The Crush

by Heather Heyford

  The alpha driver jumped down out of the cab and paraded around the hood. He was tall and undeniably handsome in his aviators and leather jacket, worn in all the right places.

  “I’d love to take that bad boy for a spin,” Keval breathed over the pop song playing in the background.

  “The truck?” asked Poppy, eyes glued to the spectacle.

  Daryl held open the passenger door, strategically positioned to showcase the emergence of its occupant like a butterfly from a cocoon.

  The crowd held its collective breath as a pointed and polished toe laced into a strappy sandal dipped out.

  “Who’s that?” Heath drawled, craning his neck.

  Daryl had timed their arrival for that moment when the sun’s long rays lent a golden glow to everything in its path. A tanned leg was followed by a yellow sundress, fitted to a waist the span of a man’s hands, and a head of glossy seal-brown hair.

  “There’s something you thought you’d never see,” murmured Rory.

  “What?” Keval asked. “Junie Hart with Daryl Decaprio? Or Junie, all decked out for a Vogue cover shoot?”

  “Either,” Poppy said, wide-eyed.

  Manolo’s jaw clenched. She was killing him in that dress. For once, he couldn’t fake his usual careless smile. He didn’t even try.

  With her weighty canvas bag in one hand and Junie’s arm in the other, Daryl led his queen toward them, and the crowd parted as if a bridal couple was marching down the aisle.

  Her lips glistened with a hint of color, her lashes had been curled and lengthened until they almost brushed her freshly groomed brows. Even the most polished New York diva had nothing on her. Yet her expression was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

  Manolo sent her a silent plea. What the hell are you doing?

  Daryl broke the silence with a loud slap to Heath’s back. “Hope you saved me some brewskis.” He found a bench to deposit the bag on. Then he abandoned Junie without a word to stroll over to the clutch of people standing at the opposite end of the pool and pop open the dripping cold growler someone handed him.

  Manolo’s muscles bunched in anticipation of springing toward Junie, but Keval, Red, and Poppy beat him to it. They closed ranks around her, shutting him out of their inner circle.

  He felt the vein in his neck throbbing. Thank god his burgers needed attention. That gave him something to do with his hands, instead of marching over there and waterboarding Daryl Decaprio for no reason except for that jacket and the fact that Daryl had had the unmitigated audacity to lay his hand on Junie Hart’s arm.

  While he kept one eye on the degree of pinkness in his burgers, he kept the other on Junie. Before long, her crew shrank back from peppering her with questions, and she pulled her wine bottles from her bag and placed them on the picnic table.

  Her hair, which used to be plain brown, shone with golden highlights in the sunset. And what was with that skirt? He didn’t recall ever seeing her in anything but jeans. No better proof that her mama was a dancer.

  Meanwhile, on the far side of the pool, Daryl had joined in a rowdy game of beanbag toss.

  Something smelled like it was burning. Manolo tended to the grill. When he looked up again, Junie was surrounded by a clutch of brand-new admirers. He recognized them from the job. Daniel owned the roofing company. Carlos was an estimator. Sharp as a tack. He couldn’t recall the electrician’s name.

  Sam walked up and thrust a fresh beer at Manolo. “How’s it going over here? Can I give you a hand with anything?”

  “You can get over there and do what it is you do,” Manolo growled between his teeth. “Guard the henhouse.”

  Sam rocked back and forth on his heels as if they were discussing nothing more volatile than the weather. “Why should I?”

  “You didn’t waste a minute telling me to back off when you thought there was a ghost of a chance I’d be moving in on Clarkston’s icon of womanhood,” he growled.

  “Big difference between you and them,” Sam said, calmly swigging his beer.

  Manolo brandished his spatula in the air and copped a challenging pose. “What’s that?”

  “Not one of those homegrown boys is going to love her and leave her.”

  Manolo tried to digest Sam’s blunt words as he plated the burgers. They were hard to swallow, but Sam was right. Junie would be better off paired with someone who wouldn’t destroy what was left of her tattered heart.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The following week, Junie and Keval were at Sam’s place for a class in promotion for small wineries. Junie was restless. She kept fidgeting, thinking about all the unfinished work waiting for her back home.

  “Can’t you be still?” Keval hissed, giving her bouncing foot the evil eye.

  She drew her foot up and sat on it to anchor it.

  A minute later, she looked longingly out at blue sky and white clouds. Clear days were scarce this summer. She pointed her nose in the direction of a faint breeze.

  “You look like a Labrador with her head out the car window.”

  She switched her feet out from beneath her. “Right now I should be positioning shoots and spraying for mildew, or be down in my barrel room, racking last year’s wine. Instead I’m sitting on my butt in this stuffy house.”

  She’d gotten a glimpse of Manolo in his hard hat on her way to class. How could she concentrate, knowing he was working mere feet away?

  The instructor’s monotone droned on.

  Junie replayed the pool party yet again in her mind. After arriving an hour late to pick her up and then choreographing their entrance, Daryl had pretty much ignored her for the rest of the evening. That night had shown her what Daryl really was: a lightweight, plain and simple. She’d lost so many nights of sleep over the years, pining for him! But now she felt nothing. Daryl was out of her system, once and for all.

  She’d lined up with the others for one of Manolo’s burgers, getting more and more nervous as the line dwindled, knowing that any minute she’d be standing right there next to His Bare-chested Highness. He had been clad only in board shorts and a souvenir apron emblazoned with KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD. Not staring at his body as she inched closer and closer had been nearly impossible. Other than Daryl, he’d been the only man within miles not sporting facial hair. His upper body had been as smooth as his chin. Inked across one bicep was a compass rose. If more proof of his footloose philosophy was needed, the globe on his other arm left no doubt. Junie had to clench her fist to stop her finger from reaching out to trace the latitude and longitude lines encircling it. Once she started, she wouldn’t stop there.

  But when she was standing before him, paper plate in hand, he’d treated her the same as everybody else, with his usual irreverence. He hadn’t even seemed to notice that she had arrived on Daryl’s arm. There’d been no hint of the jealousy he’d displayed the first time they’d run into Daryl at the market.

  After everyone was fed, Manolo had played lawn darts and swam and acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, while Junie wished she’d worn her swimsuit and cut-offs instead of a stodgy dress.

  Now, in Sam’s house, the cross-breeze gained strength. “I smell rain,” she whispered.

  “Pay attention,” Keval scolded without moving his lips. “It’ll help you understand what I do online for you better.”

  She tried. Sam had said staying abreast of trends would give her points with distributors.

  She skimmed over the bullet points in the handout and leaned against Keval. “Who can afford a flashy new website or buy tons of doodads stamped with their name to give away?”

  “You want my opinion?” Keval asked.

  “Is there a question back there?” the teacher snapped, craning her head to glare at Junie and Keval.

  “No question,” Keval answered meekly.

  When the teacher looked away Keval tapped his pen on the words, Food Service. Next to it he wrote, Munchies = ka-ching.

  In fact, more than one visitor to the new tasting room had inquired wher
e they could get something to eat. She was starting to feel like a broken record, repeating the directions to Main Street. Also, she didn’t like seeing the disappointment on their faces when the visitors realized how scarce food was on the wine trail.

  They had a point. But even if she had had the money to spend on a kitchen, the very idea made her head hurt.

  It’s not about Cheez Whiz and crackers, she wrote back, illustrating her point with a sketch of a face with its tongue sticking out sideways and Xs for eyes.

  Keval rolled his eyes at her stubbornness.

  Hardly any wineries serve food, she wrote.

  Exactly, he scribbled back with a flourish, dropping the pen and folding his arms in a victory pose.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sam sheltered his eyes as he peered up through the fine drizzle at the roofers. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. Laying shingles in the rain doesn’t seem like a good idea to me.”

  “I made sure they kept the decking covered whenever they weren’t working on it. If we were laying a new roof on an old building, that could be a problem. Once the siding’s installed, everything’ll dry out.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I have interior paint samples to go over with you. But first I could use a cup of Poppy’s coffee. Want me to grab one for you while I’m over there?”

  “That’d be great. Now I’m getting in out of this damp.” Sam shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and hustled back to his house.

  Manolo took his time strolling over to the café. With Junie’s tasting room finished, he should be relieved to be doing only one job instead of two. But the truth was, he missed it. He’d loved everything about that project. Aside from the obvious, the actual construction, he’d found satisfaction in donating his time and expertise. Maybe EWC hadn’t found him a volunteer opportunity this summer, but he’d found one himself, right under his nose. The invoice Junie was expecting would never be sent.

  He looked left and right as he traversed Clarkston’s main thoroughfare, admiring its clean streets, its red brick buildings and dark green awnings. It was easy to pick out the tourists from the locals. They were the ones in rain ponchos craning their necks at the architecture, peering into shop windows, reading menus posted in the windows of the few restaurants. There wasn’t a tour bus in sight, though. Clarkston was still unknown to the hordes who flocked to Napa and Sonoma. The town was still a charming slice of Americana, largely undiscovered. If people like Sam had any say, Clarkston would stay quaint, no matter how popular its pinot became.

  As he reached Poppy’s Café, he thought yet again about Junie.

  Red looked up from her corner booth when she heard the door’s bell jingle. Manolo envied how dry and cozy she looked, hunkered down with a steaming cup of tea, reading on an electronic tablet. They exchanged greetings as he headed for the lunch counter.

  “Hey, Poppy. I’ll take two black coffees, to go.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Your parents still up in The Great White North?”

  “Huh?”

  “Canada. Little country above Washington state.”

  “Oh! I get it. We talked about that at the hike, didn’t we?” she recalled as she rang up his order.

  “You told me you were just filling in.”

  She pulled two cups from the sleeve. “It’s a little more complicated than that. I got a call from Portland. The wine shop I manage there is being sold, but there are still a million details to be worked out.” She secured the lids on the cups. “I’m juggling all that plus keeping an eye on the staff here and hostessing at a restaurant known for its extensive wine cellar.”

  “Word is, you’re going to be a lady somm.”

  “Just a somm,” she corrected him good-naturedly. “We take the same test they give the guys.”

  “I grew up in the restaurant business, a long time ago. We used to call them wine stewards.”

  “I passed my introductory test. The next step is becoming certified. I sit for my exam later in the year.”

  He raised his to-go cup in a toast. “Well, here’s to you. I hope you pass the test with flying colors. By the time you take it, I’ll be long gone.”

  “Oh? Where are you going?”

  “Not sure yet.” Some place far, far away, where he could learn to forget about a certain brown-haired girl.

  A photo of gooey-looking rolls on the stack of menus on the counter caught Manolo’s eye. Poppy’s Famous Buns, read the caption. He bet Sam, Keval, and Holly wouldn’t hate him if he brought back a plate to share. “Hey, you got any of these sticky buns?”

  “Coming right up.”

  The shop phone rang and Poppy answered.

  “Dr. Hart! How are you? Junie? No, I haven’t seen her.”

  Manolo froze at the mention of Junie.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much. Junie never listens to her messages.” There was a pause. “Yeah, sure. Hold on. Red,” she called, “have you seen Junie lately?”

  Manolo swung his head around to where Red sat curled up, reading.

  Red shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Red hasn’t seen her either. She’s probably just swamped. You know how it is this time of year in the wine business. You need to get last year’s wine in the bottle, and this year’s crop picked. When those two jobs overlap, things can get really hairy.”

  Manolo’s mind raced. He hadn’t been out at the winery since he’d finished the tasting room. Hadn’t seen Junie in town, either. He’d figured she just had her hand to the plough.

  But for her mom to be worried didn’t bode well. Jen and Junie weren’t as close as some mothers and daughters, but they kept in touch.

  Was Junie in trouble? Farm work was hazardous. Anything could happen. His imagination flooded with all the things that could go wrong. A roll of the tractor, a nasty slice from her pruning shears, or simply a bad fall, out of reach of her phone.

  Poppy was speaking again. “Don’t do that, Dr. Hart. Don’t drive all the way down here if you don’t have to. I’ll go over for you and see if she’s there.”

  He wanted to jump in his truck, speed out to Brendan Hart Vineyards and make sure that Junie was safe.

  But wasn’t that exactly what he’d done when he’d gotten involved in her tasting room? Run off half-cocked before thinking about the consequences? Even when he had toiled there during the hours when she was at Casey’s, her scent of wildflowers and sandalwood lingered, disturbing his peace. It was enough to drive a man insane.

  He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to interfere in her life anymore. But now his thoughts went back to the pool party . . . Junie wearing that sundress, local men buzzing around her like bees to honey. Salt-of-the-earth men, every one of them. That was the kind of man she should be with. Not a drifter. Not him.

  Red came up to the counter. “I’m coming with you,” she told Poppy. “Should we take her something?”

  “Good idea.” To a wide-eyed server, Poppy said, “Take care of business till I get back?”

  Poppy thrust Manolo’s bag of buns into his hand, and then, with the jangle of the doorbell, she and Red were gone.

  Manolo would be worthless until he saw for himself that Junie was all right.

  He grabbed his coffees and headed out the door at a trot.

  He made it back to the consortium in record time. “Ow! Dammit,” he exclaimed, setting the cups down on the first available surface and waving his burning hands.

  Sam raised an eyebrow.

  “Take my advice, don’t ever run carrying hot coffee,” said Manolo.

  “You didn’t have to hurry on my acc—”

  “You talked to Junie lately?”

  Sam’s amused grin turned upside down. “Not since the pool party.” He swiveled his head and yelled in the direction of a back room. “Keval, you seen Junie?”

  Keval appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. “Not lately.”

  Manolo said, “Her mom can’t find her. She was getting ready t
o drive down here from Portland to look for her.”

  Sam rose slowly. “No reason to panic,” he said, his words contrasting with his body language. “Junie’s probably just got her hands full. Lot of pressure this time of year, especially for a grower and a vintner. You’ve got a bunch of things happening all at once.”

  “Hold on,” Keval said, disappearing again. Moments later, he called out, “The last time she checked in on social media was early last week.”

  Ten days ago. “How often does she normally get online?” yelled Manolo.

  Keval walked back out from his geek lair. “Most everyday.”

  “I’m going out there,” he said, grabbing his keys.

  “Give us the lowdown when you get there,” called Sam to his back.

  Keval and Sam were still standing in the consortium doorway wearing somber expressions when Manolo roared by Sam’s house in his truck.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Junie smiled to herself when she saw the Mini Cooper bopping toward her house, forgetting her anxiety over the forecast for yet more rain. From the far end of the vineyard, the car looked like a child’s toy.

  But her smile was fleeting. What is Poppy doing here at this time of day? Shouldn’t she be manning the café?

  Her next reaction—that she didn’t have time for a social call—was immediately followed by guilt. It was already three, and she still had to mop the tasting room floor before she got ready for her other job.

  But she couldn’t ignore her friend. She stopped spraying and turned the tractor back toward the house. Given that her Amish Ferrari only went about five miles per hour, just getting there was going to eat precious minutes out of her day.

  When she reached the barn, she climbed off the tractor and strode across the grass at a determined clip, pushing back her hood as she skipped up the porch stairs where Poppy and Red sheltered themselves from the rain.

  Poppy greeted her with, “You look awful.”