The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(38)

His fingers spread to cup her jaw possessively. He tipped her head back, sending her Ducks cap tumbling backward onto to the ground. Slowly, slowly his head descended until only inches separated their lips. His own jaw tightened with the effort of restraint. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to throw caution to the wind, rip that baggy white suit right off, and lay her down in the middle of the vineyard in broad daylight. If she were any other woman . . .

Abruptly, Manolo dropped Junie’s chin, whirled around, and strode down the row of vines with their clusters of tiny green berries, sucking in a steadying breath. She wasn’t any other woman. Sam was right—Juniper Hart wasn’t just hook-up material. When it came to her, his past seemed like a dress rehearsal for something much grander, much more meaningful.

Finally, he did a one-eighty and walked back, massaging the knots out of his neck.

“You were saying?” she asked coolly.

He cleared his throat. “Like I said, it’s only going to be a matter of time until you’re beating them off with a stick.”

“Customers, you mean?”

Customers. Men. He wasn’t sure anymore what he meant. Just being around Junie made him too crazy to think straight.

“A month ago, you said I’d never make it. What changed your mind?”

What had changed? The economy was the same. Sam had always contended that Junie’s product had the potential to catch fire. Was it just Manolo’s big ego, banking on the notion that merely sprucing up her tasting room would be the magic bullet that would put Junie’s winery on the map—and ultimately attract a distributor for her wines? Manolo was no more of a retailer than Junie was. But somehow every passing week found him more and more invested in her property. Hell, even more than the consortium.

Suddenly Manolo’s collar felt like a leash around his neck, staking him to a single spot like a dog on a chain. He ran a finger between his shirt and skin. There was so much ground left to cover, so many places yet to see: the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The Falkland Islands. And if he ever did succumb to one woman, one place—when he was old and gray, that is—he’d never imagined it would be a struggling farm woman in a state that prided itself on its weirdness.

He stooped to retrieve Junie’s ball cap and handed it to her with his old, lighthearted veneer. “What changed? Easy. Now you got me on the job.”





Chapter Twenty-one


From the outset of the hike, Junie pushed herself to keep up with the guys, waiting for a chance to get Sam alone so they could talk without being overheard. She decided to hasten the process along by instigating Rory and Heath’s favorite debate.

“Hey, you guys, I forget. Is it cider that’s gluten free, or is it beer?” she asked innocently.

“Cider,” Rory declared with a smug look at Heath.

“But beer has more protein and vitamin B,” countered Heath.

“Studies show hard cider has as many antioxidants as wine.”

“Big deal! Hops have flavonoids.”

“Well, whoop dee freakin’ do! Cider has polyphenols!”

And so on. Their gestures grew more emphatic as they compared benefit after benefit, and their pace was sacrificed to their argument. They didn’t seem to notice that they were falling behind Sam and Junie.

Sam glanced behind him when he heard Junie’s footsteps catching up with him. “Why’d you have to get them started?” he chastised. “Now they’ll be at it all day.”

“Don’t worry about them. They love it.”

“You’re up to something.”

Junie scrambled to keep up with Sam’s long strides. “Who? Me?”

“Who do you think? Might as well tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing, really. I was just wondering about something I heard you say that first day you brought Manolo to my place.”

“What’s that?”

She detected a tinge of wariness in Sam’s voice. Stumbling over a root, she said, “Before I opened the tasting room door that day, I heard you say Manolo had women in several different places.”

“I did?” He was stalling.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember. Is that true?”

“That’s not a question for me.”

“Sam . . . just tell me.”

“Let it go, Junie. You know how guys talk.”

“That’s just it,” she said, panting. “I don’t know if you were busting on him or repeating his shaggy-dog story or . . . or he’s really that kind of guy.”

Sam’s boots chewed up ground while he thought about it. Finally he said, “Exactly what is it you want to know?”

She was tired of beating around the bush. “Does Manolo have a girlfriend? Girlfriends, with an S?”

“Today? I couldn’t tell you.”

“Does he really . . . is he . . . ?”

“Is he what?”

“Straight up, Sam—do you trust him?”

They trampled over the mossy forest floor, snapping twigs and skirting snags, until Junie wondered if Sam had heard her.

Finally, he said, “On the battlefield? There’s no one I’d rather have as my wingman. But when it comes to matters of the heart, isn’t there something you ladies call women’s intuition?”