The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(22)

“Again with the food. Are you ready to go back to Sam’s?”

“What about the porch? You were going to show me your dad’s old specs and the materials left in the barn.”

“I still haven’t gotten to the market. There’s nothing in the house to eat.”

“We could grab some stuff for sandwiches. I need to pick up a couple things for the apartment, anyway.”

“Does your place have a nice kitchen?”

“If you consider a hot plate and a mini fridge nice.”

She pulled a sympathetic face. “That’s too bad. You said you like to cook. . . .”

“It’s still better than field rations. It’ll have to do for the next few months.”





Chapter Eleven


Standing at the market deli counter waiting for his order, Manolo was checking out Junie’s narrow hips sashaying down the refrigerated aisle in search of milk when some hotshot in aviators and a leather bomber broken in at all the right places appeared from the canned-goods row and gathered her into his arms. Manolo immediately went on red alert as he watched him whisper something in her ear, then hold her at arm’s length to observe her startled reaction.

“Daryl!” Junie reddened, to the guy’s satisfied grin.

“How’ve you been?”

When he whipped off his shades, Manolo recognized him with a start. The guy who’d leased him his truck.

“You look fantastic. The winemaking agrees with you. I think about calling you all the time, and then something happens. You know how it is.”

Flustered, Junie sputtered something unintelligible.

“Heard about your mom moving out.”

Word sure gets around in a small town. Dr. Hart has barely been gone twenty-four hours.

“You gonna be all right over there all by yourself?”

HE KNOWS WHERE SHE LIVES.

“I’ll be fine, thanks for asking.”

“There’s a new place over in Newberg I been wanting to try. Something Trattoria. You heard of it?”

“Yeah, no—”

“It just opened a couple weeks ago. Getting rave reviews. We oughta go.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

The flood of testosterone pumping through Manolo’s veins had his chest thudding.

“I mean it, Junie. We ought to.”

Touching, this little reunion. Shame it has to end now. Casually, Manolo strode over and reached for Daryl’s hand.

“I remember you.” He applied more pressure to the salesman’s hand than was necessary. They locked eyes, sizing each other up like two bull moose.

“Manolo, right?” said Daryl finally. “How’s the twenty-five hundred running for you?”

“It’ll do.”

“Yo, buddy. Your prosciutto,” called a tired voice from behind the deli counter. “Anything else?”

Manolo only half heard the summons. He and Daryl continued to glare at each other with their chests puffed out.

“Welllll . . .” came Junie’s voice, her gaze darting like a bluebird’s between Daryl and Manolo.

Eyes still glued to Manolo’s face, Daryl answered Junie from the side of his mouth. “You have to go. So do I.”

It wasn’t Daryl’s square jaw and resolute eyes that were so disconcerting. It was what Manolo sensed behind those eyes—a reflection of himself. Even more disturbing, he knew without a doubt that Daryl had seen right through him, too—straight into his soul.

Daryl blinked first. He leaned over and bussed Junie’s cheek, a tad too close to her mouth for Manolo’s comfort.

“Buddy! I don’t got all day.” The deli man slapped Manolo’s prosciutto and provolone against the top of the meat case and walked off, leaving it there.

“I’ll call you,” Daryl told Junie, holding an imaginary phone to his ear while walking backward through the condiments aisle, past the checkout line and toward the exit. The bag in his other hand signaled he’d already paid.

Where was one of those West Coast earthquakes when you needed it? Manolo relished a vision of Daryl Decaprio buried beneath a mountain of pickle jars. He followed Junie up to the register, steaming like a freight train. “How do you know that guy?”

“Who?” she replied absentmindedly, checking her text messages.

Manolo jutted his chin toward his evil twin’s back as it finally disappeared out the store’s automatic door.

“Him?” she asked, glancing up. “Daryl?”

Who else? “What’s he to you?” A friend? A lover?

“Just a sec. My mom’s texting me.”

Patience wasn’t Manolo’s strong suit. Jaw clenched, he paid the cashier for his food.

On their way out to the car, Junie finally stopped texting and slipped her phone back into her bag. “Now, you were asking me . . . ?”

“Daryl,” Manolo growled, the name bitter on his tongue.

“We’re old friends.”

“I guaran-damn-tee you, he thinks you’re more than just friends.”

“How do you know?” She frowned, peering into the rearview as she backed out of the parking lot.

“I know exactly what guys like that are thinking. What they want—”