The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(19)

Junie jerked her head toward the perimeter of the room. Maybe she could keep this whole thing on the down low.

Holly met her along the wall. “Long time no see!”

“You know how it is. You wouldn’t happen to know where Sam’s friend from out of town is, would you?”

“Manolo?” Holly faked a swoon. “Is he not the most gorgeous specimen you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

“That’s the one. Did you see him here somewhere?”

“He went that way.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “Good luck!”

Junie wove through the packed living room and into the kitchen, returning a wave here, a nod there. Along the way, her ears picked up fragments of market news.

“. . . spike in sales is a classical example of supply and demand . . .”

“. . . forecast for warmer conditions, thanks to this El Ni?o we’re having . . .”

An evocative blend of spices, leather, and forest floor stopped her in her tracks. He was here, somewhere. She could smell him. Then, from over Peter Dubois’s shoulder, she heard a thin, strained voice.

“. . . you figure eight to ten tons of grapes per acre. I’m counting on acquiring at least fifty tons from Broken Hart Vineyards.”

Junie’s ears strained to hear what came next.

“Are you talking about Junie Hart’s place?”

A callous laugh grated on Junie’s ears. “Junie’s had a run of bad luck. There’s not a person in this room believes she’s going to make it. She was forced to sell me half her yield last year to keep the wolf from her door.”

The owner of that voice loved holding forth about wine. But try asking him if he’d ever spilled his own blood in the Jory soil like Dad had. Ever stayed up all night on frost watch. Or ever made a single one of the myriad decisions required to create a living, breathing work of art, which was what wine was, when it came right down to it.

Anger and humiliation froze Junie’s feet to the floorboards.

“Hey, Junie! Come on over here.” A hand weaved between two women deep in conversation and wrapped itself around Junie’s bicep. “We were just talking about you.”

The women gave way, and Junie found herself held captive against Manolo’s side, face-to-face with her worst enemy. Suddenly all of her attention was focused on the parts of her body that were touching his, as if the rest of her had ceased to exist. Somehow, she managed a feeble smile.

Unaware of her dilemma, the man who’d insulted her took a sip from his to-go cup.

“Junie,” said Manolo, “I was just telling—sorry, what was your name again?”

“Alexander. Tom.”

“I was just about to tell Tom here how pumped I am that you’re letting me intern this summer.”

“Intern?” She looked up at him blankly.

“Can’t wait to get started. Dividing my time between the consortium and one of the finest small vineyards in Oregon. Right?” His mighty squeeze forced the air from her lungs.

“Right!” she squeaked.

Tom’s haughty smile shrank in a most satisfying way.

“Good to meet you, Tom.” Manolo dismissed him with a single pump of his hand. “But Junie and I have plans.” He winked down at her, lifting her off her feet with another squeeze. “Ready?”

“Ready!”

“Let’s jet.”

Outside, Junie finally could breathe again. “Thank you.”

“I should be the one thanking you, for giving me an excuse to get away from that guy. Who was he—other than a massive bore?”

“An investor who gets a rush out of being on the cutting edge of a trend,” Junie said drily. “That’s the only way for people like him to be a part of the mystique of winemaking—buying their way in. What I meant was, thanks for sticking up for my vineyard, saying you were going to be my intern.”

“I’m in, aren’t I?” With Junie still tucked under his arm, he peered down at her, eyes teasing yet genuinely hopeful. “Can’t think of anyone better than you to give me the real dirt on pinot noir.”

“I thought—“

“Sure, I’m here to lend Sam a hand. But I like a good bottle of wine almost as much as I appreciate a good New York strip steak . . . a tiramisu with perfectly whipped mascarpone. I’ve been hearing about Oregon pinot noir for a while. Thought it was high time I saw for myself what all the talk was about. All I need now’s someone to teach me.” He looked at her expectantly.

He was the most contradictory man she’d ever met. “Me, teach you about pinot noir?” She huffed a laugh. “Nothing could go wrong with that.”

“I know. You’re busy. But if you can take some time out of your schedule to show me the ropes, I’ll pay you back by fixing your porch. Even Steven.”

“Get Sam to teach you about wine.”

“He will, some. But it’s always good to get different perspectives.”

She smirked. “I thought you said I was a lost cause.”

“I know from experience it’s hard enough to run a business when you got six people sharing the load. I can’t imagine how one woman—one person, of either gender—could do it. The odds are stacked against you. But who am I to judge? I love a barter, though, and this is a perfect chance to barter services if I ever saw one. Straight up, now. I’m not kidding around.”