The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(72)

Then, during the formal interview, Chef told her the elaborate renovations were going to take longer than he’d originally thought. The target opening date had been pushed back until the end of the year. But the real clincher was that even though he was impressed by her having taught herself about wine, his job offer was contingent on her becoming official—earning her sommelier certificate.

Her elation had given way to panic. She was a terrible test taker. To this day, she still had nightmares about school.

“First I have to pass that exam,” she told her friends.

“You’ll pass. You’ve got a great bedside manner,” said Keval. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt that you look like that classic painting of Venus on the Half Shell.”

“Thanks—I think,” she told Keval. Another well-meaning comment equating her worth with her appearance. “And it’s called table service. The parts of the test are wine theory, tasting, and table service.”

“Excuse me,” said Keval, waving his fork in the air. “Do I know all those fancy wine terms? Promise me one thing. Once you’re a famous lady somm with your face plastered all over, you won’t forget your roots.”

She chuckled. “I can safely say that’s not something you’ll ever have to worry about.”

“You’ve heard, right?” exclaimed Keval to the others. “Poppy’s been, quote unquote, discovered by a talent scout who happened to be having dinner where she used to hostess. Not only is she going to be a wine steward at Cory Anthony’s latest place, she’s been tagged to be the new face of Palette Cosmetics!”

“Easy,” said Junie, dodging Keval’s utensil. “Here, Keval, eat part of this sticky bun. I can’t finish it. Poppy, what’s he ranting about?”

But Keval couldn’t seem to help himself in his frenzy to be the one to spill the beans. “Am I making this up? Her father told me himself. He was leaving the vet’s office with Jackson, and Miss Sweetie and I were on our way in. Miss Sweetie adores Jackson. Anyhoo, between the fabulous new restaurant, the modeling, the private parties, and the jetting off to who-knows-where—well, I’m just saying. Take a good hard look at her. We might as well say sayonara right now to the Poppy we know and love.”

She was going to kill her dad first, and then Keval.

From the corner of her eye she thought she saw Heath’s healthy complexion pale.

Then Red chimed in. “Details, please?”

Keval opened his mouth, but Red cut him off with a look. “From Poppy, if you don’t mind.”

Poppy wrung her hands in her lap, her excitement tinged with nerves. “Well, it’s far from a sure thing. The Palette people are waiting to see if I pass the test and get the wine steward position. Everything hinges on that. So, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“It’s a thing now for companies to use a so-called real person with an authentic career in their ads instead of a full-time model,” added Keval, stuffing the wad of cinnamon-encrusted dough Junie had given him into his mouth. “What’s hotter than a lady somm?” he asked around his mouthful. “Everybody either wants one or wants to be one.”

Keval might have a flair for the dramatic, but he was right. The day would soon come when a somm was a somm, but for now, flaunting women sommeliers was a way for restaurants to get buzz.

Red squealed and hugged Poppy as best she could in the narrow space between the table and the booth. “That’s fabulous!”’

“Go Poppy!” said Junie from her seat by the window, raising her mug in a salute.

Poppy looped her ponytail around her hand again and again until she noticed the right angles poking against the canvas of Heath’s backpack. She pounced on it as a way to change the subject.

“What’s that?” she asked playfully, craning her neck.

“What?” replied Heath.

“That book.”

“Nothing. Just a book.” He drained his lemonade and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Our old high school yearbook,” said Red.

Poppy’s smile dissolved. “That’s ancient history.” She had long since thrown her yearbook in the dumpster. But not before the senior superlative that yearbook editor Demi had managed to sneak by the advisor had become fixed in her mind.

After all these years, it still felt like a stab to the heart. Anyone else would have been content to stick with the traditional lines: Best Dressed, Most Likely to Become President, and so on. Not Demi. She’d had it in for Poppy since seventh grade, when she found out Daryl Decaprio, the guy she had a crush on, was playing Poppy sappy love songs over the phone at night.

In a small town, your senior superlative defined you like an epitaph carved in stone. Except unlike an epitaph, you weren’t dead when you got it—you had to live with it for the rest of your life. Demi had used her creative writing skills to create the ultimate, parting gibe.

“What made you haul that out of storage now?”

Junie said, “You know Heath. He doesn’t get rid of anything. Our tenth reunion’s coming up. Didn’t you get the Save the Date?”

“I haven’t checked email for the past couple days.” Poppy had been spending every free minute studying.

“We thought it’d be fun to look at faces. You know, jog our memories. Guess who’ll show and who won’t.”