The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(61)
He loved knowing he flustered her.
As when he worked on any humanitarian project, it occurred to him how it made no sense—a selfish bastard like he was, getting such a kick out of fulfilling someone else’s dream. That was what he did, though, wasn’t it? Helped out strangers to make up for letting down his own family. But he’d have time enough to dwell on that, soon enough. He might be a coward when it came to relationships, but right now he was on a high. Just for today, he didn’t want to acknowledge that storm cloud gathering in his peripheral vision.
He worked quickly, hoping to finish while Junie was still preoccupied with the bottling. When the oven and grills and fridge were installed, he jumped into his truck and drove to town, where he’d been keeping the surprise extra touches he’d ordered at the same time he’d bought the consortium fixtures.
Later that afternoon, Chris Haggarty came over to say good-bye and admire Manolo’s handiwork. “Good luck with the crush. I’ll be sure and pass the word about the pizza oven here at Hart’s. I get around some in my business.”
As the semi drove away and Manolo was erecting the last colorful umbrella, Junie appeared. He stood up straight, planted his hands on his hips, and waited for her reaction.
She stopped at the edge of the patio. Her eyes met his briefly before flickering over his handiwork.
Then, in sharp contrast to the rush of the past few days, she floated as if on air beneath the pergola, trailing her hand across the stone, steel, and wood surfaces. She peered into the oven, the spotless fridge. When she finally looked at him again, her eyes were shining.
“You like it?”
Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She swallowed. “How can I ever repay you?”
“That look on your face just did.”
She went back to examining and fingering everything in sight. “This is—wait until everyone sees it!”
“I need to do a food run tonight. The crush is in two days. Don’t want to be buying groceries tomorrow, when who knows what fires I’ll have to put out. That’s the final walk-through of the consortium.”
“What can I do?”
“You have a few volunteer baristas, don’t you? You worry about the wine and inside your tasting room. I’ll tend to everything that happens out here on the patio . . . the food, the music, the money. What time’s the market close today?”
She looked at the time. “Less than an hour.”
He picked up his tool box, strode over to Junie, and pulled her roughly toward him. Her breath came out with a rush. She pressed her hands into his chest and looked up at him with soft eyes, her lips open in invitation.
He looked down at her face, desire engulfing him like flames. If he caved to his ball ache now, it would be game over. He wouldn’t let her out of bed for days. Those groceries would never get bought. And then there’d be no food for the crush—hell, no crush at all at Hart Vineyards—negating the whole point of this passion project.
He released her with a teeth-rattling suddenness and took off at a clip toward his truck.
This story wasn’t over. He wanted to savor it, not jump ahead prematurely to the end.
When he was safely beyond arm’s reach, he turned to see Junie watching him.
He charged on toward his truck, heart thudding with anticipation of what was yet to come.
Chapter Thirty-six
As usual, Manolo hadn’t seen fit to inform Junie when he was coming back. Who knew when he’d show up? Tonight? Tomorrow? Not until Saturday?
I hate him, Junie thought as she took one last inventory, transferring cases from storage to the tasting room.
I love him, she thought every time she looked at her brand-new bistro. She’d forgotten how great it was to have a partner, someone to share the good and bad parts of a tough business. It didn’t hurt that he had big muscles, either. He was attentive to every detail—as long as those details were tangible, concrete things. When it came to relationships—not so much. She couldn’t get rid of the nagging suspicion that he might disappear for good at any moment.
But wasn’t she equally at fault? She was too proud to ask. Or maybe she didn’t want to know. There was something immediate . . . ephemeral about what they had. They lived purely in the present. Every moment with Manolo was like walking a tightrope high above the earth. Her heart was pounding with exhilaration at the freedom, yet she knew she could fall and suffer unthinkable pain. When there were no expectations, anything could happen. Every time they kissed, he took another little piece of her heart.
When dark fell, she gave up hope of seeing him that day. She trudged into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. To her surprise, she found enough food to get her through a siege. Six jars of her brand of peanut butter, soups, pastas, and fancy crackers. Familiar things that needed no preparation, and unfamiliar ingredients she presumed were for his recipes. She picked up a jar of artichoke hearts and smiled. Without meaning to, he’d given away a secret. He must be planning to do more cooking there, in her kitchen.
*
The day before the crush, Manolo was up at zero six hundred hours to plant shrubs at the consortium. He was to meet with the building inspectors at noon.
In anticipation of the flock of tourists, barricades were already being erected along Clarkston’s Main Street to block it off for foot traffic only. The rainy weather pattern had broken, and the forecast for the weekend was nothing but blue skies. There was talk of an actual grape stomp and a pie-eating competition and a barrel roll.