The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(23)

Manolo’s arm shot to the dash when Junie slammed on the brakes. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Sorry. That old lady was backing up without looking.”

“Look, screw the sandwiches. I’m starved. Let me buy you a real meal.”

“Can’t. I still have cuttings to burn before dark. I’ve goofed off long enough today.”

“What about Daryl? You gonna find time to go out with him when he calls?”

Junie dismissed his concern. “Daryl says that every time he sees me. He never follows through.”

“What if this time he does?”

“What if he does? You sound almost . . . jealous.”

Jealous? “I could no more be jealous of that”—he scrambled for a metaphor suitable for female civilian ears—“that peacock with his phony military jacket than . . .” He abandoned his attempt, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration.

Manolo had always had the most sophisticated women at his beck and call, without having to promise them anything. So why had he offered his construction skills, gratis, to a skinny girl in overalls with dirt caked under her fingernails? He was a total puss nut, that’s why.

Once he gave his word, he was good for it. But when all was said and done, he had a built-in exit ramp.

“Forget Daryl,” said Junie.

“So you won’t go out with me, but you’ll let me make you sandwiches.”

“I thought you liked to cook.” Her eyes taunted him; her teeth gleamed straight and white.

“Someone has to do it. Seems like the only time you eat is when someone feeds you.” With the jumble of conflicting feelings she brought out in him—lust, protectiveness, and respect—Manolo didn’t know whether to grin or grit his teeth.

He knew one thing, though. He didn’t want to say good-bye to her yet.

*

Junie and Manolo watched the dull orange glow of the smoldering brush pile over at the vineyard’s edge. Every now and then, she caught a whiff of wood smoke.

“That sandwich hit the spot,” she said, wincing at her cliché. Yet somehow, tonight, every thought that came to mind sounded lame the moment she gave it voice. It made no sense. All any passerby would notice was the ordinary sight of two people perched on a porch step. They couldn’t smell Manolo’s provocative male scent, or feel how his mere presence caused the air to vibrate with expectation, despite her instinctive reservations.

“Everything’s good when you’re hungry,” he said.

An awkward silence fell between them, as if he might be nervous, too. Then they both started talking at once.

“Go ahead,” said Junie.

“Tell me about you and Daryl.”

Her defenses immediately sprang up. Was her moth-eaten obsession with Daryl, which was so ancient it had lost all but a trace of its former power, that transparent? “Like I said, he’s hardly worth talking about.”

“How did you two meet?”

She treaded carefully. “In high school.”

Manolo waited patiently, examining the curls in the vine fragment he fingered.

“Okay. You want to know? I had a massive crush on him for years. But then so did every other girl at Clarkston High. I mean, you’ve seen him. . . .” She halted. She was making a mess of this. Manolo looked just like Daryl. She might as well be telling him how hot he was.

“Go on.”

“He always used his looks to his advantage, flirting with everyone every chance he got. He had so many women on the burner, it was insane.” Sam’s words leaped to Junie’s mind: Last I knew, Lieutenant, you had women in, let’s see—Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, New York City.... She was digging herself deeper and deeper into a hole.

But if Manolo noticed, he didn’t let on. “He never culled the pack, settled down?”

She shook her head. “I was never privy to his private life—I don’t know anyone who was, especially after I left for college. But to this day, I never knew of him being with any one person for any length of time.” It wasn’t the first time it had occurred to her. She had to admit that was a little strange. But back in the old days, she had been invested in keeping Daryl atop his pedestal, and now it hardly mattered. Her fixation had lost its potency.

Or at least, most of it.





Chapter Twelve


On May Day, Junie awoke at dawn to the sweet sound of birdsong. She dressed and carried her coffee mug out to the vineyard.

The ground was awakening, subtly but surely. People could be unpredictable, but there was comfort in knowing that even the fiercest winter eventually gave way to the warmth of spring.

The land was her refuge. Out here, it was just the solid, reassuring earth supporting her weight, the soft air caressing her cheeks. Beneath her soil-caked rubber boots was a small miracle: her crop of wildflowers coming into bud. The flowers did double duty. They attracted the birds that ate the bad bugs, eliminating the need for pesticides. Then, later this summer when the flowers went to seed, the hatchlings would feed on the seed heads. She straightened from where she examined a Johnny jump-up to watch a pair of bluebirds carrying nesting materials into one of the little wooden houses she had erected around her property. Of all the places she’d lived, none was as beautiful as this. She was determined to fight for this vineyard with everything she had.