A pang of empathy hit him. “Don’t worry, Buttercup.” He crooked a knuckle under her chin. “Just wait till I get finished with this place. . . .”
That one square inch of skin fused them together like a magnet. His feet stepped closer of their own accord until the toes of his boots bumped hers.
Her lips relaxed and parted. He scrutinized every inch of her face, seeking fault . . . justification to quell his growing desire. It was true. Junie wasn’t a conventional beauty. Her features were a tad too strong, and freckles from working outside sprinkled her nose. But with no makeup diverting attention from them, her irises shone like sapphires. Even under the glaring summer sun, her naked skin was poreless, her cheeks downy as peach fuzz. She was like an organic fruit, imperfect on the surface but better for you in the ways that counted.
His body stiffened with lust. But this was no run-of-the-mill attraction. An undercurrent of danger ran through it. His heart pounded like it did the moment his CO announced, “Operation mobile” unexpectedly and he knew all of his skills were about to be tested to the limit. At moments like that—when a man was never closer to death—he never felt more alive.
His fingers spread to cup her jaw possessively. He tipped her head back, sending her Ducks cap tumbling backward onto to the ground. Slowly, slowly his head descended until only inches separated their lips. His own jaw tightened with the effort of restraint. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to throw caution to the wind, rip that baggy white suit right off, and lay her down in the middle of the vineyard in broad daylight. If she were any other woman . . .
Abruptly, Manolo dropped Junie’s chin, whirled around, and strode down the row of vines with their clusters of tiny green berries, sucking in a steadying breath. She wasn’t any other woman. Sam was right—Juniper Hart wasn’t just hook-up material. When it came to her, his past seemed like a dress rehearsal for something much grander, much more meaningful.
Finally, he did a one-eighty and walked back, massaging the knots out of his neck.
“You were saying?” she asked coolly.
He cleared his throat. “Like I said, it’s only going to be a matter of time until you’re beating them off with a stick.”
“Customers, you mean?”
Customers. Men. He wasn’t sure anymore what he meant. Just being around Junie made him too crazy to think straight.
“A month ago, you said I’d never make it. What changed your mind?”
What had changed? The economy was the same. Sam had always contended that Junie’s product had the potential to catch fire. Was it just Manolo’s big ego, banking on the notion that merely sprucing up her tasting room would be the magic bullet that would put Junie’s winery on the map—and ultimately attract a distributor for her wines? Manolo was no more of a retailer than Junie was. But somehow every passing week found him more and more invested in her property. Hell, even more than the consortium.
Suddenly Manolo’s collar felt like a leash around his neck, staking him to a single spot like a dog on a chain. He ran a finger between his shirt and skin. There was so much ground left to cover, so many places yet to see: the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The Falkland Islands. And if he ever did succumb to one woman, one place—when he was old and gray, that is—he’d never imagined it would be a struggling farm woman in a state that prided itself on its weirdness.
He stooped to retrieve Junie’s ball cap and handed it to her with his old, lighthearted veneer. “What changed? Easy. Now you got me on the job.”
Chapter Twenty-one
From the outset of the hike, Junie pushed herself to keep up with the guys, waiting for a chance to get Sam alone so they could talk without being overheard. She decided to hasten the process along by instigating Rory and Heath’s favorite debate.
“Hey, you guys, I forget. Is it cider that’s gluten free, or is it beer?” she asked innocently.
“Cider,” Rory declared with a smug look at Heath.
“But beer has more protein and vitamin B,” countered Heath.
“Studies show hard cider has as many antioxidants as wine.”
“Big deal! Hops have flavonoids.”
“Well, whoop dee freakin’ do! Cider has polyphenols!”
And so on. Their gestures grew more emphatic as they compared benefit after benefit, and their pace was sacrificed to their argument. They didn’t seem to notice that they were falling behind Sam and Junie.
Sam glanced behind him when he heard Junie’s footsteps catching up with him. “Why’d you have to get them started?” he chastised. “Now they’ll be at it all day.”
“Don’t worry about them. They love it.”
“You’re up to something.”
Junie scrambled to keep up with Sam’s long strides. “Who? Me?”
“Who do you think? Might as well tell me what it is.”
“It’s nothing, really. I was just wondering about something I heard you say that first day you brought Manolo to my place.”
“What’s that?”
She detected a tinge of wariness in Sam’s voice. Stumbling over a root, she said, “Before I opened the tasting room door that day, I heard you say Manolo had women in several different places.”
“I did?” He was stalling.
“Don’t pretend you don’t remember. Is that true?”
“That’s not a question for me.”
“Sam . . . just tell me.”
“Let it go, Junie. You know how guys talk.”
“That’s just it,” she said, panting. “I don’t know if you were busting on him or repeating his shaggy-dog story or . . . or he’s really that kind of guy.”
Sam’s boots chewed up ground while he thought about it. Finally he said, “Exactly what is it you want to know?”
She was tired of beating around the bush. “Does Manolo have a girlfriend? Girlfriends, with an S?”
“Today? I couldn’t tell you.”
“Does he really . . . is he . . . ?”
“Is he what?”
“Straight up, Sam—do you trust him?”
They trampled over the mossy forest floor, snapping twigs and skirting snags, until Junie wondered if Sam had heard her.
Finally, he said, “On the battlefield? There’s no one I’d rather have as my wingman. But when it comes to matters of the heart, isn’t there something you ladies call women’s intuition?”
And then he left Junie standing there, as confused as ever, looking at his retreating back.
When she was almost back to the beginning of the trail, she heard Keval’s voice. “Juniper! Hold up!”
She turned and waited for him to catch up. Together, they walked out of the pines to the designated picnic area.
A black truck was headed their way.
Keval clutched the stitch in his side. “Well, look who it is. Clarkston’s newest lady-killer.”
“You don’t like Manolo.”
“If by ‘don’t like him,’ you mean I don’t trust him, then no, I don’t.”
Clearly, Keval hadn’t forgiven Manolo for taking food to Holly.
“I appreciate your loyalty. But are you forgetting all the work he’s done for me for nothing?”
He stopped and cocked an eyebrow. “Really, Juniper? Really? Haven’t you heard? There’s no such thing as a free tasting room.”
A dark cloud crossed the sun. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problemo, amiga. That’s what friends are for.”
But neither her confusion nor Keval’s lack of trust could stop the pounding of her heart as she watched his truck bounce over the grass toward the picnic grounds.
“I see you made it,” said Junie coolly.
“Flight got delayed. Knew I wouldn’t make the hike, but I didn’t want to miss the party.” He yanked back the tarp covering his truck bed and pulled out his camo duffel. “You didn’t eat yet, did you?”
“Nope.” She nodded toward the trail. “The others aren’t even back yet.”
“Hey, Ke
val.” Manolo reached out his hand in greeting.
“What’s new and exciting on the East Coast?” Keval asked, as if he hadn’t just dissed him behind his back.
“Not a damn thing, unless you’re into wall-to-wall traffic and bumper-to-bumper people.” He tipped back his head, looked up at the sky and sucked in a breath. “Aaahhh. This is more like it. I kept wishing Lewis and Clark could have seen that view from the plane. The Columbia Plateau, then the Cascades. Mount Hood, still covered in snow in June. . . .”
He scoped the picnic area. “Good. I took a chance there’d be grills and brought burgers.”
“Everyone should be getting here soon. We all brought something to share.”
“Bring some of your pinot?”
“Better than risking poisoning you all with my cooking. Sam said he brought some bottles too, so we can do a little taste comparison if you want. Or if you’d rather have a beer, Heath brought some of his.”
“Either one sounds great.”
Not long after Manolo started unpacking his bag full of goodies, Rory and Heath appeared, still arguing the merits of cider versus beer, followed by Poppy and a few others.
Sam walked up from his van, carrying a cardboard box full of wine.
Manolo reached into his bag and pulled a large wooden paddle.
“Have peel, will travel,” he said, giving it a twirl.
“You’re going to make pizza—on that grill?”
“Gonna give it my best shot.”
While the others scattered to their cars for their coolers, Manolo pulled out his spices and other ingredients.
He turned to Rory. “Any good, aromatic wood around these parts? Oak? Maple? I’d like to find some twigs to throw on top of this charcoal for extra flavor.”
After they’d shared their food and wine, Poppy followed Junie to her car to get their hoodies while someone lit a campfire. “Manolo is really nice, and such a Renaissance man!” said Poppy. “Is there anything he can’t do?”
“He definitely has his talents.”
Sam left, while the rest sat around the campfire sipping coffee.
“I really like tasting wine with food,” said Heath.
“Helping diners pick a wine to pair with their meal is a big part of what a somm does,” added Poppy.
“Food and ale pairings are getting popular, too. As a matter of fact, I’m planning to do that for the crush. I’ve started experimenting already. Hoppy beers go well with game birds, like duck. And I can do roasted root veggies with a darker stout. I’m hoping it’ll bring in a different sort of customer.”
Firelight sparkled in Manolo’s eyes as he shot Junie a look.
She could practically see his grandiose thoughts racing ahead, like always. She shook her head in advance of what he was about to propose.
“Imagine this,” he said, raising his arms to the night sky like some charismatic preacher at an old-fashioned revival. “Stone benches around the perimeter of the patio at bench height for you to sit on. Lanterns hang overhead from a knotty pine pergola, hung thick with one of those climbing vines. What’s that called? The purple one?”
“Wisteria!” exclaimed Poppy.
Manolo snapped his fingers. “Wisteria. The vines allow some light in, but block the harshest rays. At night, you can look up and see the stars. The entrance is at one end, with a big square fireplace opposite for heat and atmosphere, flanked by twin pizza ovens.”
The faces around the campfire were rapt.
“Embedded into the longer sides are a few regular grills or warming ovens, sinks, and coolers. Then, in the center, four, maybe six round tables on matching stone bases shaded with market umbrellas in colors to match the current season. But the real highlight is the killer view all the way out to the Coast Range.”
“You’re killing me!” moaned Junie.
“Why not, Junie? Sounds amazing,” said Rory.
“If I could afford it. But . . .” Junie hesitated.
“But what?” Poppy pressed.
“But I already have a loan with Tom Alexander, and if I can’t pay it back by the end of the year, I’ll have to hand over a portion of my vineyards.”
“Why didn’t you go to Jed, over at the bank?” asked Rory.
“I did,” said Junie. “Jed wouldn’t play ball.”
Rory worked the kinks out of his neck, and Poppy and Heath exchanged glances.
“My back was against the wall. My mom wanted to make a clean break. She was sick of waiting for me to give up on what she sees as a hopeless cause. The farm kept reminding her of Dad, and she wanted a fresh beginning. She hinted that she even has a new man. I agreed to buy her out so she could start a new life.”
The only sound was the mournful call of an owl.
Poppy leapt up from her camp stool. “Well! Like Red always says, no sense dwelling on the past. You’ve got to focus on the future, getting that loan paid off. What can I do to help? I know! I’ll work the bar for you on the first day of the crush.”
Rory nodded. “I’ll pour for you too, as soon as my shift at the Cider Garden is done.”
“The brewery has a stand downtown, but I’ll be happy to send all the wineaux your way,” said Heath.
“And I know Sam will keep working on finding a distributor,” said Keval.
“Thanks, you guys.”
A short time later, Manolo walked Junie to her car. He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll all work out.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Manolo fell into a pattern in the following weeks. He went to Junie’s place extra early to work on the tasting room before she woke up, spent the main part of the workday at the consortium, and returned to Junie’s again in the late afternoons, after she’d gone to work at the diner.
The hours he spent designing, measuring, sawing, and nailing were what he enjoyed most. And then, one day, without him noticing when it happened, he realized that the prospect of Junie’s pleased expression when he showed her the end result had started to eclipse even the satisfaction of working with his hands.
On June twenty-first, the new room was finished. He stood back and let his eye travel critically over the welcoming, sun-filled space. He’d never been prouder of anything than he was of the tasting room he’d built for Junie.
Through the picture window he saw her slight figure in the very center of the vineyard, bent over a spade. He watched her for a moment, trying to puzzle out what she was doing, then swiped away streak on the glass with his shirtsleeve and adjusted a bar stool half an inch.
The time was two-fifteen. He was meeting Sam at three to go over the rough carpentry at his place, and Junie had to get ready soon for Casey’s, but he couldn’t wait another day to show her his handiwork.
He jogged down through the herb garden surrounded with chicken wire to keep out the rabbits, past the built-up beds lined with lengths of fallen logs and the half barrels planted with nasturtiums and blueberries, into the vineyard.
He reached her as she crouched next to a newly dug hole in the ground.
“Hey, Junie,” he said, breathlessly.
She peered up at him from under her ball cap and blew a stray lock of hair off her cheek.
Since the picnic, the connection between them was electric.
He reached out to fondle a nearby cluster of fruit. It felt heavy for its size. “You were right about the ‘peas.’” The grapes had now doubled in size. While half were still lime green, the other half were turning purple.
Only then did he notice the cattle horns filled with sparkly stones and a bottle of Junie’s best wine lying on the ground beside the freshly dug hole.
She inserted a horn into the hole, point up.
He squatted down beside her. “What are you doing?”
“Today’s the summer solstice,” she replied nonchalantly. “Time to bury the horns.”
Manolo picked up a horn filled with sparkly gravel and examined it skeptically. “That some kind of voodoo?”
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“Biodynamic principle. At the winter solstice, I’ll unearth these, take out the quartz, grind it into powder, and put it in a glass jar in a sunny window until spring.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll mix it with rainwater and spray it on the grapevines.”
“Excuse a city boy’s ignorance, but what exactly is that supposed to do?”
“Improves the ripening action of the sun, of course,” she said, placing another horn carefully into the ground.
“Of course. And you’re going to get enough quartz powder out of these horns to spray the entire vineyard?”
She smiled patiently. “It’s like homeopathic medicine. It only takes a minuscule amount.”
“Can I help? Or do I have to be initiated in some weird rite first?”
“Don’t be silly.” She giggled.
He picked up the wine with one hand and tossed it into the other. “What’s this for? Wait—let me guess: an offering to the fertility gods?”
“In the old days, people used to bury wine so it could ferment at a constant temperature, away from light and where it might get jolted around. Now, in the age of climate-controlled cellars, it’s just symbolic. When we dig up the horns in December, we’ll drink the wine in appreciation of the earth’s bounty.” Her eyes flew to his. “Oh, that’s right. You won’t be here in December.”
They exchanged a look laden with meaning.
She averted her gaze, looking down again at where she scooped handfuls of dirt onto her buried treasure. “What brought you running out here?”
He sat back on his heels and brushed the dirt from his hands. “It’s done.”
She rose and let out a little moan when her thigh muscles cramped from squatting. He reached out and put a supportive hand on her arm, the skin inside her elbow petal-soft.
“C’mon,” he said, his earlier eagerness returning. “Let me show you.”
In his eagerness to show her the finished room, he had to force himself to slacken his pace to match hers until she regained her legs. Slowing down made him mindful of the buzzing of green and ruby-throated hummingbirds in the pear trees, and the heavy, almost cloying scent of honeysuckle that enveloped them like a cloud. He realized that more and more, he was becoming seduced by Junie’s world.
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