The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(18)

Jed Smith rattled his paper, signaling that a little merriment was fine, but he was trying to read over here.

“A day that will live in infamy. So,” Red finally sputtered, “what I’m trying to say, Junie, is that I love you like a sister. And I would never put words in your mouth.” She wiped a leftover tear from the corner of her eye. “But to boil a year’s worth of counseling sessions down to one breakfast—hear me out. We know that a lot of good things have happened in your life. A lot of great things. You had loving parents. A secure childhood, even if you did move more than you would have liked. A terrific education. Wonderful friends.”

Poppy waggled her fingers in a self-congratulatory wave while silently mouthing the word, Me.

“I know. You guys . . .” Words failed her. Her nostrils stung with unshed tears.

Red continued in a calm, professional manner. “And, also like everybody else, some not-so-great. Storm walked away from his promises. Then you lost your dad just when you two were getting started with the business.”

“Don’t forget, her mom left too,” Poppy hiccupped cheerfully.

“Something about Manolo makes me . . . I can’t describe it.” Junie fidgeted. “I feel like . . . like I’m teetering on the brink of a big vat of honey.”

Poppy slurped from her trademark flowered mug. “It’s called lust,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Because although honey may be sweet, it’s hard to swim in, and you might even drown?” asked Red.

“You tell me. You’re the therapist.”

“You’re afraid he’s going to let you down, like the others.” Red sat back in her seat, satisfied with her diagnosis.

“Yeahhhhh . . .” Poppy nodded in wide-eyed revelation. “It’s about trust. It’s a trust thing!” She touched Red’s arm with the reverence due a high priestess. “You give such. Good. Shoulder.”

Junie gathered her bag and hoodie and slid out of her seat. “Spoken like a true Portlandian.” She sighed.

The gauntlet had been thrown. As of today, this fall’s harvest was still nothing but a gleam in Junie’s eye. But once the vines flowered and the flowers developed into berries, they’d grow fatter with every passing sunrise until they were finally full term. When their time finally came, Junie would have to scramble to get her grapes picked and pressed at their peak of juicy ripeness. The crush was no time to be worrying about pimping her property. The time for that was now.

Junie knew what she had to do.

She called Keval.





Chapter Nine


“You are such a coward,” Keval spat when she’d filled him in.

Dear, sweet Keval.

“Red has you pegged to a T.”

“I know,” Junie replied miserably. “But you’re my very best friend, and I need you more than I’ve ever needed you before. You’ll intercede for me, ask Manolo to finish my porch?” Junie winced, praying he’d say yes.

“I most certainly will not! You’re going to ask him yourself. Hold on a sec. I’ll put him on the phone.”

“He’s there? At the consortium?”

“Hold on to your tiara. I’ve got eyes on His Hotness, as we speak.”

“Shhh! Don’t talk so loud.” Instinctively, she lowered her own voice. “He might hear you. What’s he doing?”

“Talking with Peter Dubois. You know Peter, don’t you? He’s the winemaker over at Crimson Cellars. He’s got the most amazing—”

“Keval! I’m going home now to think about this. I have to burn the cuttings from yesterday’s pruning—”

“Uh-uh, no, siree, girlfriend. I don’t think so. You’re going to get your bony ass over here tout de suite and ask Mister Manolo Santos for his help in person, like a man. If you’re not here in ten minutes I’m going to tell him you’re madly in love with him and you want him to do you over a wine barrel. Ciao.”

“Keval!”

Her phone’s screen went dark.

*

The home that Sam operated his consortium out of was right around the corner from the café. Junie arrived to find cars wedged every which way in his driveway, with more lining the street. Good for Sam and the wine community. Bad for Junie. It would be hard enough to admit she needed Manolo’s favor when they were alone, let alone beg him with a bunch of townspeople and fellow growers as witnesses.

Junie managed to squeeze her car into an opening along the curb half a block away and started walking back to Sam’s. The closer she got to the house, the more anxious she grew. Only sheer determination kept her from turning around and sprinting back to her car. Pausing at the threshold, she took a steadying breath, lifted her chin, and walked in.

It was easy to see why Sam needed a new building. The entire downstairs of his settlement-era house had been taken over by the fast-growing consortium. Knots of industry people stood around talking shop. It was like stumbling into a cocktail party for hipster farmers, only instead of cocktails they were all clutching to-go cups of gourmet coffee. The ubiquitous Levis and Danner boots made it impossible to tell the smallest growers from the most renowned winemakers.

“Junie!” chirped a petite brunette. Holly Davis, one of Sam’s sales reps.