The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(42)

Chapter Twenty-three


The final week of June brought more clouds than sun. Junie was trying not to panic about the weather. But just to be on the safe side, she’d spent extra time in the vineyard the past three days, thinning leaves to let in more light on her grape clusters.

Every morning, when she went outside, she looked for little signs that Manolo had been there while she was at work. The leftovers were a thing of the past. He hadn’t cooked in her kitchen for weeks. The signs Junie looked for were more subtle. Fresh splinters of yellow wood on the ground, boot prints in the soft earth.

She’d become attached to his presence. Even when she didn’t actually see him there, evidence of him made her feel less alone. But now that the tasting room was finished, there were no more signs. He was probably devoting all his time to the consortium, as he should. No doubt he felt relieved to get back to doing just one job instead of two.

She’d been blown away when he showed her the tasting room. She’d never planned to throw herself into his arms. Planned or not, it’d been a mistake. He’d handled her like she was made of spun glass . . . almost as if he was afraid of her. She couldn’t figure him out. How could someone as confident and self-assured as Manolo be afraid of her?

Manolo Santos was an enigma.

There was his infuriating habit of keeping her guessing about his plans, such as when he was returning from Reserves. Usually he came back on a Monday, but this year Independence Day fell today, a Tuesday. Maybe he’d stayed on the East Coast to celebrate with his fellow officers, or even gone home to see his family? Maybe, at this very minute, he was with one of those other women Sam had joked about when he didn’t know Junie could hear.

She’d asked him if he was going to the Splash, but he hadn’t said anything definitive. Even with something as minor as a party, he refused to be pinned down.

As for the more important things, such as where he was going when he left Oregon . . . what kind of work he’d be doing, he hadn’t dropped so much as a hint.

Clearly, he was keeping her at arm’s length.

There’d been a trickle of customers over the holiday. More than last year, for sure. But nothing like the flood she’d hoped for when word of the new tasting room got out.

She chastised herself to be patient.

But that loan from Tom Alexander was a heavy weight around her neck.

She looked up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Her heart leapt when she saw the outline of a truck coming over the rise. But when she saw that the truck was blue, not black, she dropped her pruning shears, lifted her chin, and headed down the row to greet her visitors.

She should count her blessings. At least she had some customers, a brand-new tasting room, and a boss understanding enough to let her work around her own business.

Then she saw the approaching man’s rangy gait, perfectly groomed hair, and shining brown eyes.

“Daryl! What are you doing here?” she asked, confused. “Do you want to try some pinot?”

“Pinot?” He frowned, dismissing the very idea with a wave of his hand. “No. I want to ask you to come to the Clarkston Splash with me.”

She would have been less taken aback if he’d asked her to go skydiving. “You do?”

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“Um, maybe because you’ve been promising to ask me out on a real date since we were seventeen?”

“My mistake.” He grinned fetchingly, his dimples still affecting her, though not nearly as much as they had before. “I’m getting wiser in my old age.”

How many times had she fantasized about this very moment?

“What do you say? Pick you up at seven?”

Now it was happening, and something made her hesitate. “You could have just called instead of coming out here.” That would have given her time to mull it over.

He shrugged. “I knew I’d have a better chance if I came in person. So I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Well, it’s just that . . . I mean . . .” Was she going to keep turning down dates for the rest of her life if they didn’t meet her perfect conditions? If there was the slimmest chance of getting hurt?

It wasn’t like Manolo was going to ask her to the Splash party. She’d all but asked him, in so many words, and all he’d said was he’d think about it.

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Great.” His business done, he turned and walked back toward his truck. “See you tomorrow.”





Chapter Twenty-four


Manolo expertly fondled a tomato at the Clarkston market. It had been one week and three days since he’d last set foot in Brendan Hart Vineyards. It had taken a lot of willpower to stay away since he’d arrived back in Clarkston yesterday. But he told himself he’d run into Junie later today, at the pool party.

He rejected the tomato and squeezed a different one. Only the best would do to top the burgers he was going to grill at the party. The summer vegetable crop was starting to come in. He could afford to be choosy.

He bagged the rest of his produce and went up to the check out. While he cooled his heels in the long line of holiday food shoppers, he tried to sort out the troubling past few days in Virginia.

Heidi had sought him out, knowing it was his Reserves weekend. Heidi was a babe, she had a kick-ass job in the nation’s capital, and she was willing to take him on his terms—translation: whenever it suited him.