The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(64)

She shivered at his frank inspection. He made her feel naked. Vulnerable. She held her breath, waiting . . . for what, she didn’t know.

He took her by the shoulders, gently turned her around, and nudged her toward the door. “I’ve monopolized you long enough. You belong out there.”

She stumbled forward, then stopped, turned, and saw him standing there alone. Outside the office door, the sound of raucous merriment went on unabated.

“Go on,” he said with a toss of his chin.

She felt like she was being thrown out of her own office. “Aren’t you coming?”

“This is your place, and those are your people.”

She frowned. “What about you?”

He hesitated. And then he said, “I don’t have a place.”

*

The sun set over the hills, and still, people came. They drank, ate, laughed, and danced throughout the tasting room and outside, under the pergola.

Finally, everyone seemed to vanish at once.

Junie watched the red taillights of the last car bounce away from the estate. With a surreal feeling, as if she were walking on clouds, she went back inside the tasting room, her mind still reeling with snippets of conversations, visions of friends old and new, and well wishes.





Chapter Thirty-eight


Manolo worked his way around the outdoor tables, closing up the market umbrellas for the night.

The day had gone even better than planned. The party had been perfect. The press would be talking about it for days. Junie had even got a meeting with a distributor.

Now the consortium had its approvals. Satisfied, Sam had cut Manolo a check, replenishing his savings.

His work here was done. Tomorrow, he was moving on. All he was taking with him were his memories. In the future, whenever Oregon came up in conversation, he’d say, I was there, once.

He had to hand it to himself, he thought smugly. It had gone against the grain, but that hands-off policy he’d adopted with regard to a certain farm girl had worked.

It’d been touch-and-go at times. Without even trying, she’d managed to wrap herself around his heart like a vine, twisting and tightening almost imperceptibly. Then good old inductive reasoning and logic had kicked in to hold those rogue feelings in check.

As he fastened the strap around an umbrella, the flash of red taillights caught his eye. He looked up and he saw the silhouette of Junie waving good-bye to the last car driving off the property.

And like a rubber band that had been stretched too far for too long, he snapped.

Suddenly his feet were carrying him to the tasting room.

*

Junie had barely begun wiping down the bar when Manolo came striding toward her like a man on a mission.

Without a word, he took the bar rag from her and tossed it in the sink, clamped her chin with his strong hand, and took her mouth with his.

There was no time to think. She kissed him back and hung on for what some instinct told her was going to be the ride of her life.

He bent her backward over the bar, his hands everywhere at once.

“Junie,” he said raggedly, dragging his lips over her ear.

That alone, even without his hands on her waist, now her back, now her hips, would have made her day. Even a day as sweet as this one.

“Junie.”

His hands were under her sundress, under her panties, his fingers spanning her ass, digging into her flesh.

She caught a glimpse of his face and gasped. He was like a man possessed. His fevered expression was contagious, making her insides liquid and eager for more. More, more, more.

Her panties dropped to the floor in a puddle of pink ruffles.

He looked down at the sight of them and clucked with disapproval. “I don’t think those are OSHA-certified.”

Before she could think of a reply, she was being lifted onto the oak slab by the same hands that had hammered and sawed and nailed it into place, as if in preparation for this moment, this grand event that eclipsed all else.

Manolo opened her legs and drew her into him like he had done on the porch railing. But the bar was counter-height. This time, her breasts were aligned with his head, her hips with his chest.

He shoved his thumbs into the top of her dress and shimmied it down like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, New York City . . . he probably had.

No bra shielded her breasts from his intent gaze. She trembled with anticipation; then her head dropped back in rapture when he covered first one breast, then the other with his mouth.

She heard a zzzip and lifted her head to see his chinos hanging open with a heavy burden.

Oh.

“This is gonna be quick. I apologize ahead of time. Promise I’ll make it up to you.”

With that, he slung his hips onto a stool and Junie’s off the bar and onto his lap in one masterstroke, filling her almost beyond endurance.

Junie cried out.

But he took no mercy on her. He was relentless in his need.

He was quick. But afterward, he held her in place so long, she thought his arm muscles must surely be ready to give out.

*

Hours later, in Junie’s bed, Manolo stroked Junie’s hair where it fanned out over his chest.

How many times had he pictured the two of them right here, tangled up in Junie’s blue comforter? Now that they actually were, he still couldn’t see her. It was pitch black. The moon had set long ago. It’s true, he thought, that saying about the darkest hour being right before dawn.