The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(21)

Junie asked Cerise, “Can I try your Riesling? And Manolo will do a vertical of whatever pinot vintages you have available.”

Cerise poured Junie’s white and set down Manolo’s two glasses of the same wine from sequential years, for him to compare.

“Cheers.” Junie lifted her glass. “See?” she added playfully. “I’m relaxed. I’m drinking something purely for pleasure, not to compare it to the kind of wine that I make.”

“You’re not fooling me.” He laughed. “You already know what these taste like.” Dutifully, he tried what she’d selected for him. He waited until more patrons entered and parked themselves down the bar, diverting Cerise’s attention, before telling Junie his opinion.

“This one smells like a scorched cherry pie. The other tastes like a day-old teabag.”

Junie gave him a catlike smile and an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

Leaving their drinks unfinished, they went back out on the highway, passing a line of bicyclists in colors bright as jockeys’ silks and a nineties-era Subaru with a bumper sticker that read, I CAN SEE YOUR TETONS.

“Where to next?” he asked.

“Annie’s is one of the more impressive estates. Now I’m going to take you somewhere a little less fancy.”

She drove him to a modest A-frame with no sign out front. Just like before, Junie did the ordering. “You see how transparent this red is?”

Manolo took a sip and licked his lips. “Is that fig? No, raisin, with a hint of wet leaves. Whatever, it’s way better than the stuff at the last place we stopped.”

“Fig. And congratulations. You’ve just learned your first lesson: You can’t judge a wine by its tasting room.”

“Point taken. But I keep thinking about the food back at Annie’s. You saw how full the patio was, even though the wine wasn’t that great. Offering food’s a marketing thing, Junie. It’s a no-brainer: The more people drink, the more they want to eat.”

“No-brainer, huh? Where’s the research?”

“I grew up in the restaurant business. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I thought you wanted to get serious about wine? Or was that just another one of your lines?”

“Lines?”

“I have a mirror. I know I’m no beauty.”

Manolo studied Junie frankly, taking her apart with his eyes. Her hair was plain brown, her brows dark and thick like his sisters’, not like the plucked and polished women he was typically drawn to. Her nails were short and bare, and she could use some flesh on her angular frame.

“Fair enough. You want my unvarnished take on beauty? I was brought up by four mothers—my mom and three older sisters—Paloma, Maria, and Isabel. I was the baby, and they spoiled me rotten. For eighteen years, not a day went by that someone didn’t tell me how pretty I was. I survived being suffocated—barely—but my respect for ‘pretty’ didn’t. Beautiful is boring, you ask me. All luck and no merit.”

Junie snorted. “I guess I asked for that,” she said, looking down at where she drew a tight circle on the bar with the foot of her glass.

He set the tips of his fingers on its base, stilling it to make his point. “There’s way more to you than a pretty face. There’s something substantial about you. Call it . . . integrity.”

“How can you say that? You barely know me.”

“I know it by the passion in your voice when you talk about your wines. Your devotion to living your dream.” Not to mention, her earnestness, which threatened to break his heart. “Besides”—he took another sip of the good wine—“I’ve been getting an earful. You have a broad fan base.”

“Not according to Tom Alexander.”

“The exception that proves the rule.”

“Too bad he’s so obsessed with my grapes.”

Manolo laughed. “I’m glad it’s just your grapes he’s interested in.”

She smiled self-consciously, endearing herself to him even more.

“What about you? You already know something about wine. I can tell by the words you use to describe it.”

He shrugged. “Who, me? Not so much.”

“Figs? Wet leaves? Liar.”

“I told you, I grew up in the restaurant business.”

“You said it was a pizzeria.”

“Pizza, spaghetti, ravioli . . .”

“I’ve been around, too, don’t forget, and I know every state’s laws are different, but I haven’t seen many pizza shops that have a liquor license.”

He shrugged. “One complements the other. With my parents, it started with the food. We got the liquor license to increase business. I don’t know why it shouldn’t go both ways.”

“So, what do you like to drink?”

He considered. “Can’t go wrong with a 2010 red Burgundy.”

Junie lifted a brow. “You do know something about wine. Would you be surprised if I told you pinot noir grapes are what goes into most Burgundian wine?”

“See? I didn’t know that.”

“It’d take a lifetime to learn all there is to know. That’s what’s so fascinating about it.”

Manolo’s eyes swept the room restlessly. “All this drinking is making me hungry.”