The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(24)

In the afternoon, she showered and put on her waitress uniform in preparation for work. While the restaurants along Clarkston’s Main Street went after tourist dollars, Casey’s catered mostly to senior citizens on a budget and families with rambunctious kids.

It was dark when she got home again. The sharp, resinous tang of freshly sawn wood filled her nostrils the moment she exited the car.

Manolo. He had said he might come over after his work at the consortium was finished. The very thought of him out in the barn, bent over Dad’s old table saw, made her wish she’d been here to watch his strong back, his coordinated movements while he worked.

Last night, he’d been in a pensive mood after she’d told him about her history with Daryl. He’d left shortly after. She wondered where things stood between them now.

She picked up the paper bag left on the stoop and read the label printed in a careful hand: MONDAY’S SPECIAL. SPAGHETTI WITH RED SAUCE. The bag sagged with the weight of its contents. She felt a tingle of anticipation imagining the sight of Manolo stirring a pot on a hot plate in his tiny kitchenette, rolled up shirtsleeves baring thick forearms.

There was a lot of food. After nibbling between customers at the diner, more food was the last thing on her mind, but she couldn’t resist popping some of Manolo’s spaghetti into the microwave. Her mouth watered at the aroma released by heating. One bite, standing up, was all it took. She fell into a chair and dedicated the next five minutes to savoring the food’s nourishing goodness. Before she knew it, she had eaten the entire dish. She set down her fork for the last time and sat back, feeling whole and restored. Then she trudged upstairs, one hand on her satisfied stomach.

Saturday’s jeans were lying on the top of the pile in the clothes hamper. Junie fished through the pockets until she found Manolo’s card. Then she switched off the light and fell back onto her comforter.

“You made that on a hot plate?” she asked when Manolo answered her call.

“I’ve made Dad’s spaghetti with goat meat over a campfire started with a bow and drill.”

“I am so full I can hardly move.”

“Good. I like knowing I satisfied you.”

She flushed with illicit pleasure. But encouraging him would be insane. By his own admission, he was a drifter. Later, when he’d gone on his merry way, she’d be the one to get hurt. Safer to stick to the topic of food. “Seriously, where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“It’s an old family concoction, passed down through the male line.”

“Well, it’s amazing. Thanks.”

“Wait’ll you taste what I make Tuesdays.”

She chuckled. “You have a specialty for every day of the week?”

“When I don’t eat out. And since you won’t go out with me . . .”

“I told you, I waitress.”

“Looks like I’ll just have to keep cooking, then.”

Lying across her bed in the dark, Junie’s heart tightened. Was Manolo Santos a silver-tongued player, up to no good? Or a lamb in wolf’s clothing? He had already more than made up for the ruckus he’d caused the day he came to town. Maybe he deserved a break.

“Tell you what. Feel free to use the kitchen here when you’re working on the porch if you want.”

He hesitated. “That’s quite an offer. You sure?”

“The key’s under the mat.”

“No bad guy would ever find it there.”

“Shut up,” she teased.

“Ouch. And just when I was making headway.”

“Good night.” In the dark, empty house down the deserted dirt road, Junie indulged in a grin. She lay the phone aside, folded both hands across her stomach, and looked up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. Manolo didn’t just take on a task; he wrestled it into submission. She envisioned his long, powerful legs tracking and backtracking across her kitchen floor as he cooked, his expert hands chopping and stirring. A girl could get used to that. But as anyone who had memorized all the episodes of Worst-Case Scenario knew, the odds of a man like Manolo sticking around for any length of time were close to zero.





Chapter Thirteen


On Tuesday between customers, Junie wondered what she would find waiting when she got home. The moment she stepped inside her house, she knew that Manolo had been there by the fragrance of home cooking that enveloped her. On the table was a note in his now-familiar, precise lettering.

RISOTTO & SAUSAGE.

She opened the fridge and pulled out a covered dish, still warm to the touch. She grabbed a fork, bumping the drawer shut with her hip, and dug in before she even sat down.

Junie had never been one of those Portland foodies. Eating was just something that took time away from more important things. Besides, whenever she did cook, the salad was soggy by the time the meat was done and the vegetables were still crispy—not in a good way.

But Manolo’s cooking was different. It seduced her into slowing down, to savor each bite with all her senses. She concentrated on identifying the separate components of the sausage and rice dish, the same way she evaluated wine. First, there was the delicate scent of sage filling her nostrils. Then the silky rich broth caressing her tongue. The rice, moist yet firm to the tooth. This wasn’t mere sustenance. Manolo’s gift filled some vague emptiness that she hadn’t even known was there. Eating the product of his hands somehow made her feel connected to him. Between bites, she set down her plate and pulled out her phone. If she couldn’t be with him, at least she could talk to him.