The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(2)

His baritone was soft and deep. Arrogant eyes the rich brown of espresso made the back of her neck prickle. A man who seems too good to be true usually is. She brushed off her warning instinct, slipped behind the counter, and dealt out five generic white coasters. Those would have to do until the day she could afford to have them done right, custom-printed with her name.

Lieutenant Santos’s head swiveled on his neck, absorbing every detail of Junie’s humble tasting room . . . the unfinished ceiling, the plywood walls, the makeshift bar cobbled together from cast-off parts. The closer he looked, the more inadequate she felt. So what if it wasn’t the Taj Mahal? She was doing the best she could.

She kept half an eye on him as he wandered over to the opposite side of the room, where a picture window would be someday, if she was lucky. His every movement was a study in controlled power. Wherever he went, the others followed, drawn to him like bees to a hive. He said something Junie couldn’t quite decipher. Whatever it was, her friends found it highly entertaining.

Daryl Decaprio, Clarkston High’s most notorious flirt. The resemblance was uncanny.

When the laughter finally died down, Daryl’s twin drifted over to watch her work. The temporary bar served only four without crowding. But there was an eighteen-foot slab of live-edge white oak out in the barn just waiting for the right time to be installed.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat back there, would you?”

“This is a wine-tasting room. If you’re hungry, there’re some restaurants in town.”

He raised a palm. “Fair enough. No harm in asking.”

She launched into her rehearsed pitch. “So, where’re you from?”

“Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey. But I left there a long time ago.”

Junie busied herself opening a two-year-old vintage. She felt the heat of his gaze travel over her hands, up her arms to her chest, her neck, and finally her face.

“What’s a beauty like you doing hidden away in a place like this?”

Her hands paused where they struggled against the stubborn cork. Beauty? Her? He didn’t just look like Daryl; he laid it on thick like him, too.

Stick to your script, Junie. What had they said at that free class for entrepreneurs at the Yamhill County Extension? She was the one who should be asking the questions. Marketing 101.

She gave the screw a vicious twist. The cork came out with a muted pop, and she began to pour the one-ounce servings used for sampling.

“How long will you be in the Willamette Valley?”

“Not long. I’m a traveling man. Just passing through.”

Lieutenant Manolo Santos was a walking, talking cliché, thanks to his good looks and bad lines.

Be nice to everyone, they said in the class. You never know who might turn out to be an ally. She clenched the bottle tighter in her moist palm, determined not to fumble under his penetrating glare, ally or not.

Sam hoisted his glass and the others followed suit. But before he could make a toast, the stranger beat him to it.

“To the Beaver State,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

That brought more cautious chuckles, as her friends weighed their loyalty to her against the novelty of the suave newcomer in their midst.

Sam swirled his wineglass at eye level, checking for all the signs: color, viscosity, legs.

Rory downed his glass like cider and followed it with a satisfied belch.

Junie’s heart sank. Heath was a brewer and Sam was in the wine business, like Junie. Keval was industry, too, if doing IT for the consortium counted. Was it too much to ask for them to appreciate what she was trying to do here? They’d tried her wine before. They knew word of mouth was everything. That’s where sales came from. But they couldn’t pass the word on about how great her pinot was if they persisted in chugging it like marathoners on Gatorade. Maybe they couldn’t handle three tastings in one day, after all.

“Yummy.” Keval licked his lips and picked up a battered copy of Wine Spectator from the bar. “Just think, Juniper. Maybe you’ll be in here someday.”

Yeah, right. She couldn’t even afford to renew her subscription.

At least Sam had the decency to give his wine time to wander around his palate, letting it speak to his taste buds. “Your wine sings, Junie.”

Junie swelled with pride. High praise, coming from Sam. But even he couldn’t seem to find her a distributor, though he’d been looking for the past couple of years.

True to his word, he spat into the receptacle provided. “Now, how about that rosé?”

Junie poised the new bottle to pour, but there were only four empty glasses on the counter. She skimmed the room for the fifth, spotting it in the hand of Mr. New Jersey.

Thick, workingman’s fingers cradled her fragile stemware. Dense lashes brushed against carved cheekbones as he lowered them to gaze at the ruby liquid. Then he glanced up over the rim, catching Junie staring. “Young, bright appearance.”

He lowered his Roman nose into the bowl and sniffed, then looked up, his eyes landing in the vicinity of her chest. “Juicy plums.” He swirled and sniffed again. “And some other fruit I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of tasting.”

Junie forgot about the bottle she held poised, and it sank to the bar under its own weight. “Lingonberry. It’s native to the Pacific Northwest.”