The Crush

by Heather Heyford

  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.

  No wonder Sam and Junie were so optimistic! The excitement was infectious.

  He got the plants in and went home to shower, then met with Sam for the final walk-through before the inspectors arrived.

  “You did a fantastic job,” said Sam.

  “This summer was way more than I thought it would be,” said Manolo. “This is a special place you got here. Good people—even if they do dress like blind dumpster divers. I can almost see why you moved back here.”

  “Almost?”

  “You know me. I don’t let grass grow under my feet.”

  “What’d Junie say?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About you leaving.”

  He shrugged. “She didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t tell her.”

  Manolo couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

  “That is messed up. You got to tell her, man.”

  “I will.”

  “No, I mean, soon. What time’s your flight Sunday?”

  “I’ll be out of here by dawn. It’s an hour’s drive to Portland, and I have to return my truck to the rental place.”

  Manolo spent that evening typing all his family’s handwritten recipes onto his computer using the time-consuming hunt-and-peck method, and then he went to the additional trouble of sending the document to a print shop and driving several miles to pick it up.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Manolo was at Junie’s place by ten hundred hours. Wearing her shoulder-baring yellow sundress, Junie thumped a bottle onto her new bar. “Let’s christen this place,” she said.

  Manolo grabbed the opener and did the honors. “Say when.”

  “All the way to the top.”

  He raised an inquiring brow. “Nervous?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Trust me. It’s going to be great.” He raised his glass. “Buckle up, Buttercup.”

  There it was again—the T word.

  But there was no time to worry about that today. They clinked glasses just in time before the flow of people began.

  Poppy snuck out of her parents’ café to support Junie, arriving with a gift of sticky buns cut into appetizer-sized bites. “Have you seen the bistro?” Poppy asked.

  “I’m too busy behind the counter, selling wine.”

  “It’s packed!”

  Rory and Heath included her in their rounds, too.

  Junie barely had time to breathe. The tasting room was jammed with people, talking, laughing, and drinking her wine. And before they left, many of them bought bottles.

  Mid-afternoon, Manolo came through the door and joined her behind the bar. “How’s it going?”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd. “It’s all because of you.”

  He gave her a one-armed squeeze. “Without your wine, nothing I did matters.”

  “What’s it like outside?”

  “Why don’t you take a break, come on out and have a look?”

  Junie left her help to man the bar and followed Manolo outside to see people everywhere, seated at the tables and on the stone benches, or standing, looking out at the magnificent view. Some curious guests were even checking out the vineyard.

  Keval arrived with Sam and Holly and a van full of avid wineaux who had signed up for a crush tour months ago.

  “OMG. Love what you’ve done with the place!” Keval exclaimed, snapping photos left and right. “This is like your very own she shed.”

  “She shed?”

  “Like a man cave, but for a girl.”

  She shook her head.

  Manolo kissed her on the cheek. “Congratulations,” he said above the music.

  “Congratulations, indeed.”

  Manolo and Junie whirled around to see Tom Alexander standing shoulder to shoulder with Junie’s mother.

  Keval leaned over and whispered, “Uh-oh. I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  “Mom!”

  Mom wore a swingy dancing dress that Junie hadn’t seen in years.

  “Look at you!” she exclaimed. “You’re glowing. I’m so glad that you didn’t give up on your dream.”

  Manolo said, “Nice to see you again, Dr. Hart.”

  “Have you met my friend Tom Alexander?” asked Mom.

  “I have,” he said coolly.

  “Cheers.” Tom bowed and lifted his glass to Manolo and then to Junie. “Looks like the crush is a success.”

  “I’m blown away,” Junie said, fanning herself. “Today’s been phenomenal.”

  Mom said, “This bistro is beautiful. Manolo. I understand you built this yourself?”

  “I used to be part of a PRT. Provincial Reconstruction Team. We coordinated construction projects and provided humanitarian assistance, post-military action. Fancy way of saying we mopped up.”

  “But the food . . .”

  “I grew up working in my family’s pizzeria.”

  Sam appeared with Red on his arm.

  “Pizzeria?” he repeated to Manolo. “Is that what I heard you say?” He turned to Junie. “Manolo’s too humble. Santos’s isn’t just a pizzeria. It’s a famous Italian restaurant. A landmark in the New York area. I’ve been there. There are pictures of celebrities with Manolo’s grandfather and thank-you letters from presidents lining the walls.”

  Junie looked at Manolo, dumbstruck, while Tom glared.

  Then her mom spoke again. “Junie, I have a surprise for you.”

  She pivoted gracefully on one foot, and from behind her appeared a slender, long-haired man.

  “Storm!” Junie threw her arms around her brother.

  He hugged her back stiffly, his hands cool and clammy on her exposed skin.

  “How’d you—”

  “I told him,” said Mom, beaming. “It was Tom’s idea.”

  “Where’s your girlfriend? I mean your partner? Mom said you were living together.”

  “This is a business trip. I didn’t see why she should come.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Junie saw her momentary hurt reflected in Manolo’s eyes.

  He re
ached for Storm’s hand. “I’m Manolo Santos.”

  They shook, and Storm blanched, cradling his crushed right hand with his left when they were finished.

  Then a familiar piano melody filled the air.

  Mom extended a graceful hand, index and little fingers elongated, thumb tucked under, ballerina-style.

  “What’s this?” Junie wondered aloud.

  Mom’s eyes glistened. “Your father would be so proud of you. I know he would have danced with you today. But since he can’t, would you dance with me instead?”

  Junie glided into her mother’s arms. The crowd parted as mother and daughter twirled around and around, surrounded by a panorama of friendly faces.

  When the song ended, there was a smattering of applause and more than one person dabbing her eyes.

  Sam approached Junie with a stranger in tow. “There’s someone who’d like to meet you. This is Dan. He works for Northwest Distributing.”

  Dan handed Junie his card. “My company is interested in making you a proposal.”

  Junie lit up. “Are you serious?”

  “I certainly am.” He smiled. “Can I call you next week?”

  A woman holding a fancy camera tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Juniper Hart?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m with Wine Spectator. May I have a picture for the magazine?”

  “Of course, sure!” She posed for the shot.

  “After all this fuss dies down, would you consider sitting down with me one-on-one for an interview?”

  Keval stepped between them. “I’m Ms. Hart’s publicist. All interview requests go through me.”

  Junie and Manolo looked at each other and laughed.

  Then Jed Smith approached her. “Juniper, your dad would be thrilled. Your wine is excellent. Serving complimentary pizzas is genius. There’s only one thing missing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Humble pie for me, for not giving you that increase on your credit line.”

  “I know I was a long shot.”

  “I’d like to personally invite you to come back to the bank and meet with me.”

  “Well, I—”

  Movement over Jed’s shoulder caught Junie’s eye. It was Storm and Tom being edged out of her growing circle of well-wishers. On their faces were matching counterfeit smiles.

  A local reporter holding a tablet angled for Junie’s attention.

  “Let’s see what happens,” Junie called to Jed over the commotion. The press of people and gushing were taking a toll on her. She brushed away a lock of hair that had escaped from her topknot.

  Manolo took Junie’s arm possessively. “That’s enough for now, folks,” he said, leading her through the throng to the quiet of her office.

  “Thanks,” she breathed when they were alone behind the closed door.

  Manolo picked her off her feet and twirled her around. “You did it!”

  “We did it,” she replied.

  “You okay?” he asked, still holding her close.

  She smiled shakily. “Yeah! This is all a little overwhelming, but in a good way.”

  He let her feet down but kept his arms loosely around her waist. “You have a lot of supporters out there.”

  “I know. I’m so lucky.”

  “You deserve it. Every bit of it.” He pulled back to look down at her. With one fingertip, he traced the demarcation line along her shoulder where her sun-browned arms met her milk-white shoulders. “You got a farmer’s tan,” he murmured.

  She shuddered at his light touch.

  He continued the line along the top edge of her strapless sundress.

  “I remember this dress.”

  She’d only ever worn it one time, with Daryl.

  As he languidly traced the outline of her clavicle, up her neck to her earlobe, her eyelids fluttered and her head fell to the side.

  “When you walked into that pool party, I—I won’t tell you what I wanted to do to that poser.”

  They both knew who he was talking about. Junie opened her eyes and straightened her shoulders.

  “Where is he? You’d think he’d be here for you, today of all days.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Daryl doesn’t care about anyone but Daryl.”

  “Guess Daryl and I aren’t so alike after all.”

  Wait. Did Manolo just admit he cared for her?

  She plumbed his eyes for answers, but their black depths were unfathomable. That trademark chandelier smile was nowhere to be seen. The hard line of his jaw twitched. He looked like a man grappling with a life-or-death decision.

  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, unde
r 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.

  He’d kept his promise. He’d more than made up for his urgent first performance, pleasuring her again and again until she’d begged him to stop.