The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(29)

“No. Not yet.”

She tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t it make perfect sense, Manolo taking food back to his apartment to eat? Especially if he’d eaten already and what he held in his hand was leftovers?

“Did you see the side porch?” he asked, too brightly.

“Uh, yeah.” Junie didn’t care about the porch right now. All her energy was focused on figuring out this puzzle. “So . . . I got off a little early today,” she said, in case he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Good for you.”

“You could stick around if you want.” She eyed his container meaningfully. “We could eat together.”

“We could . . .”

She braced herself for what she knew was coming.

“. . . but I, um, made plans.”

After twenty-eight years of perfect reliability, Junie’s knees picked that moment to threaten to collapse.

Manolo gestured with the container in his hand. “I’m taking this somewhere else tonight.”

Junie had put no restrictions on Manolo’s use of her kitchen. Then again, she’d never dreamed he would cook for someone else. The concern in his face—or was that pity?—only made it worse.

“Sorry, Junie. If I had known—”

Too late, she saw that those dark eyes held secrets and motivations she would never be privy to.

“No, no, don’t worry about it!”

His hands full, he lifted his elbows in an apology as he and Junie circled in an awkward pas de deux. “I asked you to go out with me, like five times. . . .”

And she’d turned him down every time.

Now he was facing the front door. He edged backward toward the front porch steps. “I’ll be back next week to finish the side porch.”

“Sure!” she replied with a grin that felt as fake as a rhinestone engagement ring. “See you then.”

Edging farther away, he said, “It’s going to be great. Even better than you thought.”

“Sure it will. Have a good time!”

“You okay?” he asked, pausing before descending the stairs with a concerned look on his face.

“Fine, fine!” She laughed shakily. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

There was uncertainty in his step as he retreated, leaving her standing there, a balmy spring evening stretching before her with nothing to do and no one to do it with.

He held up a hand in farewell as he strode to his truck, and she waggled her fingers back at him, feeling like a gawky adolescent.

Junie closed the front door softly and wilted against the other side.

She had eaten next to nothing that day both out of nerves and to save room for this special night, but now the thought of putting Manolo’s pizza in her mouth made her want to retch. Dry-eyed, she shoved off from the door, changed back into the jeans she’d had on this morning, and went out and ripped suckers off grapevines until it got so dark she was doing it by feel and not by sight.





Chapter Sixteen


Saturday morning, Junie heard a car. When she saw her mom’s SUV pulling down the drive, she was disappointed that it wasn’t tourists, until she realized how much she had missed her.

“I see the new porch guy is working out,” called Mom, retrieving a cardboard carton from her back seat.

Junie crossed the grass to meet her. “It should be finished sometime next week.” She’d just as soon keep the builder’s identity out of it. She still felt like a gullible fool after last night.

“Finally finishing the house will make it much more salable.”

Figures that would be Mom’s first reaction.

Mom thrust the box toward her.

“What’s this?”

“I’m returning some things.”

Junie peered inside. “Grandma Hart’s crazy quilt?”

“You’re the only one who would want that faded old thing.”

“Her brass candlesticks?”

“None of those antiques look right in my new place. They should stay here. They’ll be good for staging. For homebuyers who are into that whole country thing. You know. Baskets and dried baby’s breath and all that crap—I mean, stuff.” Mom left Junie holding the box and headed toward the house. “I’m thirsty,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

Junie struggled to keep up under the weight of the box. “You took all the tea. Remember?”

“There must be something in here.”

Mom poured herself some water from the dispenser on the fridge door, then opened it and ducked her head inside. “Are you hungry?” Before Junie could answer, she came out dangling a clear plastic bag. “Where did this come from?”

The irregularly shaped pizza was obviously homemade. But Mom knew Junie was a klutz in the kitchen. She wasn’t merely bad at cooking—she seemed to be afflicted with some inherent disability.

Mom peeled it open and sniffed. “What is this? Mind if I take a bite?”

“It’s pizza,” said Junie flatly, stating the obvious. “Go ahead.”

“Mmm! This is scrummy! Want me to warm you up the other piece for your lunch?”

Junie swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’d rather go out.” Without waiting for a response, she headed for the living room. “I’ll go change quick.” She scurried up the stairs in an attempt to put distance between herself and Manolo’s handiwork. Because that wasn’t just plain old pizza. That dish was like her wine. Created with thought and care, infused with the essence of the maker.