The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(71)

Poppy Springer scooped the coins left on the crumb-littered table into her pocket as she watched Sandy and Kyle wheel their stroller out into the September afternoon.

Behind them, a stiff gust of wind sent the bell above the door clanging like a fire alarm. A page torn from a coloring book soared off the table and landed at Poppy’s feet, only to skitter out of reach when she bent to pick it up.

Outside the café window, the couple didn’t get far before Sandy paused the stroller to pull up the hood on her toddler’s jacket.

Must be a storm brewing.

Poppy remembered the day Kyle had balked at holding Sandy’s hand in line at Clarkston Elementary. Now those two were expecting their second baby in May—though just this morning they had come to a mutual decision to wait a bit before telling anyone.

When Poppy was growing up it had never occurred to her to do anything but work at the café on Main Street that her parents had named after her. Her mom always said Poppy was a people person, and the café provided a comfortable living.

But sometimes Poppy couldn’t help but feel like the residents of Clarkston had become blind to her . . . discussing personal matters between bites of toast while she stood inches away, neglecting the small courtesy of looking up when she topped off their coffees.

Poppy gave Sandy and Kyle the benefit of the doubt. They weren’t rude, just preoccupied with their full lives. Besides, Poppy’s dad had always called her his human barometer. That was his teasing way of saying he thought she was too sensitive to others’ moods and emotions.

She slid the high chair out of the way, squatting to scrape up the congealing yolk of a dippy egg. Then she strode to the other side of the café, knelt, and picked up the cartoon picture of a princess whose face was scribbled almost beyond recognition.

She was still gazing at it when the doorbell jangled again. When she looked up to see Heath Sinclair, Junie Hart, Keval Patel, and Red McDonald blustering through the door, her insides warmed like one of those rare autumn days when the sun filtered through the Oregon mist onto the vineyards and the pickers’ carelessly discarded jackets were bright spots of color on the ground between the rows.

*

Half an hour later, Poppy rested her tray on the table edge and began distributing drinks and sandwiches. She felt the strain in her back and arms more than usual today, thanks to a late night of studying. For Poppy, book learning had never come easy.

Heath snapped shut the large, hardbound volume he’d been leafing through and shoved it in his backpack.

“Red, here’s your spicy Italian wrap. Junie, sticky bun. Keval, are you sure all you want is spring water?”

Keval sighed. “I’m on a cleanse.”

“Heath—turkey BLT and lemonade.” Poppy’s eyes flickered to his, then back to the food she handed him.

She felt like she was walking a tightrope whenever she was around Heath. She could tell she made him feel off kilter, too.

“Thanks,” he murmured, cramming his backpack onto the seat behind him.

Poppy was much better at reading faces than pages. But anyone could see that Heath was hiding something.

“How do you do that?” asked Junie, as Poppy deposited the empty tray on an adjacent table. “Always remember everyone’s order without writing anything down?”

Poppy just smiled and slid into the vinyl booth next to Red.

“Poppy has a great memory,” said Heath.

She flushed with pleasure. She was used to getting compliments on her looks, not her brains. Heath wasn’t a man of many words. If he made the effort to say something nice, you could bet it was sincere.

She sought out his hazel eyes to make her appreciation clear, not caring if it made him umcomfortable. “Thank you,” she said pointedly.

But he was already intently working out the best angle from which to attack his BLT.

At twenty-eight, Heath’s angular face was still boyish. He had a naturally trim build beneath his fitted plaid shirt, and wavy hair the golden-brown of the filberts that had been ubiquitous to the Willamette Valley—until the pinot boom came along and farmers uprooted the nut trees and replaced them with wine grapes.

Poppy folded her arms on the table and observed her companions as they ate and drank. Who would have believed that the brewery Heath had started in his parents’ basement would become so successful? And Red, known to the public as Dr. Sophia MacDonald, had been voted Clarkston’s best therapist for the past two years. Keval did I.T. for a local wine consortium, plus a few select clients on the side. Junie had taken the reins of her faltering family vineyard, and her work was paying off in increased sales.

All of them had made impressive strides over the past decade. All except Poppy. How did she even get to sit at the same table with the likes of them? With every step forward, she took two back.

A few months ago, the little wine shop where she’d worked for four years had been sold. Her main source of income was gone.

She couldn’t help but think that maybe the prediction written about her at graduation was destined to come true.

“I saw your dad at the vet this morning,” said Keval. “He told me your news. Exciting!”

“What news?” asked Red.

Poppy hesitated. She hadn’t decided how much to tell her friends about her long shot for the future, in case it didn’t pan out.

At first when Cory Anthony—the Cory Anthony, one of Portland’s top chefs—mentioned he might be able to put her knowledge of wine to good use at the new place he was opening up, she’d been ecstatic.