The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(28)

“While we’re on the subject of the porch, I’m going to pick up some more lag screws, then I’ll be over again tomorrow afternoon. Then I have an early flight to Dulles Saturday.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have Reserves one weekend a month. These past few months, it’s been in Virginia.”

“Oh.” All the wind whooshed out of her sails. “I was hoping to show you some more wineries this weekend.”

“Won’t work.”

After all his flirting, his abrupt one-eighty felt like a slap in the face.

“Now that all the lumber’s cut, I only need nineteen more man hours to finish the porch.”

“Nineteen? That’s an odd number. Not twenty?”

“This is what I do. The consortium comes first, so depending on what’s going on there, your porch should be done by the end of next week.”

“Oh.” That meant he wouldn’t be hanging out at her place much longer. “Great,” she said weakly.

“Right.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Well, enjoy the linguini.”

“I will.”

Junie slowly lowered her phone to her side. At least he could have told her when he’d be back.

She recalled yet again what Sam had said that first day, before she’d even opened the tasting room door to Manolo: “Last I knew, Lieutenant, you had women in, let’s see—Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, New York City . . . ”

She started. Was Fort Belvoir in Virginia? Jealousy seeped into her veins. But other than a couple of phone calls, what sign had Junie given him to indicate she wanted more than just someone to fix her porch and share his father’s recipes? Come to think of it, she’d done just the opposite, turned down his offer of dinner not once, not even twice, but several times.

Then, a lightbulb went off. What if she surprised him tonight? Showed up to sit down together to whatever wonderful meal he’d cooked up, instead of sharing it over the phone? Maybe she was only setting herself up for deeper disappointment, but the idea took hold. What did she have to lose?

*

All Friday morning long, while Junie suckered vines and pulled weeds, she tried to picture what Manolo would be doing at the exact moment that she pulled in tonight, an hour earlier than he expected her to. Would she find him outside, perched high on a ladder, nail gun in hand? Inside, at the stove, sampling a steaming pot of soup for just the right spices?

Around three, while she showered for work at Casey’s, she thought of picking some wildflowers and putting them in a vase. Pulling out the real cloth napkins. She would change out of her server’s uniform, too, put on something nice.

A couple of hours later, while her hands were busy schlepping platters of meatloaf and instant mashed potatoes to her regulars, she was conducting a mental sweep of her drawers and closet, in search of something not made of flannel or denim.

As six-forty-five approached she started getting really nervous. Lying didn’t come easy to Junie. Sure her guilt was written all over her face, she went to her boss and told him she had a splitting headache and had to go home early.

People told little white lies to get out of work all the time. But not Junie. She was a business owner. She couldn’t help but put herself in Casey’s shoes. Casey was a considerate boss, a kind man, and a friend to her late father. He let her choose the early dinner shift to fit around her winery schedule. Plus, he let her work on a seasonal basis so that her waitress job wouldn’t interfere with the fall crush. By walking out in the middle of this evening’s dinner business, she was forcing him to don an apron to pick up the slack, to keep patrons from complaining that they didn’t get their food fast enough.

She found herself scurrying to her car, then caught herself and, with great effort, slowed her steps. Sick people didn’t hurry.

But, as she drove to the farmhouse, anticipation overcame remorse. She was so charged up, her teeth felt like they were floating in her gums. She couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Manolo’s face when she showed up unexpectedly!

There was his truck, parked in its usual place. More two-by-fours had been nailed up on the side porch. But Manolo was nowhere in sight. She imagined him inside, looking adorably ridiculous in one of her grandmother’s frilly aprons that Mom had left behind.

Junie bounded up the steps to the front door, mouth watering, wondering which Santos family specialty Manolo was whipping up tonight.

“Watch out!”

She almost ran into him as he walked out the door with a large covered container in one hand and her extra house key in the other.

“Manolo!” She eyed him up and down. He didn’t have on an apron. As a matter of fact, he was looking pretty spiffy for someone who’d been doing construction all day, in his Italian leather loafers and navy blazer. “Are you leaving?”

His normally smooth smile wobbled. “Er, yeah.”

Her eyes fell to the container in his hand. “What’s that?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Pizza.” He tossed his head over his shoulder. “I left you a good-sized portion,” he said with the same consoling voice Mom used to use when she’d thrown something together last minute to tide Junie and Storm over, before she and Dad went out to a fancy restaurant. That voice had never fooled her then, and it didn’t fool her now.

“Did you eat already?”