“He is here.”
Manolo whipped his head around. “Storm’s here? In Clarkston?” He set his jaw. “Sorry to break it to you, Cap’n, but doesn’t look like I’ll be making that ski trip after all. I got some business to take care of.”
Sam grinned gleefully. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“You didn’t invite me out here to go skiing, did you?”
“Like I always say, we take care of our own.”
“Mind if we stop by Junie’s on our way to your place, Cap’n?”
“Roger that,” Sam replied.
* * *
When Manolo knocked on Junie’s front door, her mother answered.
“What a surprise! Is Junie expecting you?”
“No, ma’am. She around?”
“She’s out in her office with her brother. Let me grab my coat, and I’ll walk you out.”
They heard Junie’s raised voice before they even entered the building.
Manolo hastened his steps. Instead of holding the tasting room door for Junie’s mother he rushed past her and headed straight for the office.
Behind her desk stood Junie. In front of it, with their backs to Manolo, were Tom Alexander and Storm.
Junie thumped her fist on her desk’s wood surface. “Manolo Santos and I worked our asses off to get this property in shape for the crush so that I’d have a better venue to sell my wine out of. You know how much it means to me, Storm. Meanwhile, you haven’t worked here since you were eighteen years old. You never cared what happened to this winery. Why are you wielding your share like it’s some kind of trump card?”
Tom lifted his chin haughtily. “Storm can sell his portion to anyone he wants.”
“That may be true. But why can’t he do the decent thing and sell it back to me?” She turned from Alexander to Storm with a pleading look on her face. “For God’s sake, Storm. I’m your sister.”
“Because I’d be stupid to not get as much as I can out of it, now that it’s the hottest little property in the valley, that’s why,” Storm replied with a snide chuckle.
Jennifer Jepson-Hart marched straight past Manolo, into her daughter’s inner sanctum.
“What’s going on here? Storm, what have you done?”
Storm shrank under his mother’s question. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Is what I heard true? You won’t sell Junie’s land back to her?”
“It’s mine to do with as I please.”
“He’s right, Jen. This is a business matter. Let us handle this,” said Alexander.
Jennifer turned to Tom and yelled, “This is family business. You stay out of it.”
Then she stepped into her son’s personal space. “And you listen to me, Storm. I’ve had it with you. You’ve known how attached Junie was to this land since the two of you were children. Why are you so greedy when you don’t need the money? What’s happened to you? Your father would be appalled.”
At that last comment, Storm flinched and averted his eyes from his mother’s probing glare.
Jennifer leaned in for the kill. “You’re going to sell your sister’s land back to her at the price she paid for it.”
For a moment the only sound was Jennifer’s breath, rushing in and out of her lungs.
Slowly, Storm lifted his head and drawled, “Or what?”
Manolo moved to Jennifer’s side. “Or I’m going to rip off your arm and ram it down your throat, nuts-for-brains.”
“Touch him and I’ll have you arrested,” said Alexander coolly.
Jennifer whipped her head around. “Who’s going to arrest him? Everyone in this town knows what Manolo Santos did for Junie. They know what her father’s dream was for her. That includes his fellow lawmen.”
Junie pointed across her desk to Tom. “And you’re going to stay out of my way, starting right now, or I’m going to see that everyone in town knows how you’ve been trying to manipulate me for your own gain.”
“How dare you threaten me?”
“Don’t you know?” cried Junie to her mom, “Tom’s been using you, too. He knew I didn’t have enough money to buy you out. He convinced you to get me and Storm to buy your share of the property, knowing I’d have to take his loan at his exorbitant interest rate. He was sure I’d default and he’d end up majority shareholder of the vineyard.”
When Jennifer regarded Tom again, there was a new clarity in her eyes. “Well, you were wrong about that, weren’t you?”
“Say anything you want,” replied Tom. “Who’s going to believe you?”
Then Sam appeared, and immediately Manolo knew his old comrade had been listening from the tasting room. He could always count on Sam to have his back.
“You relish your reputation as the local doctor-slash-vintner, don’t you, Alexander?” said Sam. “It’s a variation on the ‘big fish in a small pond’ theme. I happen to have a little bit of influence, myself. If I should let word of this matter slip out to my consortium members, I guarantee you’ll be persona non grata at every wine event in the valley from now on.”
* * *
“Think I’ll hang around here a little while,” Manolo told Sam after everyone but Junie had gone.
“Call me if you need a ride. Tonight, tomorrow, whatever,” said Sam on his way out.
When they were alone, Manolo followed Junie into the house. “Still no living room furniture, I see.”
“It’s not a priority. I never have time to sit down. Want to come out to the kitchen?”
He followed her, devouring every detail of her body from the top of her head, over her slender curves, to her boots.
“Hungry?” she asked.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Starving. I came directly here from the airport. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Let me make you something.”
“You? When did you start cooking?”
“I didn’t. But there’s pasta in the cupboard, and I inherited some good recipes.”
He eyed her hungrily while she moved around the kitchen. He hadn’t realized how much time he’d spent alone since he left this place, now that he lived by himself in the apartment in Belize. He cooked alone, ate alone, and slept alone. It was good to be in her company.
“How’d you know what was happening with Storm?”
“Sam told me.”
“Is that why you’re here? To check up on me?”
“Sam invited me out to go skiing. He filled me in after I got here.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Manolo scraped the chair aside and crossed the floor to stand behind her. He cupped his hands over her shoulders like he was warming them over a campfire, basking in her aura. After a moment they settled on her like a butterfly landing. He bent his head to inhale the hippie-dippie scent of her hair.
She stopped stirring, turned the burner off deliberately and turned around.
His hands stroked down her bare arms.
She melted into to him in a warm embrace. “I can’t believe you’re standing here, and I’m touching you, and you’re real. Just this morning I was afraid I’d never see you again, and now, here you are. It’s a miracle.”
“You’re the miracle,” he said.
They kissed, and it felt like a homecoming to Manolo.
“Stay?” she whispered.
He nodded and they went upstairs, the half-cooked food forgotten.
And when the new day crept over the windowsill, Manolo felt a peace he’d never known.
* * *
The next day was the winter solstice. Manolo helped Junie dig through the frozen ground in the middle of the vineyard. She thrust her gloved hands into the hole and pulled out the cow’s horns and brushed the soil off the wine bottle they had buried last summer, when the birds had been singing and the sun shining on their shoulders.
Inside the farmhouse, before a crackling fire, they drank to the earth’s bounty.
And when the bottle was empty, they made love again.
&nbs
p; Chapter Forty-three
Mid-February, Belize
Manolo smiled as he watched a ragtag clutch of kids shuffle down the dirt road to the one-room school in cliques of two and three, whispering and shoving and singing the way schoolchildren did, the world over. Now, thanks to the village’s new water filtration system, they could spend more time learning instead of hefting heavy buckets up the hill from the river multiple times a day.
He thanked his team, filed his reports, and packed up his gear.
Then it was wheels up.
Halfway through the long flight, he patted his breast pocket containing the heirloom passed down to him by virtue of being his mother’s only son.
When he landed, he rented a car for the final leg of his journey.
But the view outside his car wasn’t of the Sydney Harbour Bridge or the Opera House.
And in place of the Southern Hemisphere’s bronze-tinged autumn leaves, he was surrounded by flocks of robins digging in the newly turned earth, field hands bundled up in hoodies wielding long-handled pruners, and fuzzy willow catkins along the quiet two-lane roads . . . the unmistakable signs of a Pacific Northwest spring.
* * *
Junie bounded down the porch steps to meet Manolo.
Though they’d spoken on the phone every night, it had been two months since he’d held her in his arms. He dropped his bags and swung her around, loving the joyous laughter that bubbled out of her throat.
Arm in arm, they entered the farmhouse.
“I have a surprise for you,” said Junie.
In the living room sat an inviting new couch flanked by matching chairs.
Manolo eased his body into the plump cushions.
“You like?” she asked, beaming.
Manolo patted the seat next to him. “I’d like it better with you here, next to me.”
She plopped down by his side and he slung his arm around her.
“Feels like home sweet home,” he said.
“That’s the best thing you could have said to me,” she replied, smiling up into his face.
“I have something for you, too.” He withdrew the tiny box from his pocket, cracked it open, and took out the ring, tilting it to watch the stone’s facets reflect the light.
Since December they’d worked out all the details of their future plans. But he only intended to get engaged one time. He wanted to do it right.
“This was never supposed to happen,” he began. “Growing up, I felt trapped, chained to a family business. All I ever wanted was to break free . . . to run as fast and as far as I could, building something as my hallmark at every site. If I managed to make some lives a little easier along the way, so much the better. And then I ran into you.”
He withdrew his arm from around Junie’s shoulder, picked up her hand where it rested on the couch and cradled it in both of his.
“When I landed here last summer, at first I thought it was only about creating this amazing space for you to sell your wine. Then when I went to Belize, I had this nagging feeling that I’d left behind unfinished business. I kept dreaming of ways to make this place even better, thinking that it was just like all the other jobs—all about the work. But in the end, I realized what I’d really left behind was my heart.”
Manolo slipped his grandmother’s ring onto Junie’s ring finger, drew her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
He drew in a breath. “After all the things we’ve said over the past two months, you may think this is just a formality, and I guess it is. Something about me that hasn’t changed, that will never change, is I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep. And this is one promise I want to make in person.”
He slid down on one knee in front of the couch and looked up at her.
“Juniper Hart, I promise to stay by your side through everything that is to come . . . through seasons of want and seasons of plenty, forever and ever, no matter what.”
Junie’s face crumpled and she tucked her chin into her chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked with alarm, dipping his head, seeking her eyes with his.
“I’m an ugly crier,” she apologized, wiping a tear from her cheek.
Gently, he lifted her chin with a fingertip, then chuckled, pulled her to her feet and gathered her into a bear hug.
“You’re beautiful, Buttercup. And I’m crazy about you.”
He pulled back to show her he meant it by the straightforward look on his face.
Eyes the turquoise of the Mediterranean sparkled into his. She looked down at the ring glittering on her finger. “If I said no, I’d have to take this off, wouldn’t I?” she laughed through her tears.
“Pretty smooth, how I did that, huh?” he laughed with her.
He kissed her then, and their tears mingled, washing away their loneliness, welcoming something new and strong and whole.
Loved THE CRUSH?
Then keep reading for a sneak peek at
the next crisp entry in
An Oregon Wine Country Romance series:
INTOXICATING
Click here to get your copy.
Chapter One
“Thanks for coming! Good seeing you again.”
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.
The Crush Page 21