The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(20)

Junie looked at him sideways. “No strings?”

“Tit for tat.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “You better quit while you’re ahead.”

He stuck out his hand. “So we got a deal.”

Deep as her reservations about Manolo Santos were, this just might work. At least she wouldn’t be taking charity. She put her hand in his.

“What do you think? Sam and I are done for today. We could start right now—if that works for you.”

He walked her to her battered, old Volvo and held her door. She climbed in and he slapped the roof. “These things were built like tanks.”

“My dad got it for me, used, for college, nine years ago.”

“Sounds like you and your Dad were pretty close.”

“We were.” But for the first time in a long time, Junie’s dad wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. She was thinking about Manolo’s eyelashes. They were as long and dark as the lashes on a soft-eyed horse she’d once trusted to gallop on the trail off Meadowlake Road—before it threw her. “I guess you’re close to your dad, too. I mean, he gave you all his recipes.”

His response was another slap on the roof that made her jump in her jeans and that knockout grin that made her heart race like she’d just run a mile. “So. Where do we start?”

“If you really want to know about Oregon wine, there’re a couple of good places on the way home. You can drive with me and I’ll bring you back later.”

The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, filling her car with his presence and smoky-sweet scent. What on earth was she doing? More than ever, she felt as if she were balancing on the edge of a precipice.

“Let’s roll,” he said, eagerly peering out the windshield.

This could not end well. Anyone who’d seen as many episodes of Worst-Case Scenario as she had knew that.





Chapter Ten


They headed north on the Tualatin Valley Highway. Manolo was as interested in Junie’s lithe body as he was in the distant mountains ringing the valley. She was close enough to touch. It would be so easy. All he’d have to do was just—

“Want to listen to some music?” she interrupted his thoughts, turning on the radio.

“Sure.”

A sweet, timeless love song came on.

“This song reminds me of my dad,” she said. “I used to take it for granted that we’d dance to it at my wedding.”

If there was one subject that never failed to throw cold water on steamy fantasies, it was weddings.

“That’s the Coast Range,” she said, humming along with the song. “They’re a pretty cadet blue from here, don’t you think? It looks different up close, where we go hiking.”

He pictured her hill climbing in skimpy shorts and sturdy boots.

“Who do you hike with?”

“Someone’s always hiking or waterskiing or floating down the river. You’ll find out, once summer gets here.”

Junie turned up a narrow lane until a long stucco edifice, sitting like an ocean liner in a sea of swaying orange flowers, came into view. Closer to the building, the wildflowers gave way to meticulous landscaping and a sign that read, ANNIE’S WINERY.

“Now, this looks like something you’d see in California.”

“You’ve done Napa, then? Or was it Sonoma? We were stationed at the Presidio, just south of there, for a few years. That’s when the wine bug really bit Dad hard. Annie’s was one of the first vineyards to be planted in Clarkston. They’ve been growing old-vine Riesling here since the eighties.”

Napa had nothing on Annie’s, in Manolo’s opinion. A dozen or so people were eating lunch under the market umbrellas dotting the spacious patio. “They have a restaurant! And look at that view! I bet you can see ten, fifteen miles.” He headed off in the direction of the patio to explore.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Junie snagged his arm. “This is an educational field trip. Inside.”

“You need to relax, you know that?” he replied, allowing her to steer him in the opposite direction.

“I’m here to teach you about wine.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to have fun.” But there were worse things than being led by the nose by a West Coast girl with eyes the color of blue spruce and muscles toned by honest, outdoor labor, not bought in some smelly city gym.

Inside, modern art hung on burgundy-colored walls between custom cabinetry designed to showcase bottles. The lighting was low, the atmosphere hushed, the bar stools upholstered in gray velvet.

“Whoever built this Shangri-la spared no expense,” Manolo muttered, looking around at the top-notch construction.

A barista in braids who looked flexible enough to wrap her legs around her neck greeted Junie by name. Then she examined Manolo with open curiosity. Earthy, Pacific Northwest girls were miles apart from glossy New York women, but a come-on look was a come-on look, no matter where in the world you were.

“Who’s your friend?” the barista asked Junie, her eyes glued to him.

Junie slid nonchalantly onto a bar stool. “This is Manolo. Manolo, Cerise.”

“You look like you’re not from around here,” purred Cerise.

Whatever vibes Cerise was putting out, Junie either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Which only made her more intriguing to Manolo. Like a devil on his shoulder, Sam’s hands-off warning came back to him.