The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(53)

Unless, of course, he had an obligation to fulfill, somewhere far, far away.

That employment contract was his exit strategy. His insurance policy.

“I’m committed. The contract’s signed, sealed, and delivered.”

Hell yeah, he wanted Junie, though he was going to keep trying his damnedness not to cave to temptation. But just in case he did, now he had an excuse not to stick around.

Sam tsked. “Things are about to get interesting.”





Chapter Thirty-one


On a warm, overcast afternoon in mid-August, Junie was potting roses in planters while Manolo was hard at work on the bistro.

Whenever he was there, Junie had fallen into the habit of looking for random chores to do near the tasting room.

When she heard a rapid-fire pop-pop-pop, she looked up to see him discarding his snap-front denim shirt, slinging it across a tree branch.

She spent the next couple of hours sneaking glimpses of his upper body in its full range of motion as he applied mortar to the stones and set them onto the frame around the patio.

When the sun was low in the sky, he brushed his hands together for the last time and began collecting his tools.

Junie pulled off her gardening gloves with a casualness that belied her thrumming pulse. “I’m going down in the cellar to do a trial tasting to see if last year’s vintage is ready to bottle. Want to come along?”

Manolo snapped the lid on his toolbox shut and turned to face her. “If last year’s wine still hasn’t been bottled, then what is it we’ve been drinking?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

With every step into the cellar, the air grew chillier on her skin. When they reached the bottom, they were surrounded by the yeasty smell of fermenting grapes.

Manolo sniffed. “Smells like my nona’s fruit cellar. She used to can fruits and vegetables for the winter. When climbing stairs got too hard for her, she’d send me down to get what she needed. I could never forget that sweet, earthy smell.”

First, Junie took him into the bottle case room. “This is the wine we’re currently selling. It’s two years old. This is also what I’ll be promoting at this fall’s crush.”

“That’s a lot of wine to keep track of.”

She waved a tablet. “It’s all here, on spreadsheets going back to when I was a teenager.”

Then they went into the larger barrel room. “This is the wine from last fall’s harvest. It’s been down here fermenting all year. The wine is the baby, the cask is the mother. It cradles the wine until it’s ready to be born.

“These past few weeks, I’ve been running trials, tasting it almost every night. Timing’s everything. It’s like ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’ If I bottle too soon, the wine will lack spice and earthiness. Wait too long, and it’ll lose its fruitiness. The moment it reaches perfection, it needs to be racked—filtered from these barrels into a big, stainless steel tank—and then bottled.”

“What happens if this wine’s not ready before the crush?”

“A nightmare, that’s what. Because I need these barrels,” she said, giving a curved wooden side a fond slap, “to be cleaned and sterilized by then. I’d rather not be doing everything at once.”

Junie collected two glasses and a long plastic tube from a corner table. Handing him the tube, she opened a port on an oak barrel. “Now. I want you to gently insert the thief into the opening.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When it’s full, withdraw it and press the tip against the side of the glasses until the fluid flows out.”

When he’d done that, they clinked glasses. “To the crush,” said Manolo.

It took all Junie’s concentration to look away from his black eyes. But she’d promised to teach him about wine and so far, she had barely scratched the surface.

“I’m going to ask you to make five decisions. Tell me, is this wine ruby, garnet, or purple?”

“What’s the difference between ruby and garnet?”

“Garnet is more orange.”

He studied his glass. “I’d say it’s more garnet.”

“Now, I want you to savor a sip. Let the wine wash over every taste bud on your tongue. Which berry flavor do you taste? Red, black, or blueberry, or raisin?”

“Red.”

He slid his foot forward a few inches, enveloping her in his warm aura.

“You’re not paying attention,” she scolded weakly, inching backward till she was brought up short by the table.

“Sorry, teacher.”

With a growing uneasiness, she followed his hand as he reached around to set his glass on the wood with a soft tick that echoed through the cavernous room.

“Ahem. Question number three. Is the fruit tart, ripe, jammy, or dried?”

“I love it when a woman’s smarter than I am.” Now he relieved her of her glass as well.

Her pulse pounded, and she didn’t know what to do with her empty hands. “We’re not finished.”

“You got that right.”

Now her chest was visibly rising and falling. Knowing he saw the effect he had on her only made her breath come harder.

He planted a foot on either side of hers. She looked up to see his eyes finishing a circuit of her body just before colliding with hers.