The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(59)

“Look.” She pointed across the dark valley, where a sprinkling of lights bobbed and dipped like fireflies. “We’re not the only ones picking tonight.”

They watched for a moment; then their eyes shared a moment of satisfaction at the hard work they’d accomplished together. Junie rested her hands behind her on the bench that he had built, leaned back her head, and closed her eyes.

Manolo studied her starlit profile, amazed at what fate had thrown together on this sultry late summer night, at this intimate hour: a city boy and a country woman, as opposite as the coasts they were born on. He thought of what his mother had said to him only hours ago: You look like you’ve found whatever it is you’ve been looking for.

All summer, he’d been stuffing his emotions, keeping things on a friends-only basis, believing it was best for Junie in the long run. He’d had a lot of catching up to do.

But if there was ever a moment made for romance, it was this one.

He leaned over and kissed her.

She responded cautiously, first leaving her hands behind her, flat on the bench.

Misgivings overtook him. He’d known this was a bad move!

But the dam had broken behind the force of his pent-up feelings.

Like a flower unfolding, she came to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He moved his hands along her sides, sliding his thumbs across her lowermost ribs. He marveled at how she could be so fragile, and yet so resilient.

Her hands tangled in his hair as their breathing came faster and stronger.

Then—dammit—the sound of approaching vehicles broke the silence of the country night. Manolo tore his mouth away from Junie’s to see headlights streaming toward them.

The pickers swarmed out of their vans wearing fluorescent safety vests and headlamps strapped over their red and blue bandanas. Each grabbed a plastic bin and headed right out to the middle of a row. By the time the pans were loaded, the tractor hauling a flatbed was waiting. When it was stacked high with grapes, the tractor hauled them to the crush pad in back of the tasting room, and the process began again.

Now Manolo realized why Junie had been so meticulous about keeping the canes trained up, the ground between the vines so clean. It was so that her pickers didn’t trip over canes or roots in the dark.

He swelled with admiration for her. All those brightly painted ladies in his past paled in comparison with Junie’s many talents, her thoughtfulness.

He followed a single picker down a row to watch him work, marveling at the speed with which the man used his sickle-shaped knife.

When the man rose and carried his pan of grapes to the flatbed, Manolo gazed up at the pre-dawn sky. The full moon had set hours ago. Now blues, pinks, and violets swirled above the ripening earth. One by one, the stars blinked out.

And that’s when he knew: He could plant roots here.

The thought was fleeting. Easy to say, now—when he was contractually bound to start his new job in Belize in exactly five days.

“What happens to the grapes?” Manolo yelled to Junie over the noise of the generator powering the portable lights.

“They get crushed, stemmed, and sent into a vat for a month of skin contact.”

“Skin contact?”

“The skins are what gives red wine its color. The first load is on its way to the crush pad. Let’s go.”

Junie showed him how to pour the plastic bins full of grapes into the crusher/destemmer and where the berries—pulp, skins, and all—went into the open-top, stainless-steel vat to soak. These were the same hard, green berries he’d seen on the vines last April. He was fascinated to see the process by which the now fat, purple berries were turned into wine.

The pickers kept up their efficient pace until the sun was overhead. Then, they seemed to vanish as quickly as they’d come. Shortly after the last bins of grapes had been crushed, all was once again quiet.

Junie sagged onto a bench.

“That it?” Manolo asked.

“I should go back down and rack some more.”

“Forget that. You’ve been going nonstop for, what? Twenty-eight hours?”

“So have you.”

“And believe me, I feel it. Come on.” He reached for her hand. “Time for a break.”

Reluctantly, she let herself be pulled up. Manolo wrapped an arm around her, propped her up against him, and dragged their tired, aching bodies into the house.

Junie could barely keep her eyes open, but he sat a plate of apple slices hastily smeared with peanut butter under her nose.

She didn’t have the strength to protest when he picked her up and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom.

“Thanks for everything,” she mumbled.

“Goes both ways. I’m getting private lessons in winemaking.”

She was limp as a rag doll when he deposited her on her bed in the fetal position and arranged the covers over her. “I’ll be back,” he said softly, though she was already fast asleep.





Chapter Thirty-five


“Come and get it!”

Junie woke up ravenous to the smell of home cooking and the sound of Manolo’s deep voice. She checked the time. Five o’clock! She’d been sleeping for four hours.

She stumbled into the kitchen to see a plate already on the table. “What’s all this?” She drifted over to where Manolo stood at the stove, spooning red sauce onto a second plate. “Chicken cacciatore.”