

“Bee Tee Dubs,” Poppy added thoughtfully, “I’ve been meaning to give you props on that move. I may have to borrow that someday. . . .”

“Who says that wasn’t an accident?” Pink splotches dotted Red’s milky skin. “But this isn’t about me. This Manolo must have some redeeming qualities.”

“Well, Sam did say that he’s done a lot of work on schools and hospitals and things.”

“See? Somebody who devotes his time to improving the lives of others can’t be all bad.”

Junie sighed. “So what I’m hearing you say is, go back to him with my tail between my legs and tell him I need him to finish the porch, after I already turned him down.”

“It depends. How important to you is the success of this fall’s crush?”

“It’s everything. You know that.”

Red lifted her palms. “Well, then.”

“But I barely know the guy! And what I do know, I don’t like. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating!”

“So you turned him down?” said Poppy. “That made perfect sense at the time. You already had another construction guy on his way over.”

Beneath the table, Junie curled her toes. She’d kept that little detail about kicking Manolo’s truck to herself, but the throbbing was a constant reminder. “Manolo knew that guy wouldn’t show up, and even if he did, I could tell he didn’t think it was a good idea, hiring yet another Joe Schmoe. Maybe I’m na?ve, but I just can’t afford a professional’s rates right now.”

“Junie.” Crystal-blue eyes gazed out steadily from beneath pale brows.

Junie squirmed, wishing she’d never come into town today and run into Red MacDonald, certified wise woman. Here it comes—the hard stuff.

“How long have we known each other?”

Awash in a decade and a half of shared memories, the three exchanged faraway looks.

“Since that time we went up to Mr. Sullivan at the hardware store and asked him to show us his bird, and he turned beet red ’cause he didn’t know we meant his pet parrot?” said Junie.

“And then when we realized why he was blushing, we started laughing so hard we could hardly stand up?” finished Poppy.

Peals of laughter echoed through the café. Across the room, Jed Smith, the president of Clarkston Savings Bank, glanced up over his Sunday paper and smiled complaisantly.

“No!” exclaimed Poppy. Her hand shot up and she bounced on her padded booth. “I know! I know! That Christmas when we snuck a bottle of your dad’s eggnog and you got drunk and made up your own words to ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ and then you peed your pants and there was a puddle on Red’s bedroom carpet—”

Red’s trademark loud, lusty laugh echoed through the café. “My mother never found out that wet spot wasn’t from our golden retriever. Poor Zak was never allowed in my room again!”

Poppy had to hold on to the table edge to keep from falling out of her seat.

“Stop!” Junie crossed her legs. “You’re making me do it again!”

“Don’t!” Poppy thrust out her hands, suddenly sober. “Don’t you dare pee in my booth!”