Chapter 1
Rap rap rap!
Juniper Hart was agonizing over which of her wine business’s creditors would luck out and get paid this month when she heard loud knocking at the door of her tasting room.
Her head shot up from her bills. She scrambled out from behind her desk, heedless of the papers she set sailing. Inches short of the threshold, she skidded to a stop to smooth down her faded T-shirt emblazoned with We Are Pinot Noir. From the other side of the door, she heard a familiar voice.
“Last I knew, Lieutenant, you had women in, let’s see—Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, and New York City. And that’s just stateside.”
Though the words meant nothing to her, Junie recognized the timbre of her old friend Sam Owens’s voice. Sam had racked up numerous awards for his military service before moving back to his hometown. These days, he made a living ferrying tourists around in his Clarkston Wine Consortium van, introducing them to Willamette Valley wine. And now, from the sound of it, here he was, delivering eager wine enthusiasts right into the palm of Junie’s hand.
She pasted on her best smile and threw wide the door. “Welcome to the pinot state!”
“Hey, Junie!” said Sam warmly. “Like the new greeting.”
“Sounds way better than ‘Welcome to Broken Hart Vineyards,’” deadpanned Keval, thumbing his cell phone without looking up.
Junie cringed at the innocuous-sounding nickname. Keval Patel might be the town of Clarkston’s god of IT, but he could use some help in the tact department.
But wait—these weren’t Junie’s desperately needed new customers making a detour off the established wine trail. Despite their chins sporting some degree of hipster stubble, to her, these guys would always be the same fresh-faced, coltish boys they’d been back at Clarkston Middle School. Ever since her dad died and her brother left town, they were practically all the family she had left. All except the one with the Ivy League haircut, dressed more for a job interview at Brooks Brothers than a drive-in the wine country.
“Thought you said Oregon was the Beaver State?” the stranger asked Sam, eyeing Junie up and down. “Because, damn…”
Heath Sinclair’s burst of laughter was cut short by Sam’s swift elbow to his ribs.
“Why else would I leave a city where women outnumber men to fly all the way across the country?”
“Thought it was to do a brother a favor, Lieutenant.” Sam raised a weary brow. “Sorry, Junie. We’ve done two tastings already, and some of these bozos forgot how to spit.”
“I had all good intentions of expectorating when we started out.” Heath straightened, still clutching his side. “But I’m a beer drinker. Beer drinkers swallow. It’s what we do.” Heath should know—he was the founder of Clarkston Craft Ales.
“Juniper Hart”—Sam stretched out an arm toward the stranger—“this is Lieutenant Manolo Santos.”
The lieutenant nodded in curt, military fashion. “Pleasure.”
“Manolo’s a construction guy from back east. Came out to give me some expert advice on the new consortium building.”
Junie examined Manolo dubiously. Tall and broad shouldered with a flat belly, it was easy to imagine him in a sweat-stained work shirt, hefting a load of two-by-fours. But the quick gleam in his eye, the pride in his bearing, and his impeccable grooming pegged him as more than just your typical manual laborer.
“Construction guy?”
“Construction engineer, technically,” he replied.
“What exactly does a construction engineer do?”
“The official U.S. Army definition?” He flashed her a blindingly white grin. “Someone who works a twelve-hour day/night shift seven days a week on a rotational basis in a remote location.”
Sam gripped Manolo’s shoulder affectionately. “What the lieutenant here does is solve problems. Converts ideas into reality. Manny’s helped design roads, schools, and hospitals from Arizona to Iraq.”
“Is that so?”
Manolo shrugged off Sam’s compliment like a too-tight shirt. “Think of me as kind of a combination Jason Bourne and Bob the Builder.”
“You’re forgetting horndog,” added Sam, to backslaps and shrieks of mirth.
Junie dismissed Manolo and slanted her eyes at those she knew better. “You guys sure you can handle another one?”
They straightened their spines, trying their best to look contrite.
Keval tsked and gave her an incredulous look. “Are you serious?”
“C’mon, Junie. Let us in,” pleaded Rory, whose family’s apple orchard adjoined Junie’s land.
“I’m designated driver.” Sam jerked a thumb toward his log-splashed van parked out in the field, some distance away.
She propped her hand on her hip and pretended to consider her options. If not for Sam roping them in, no tourists would ever find their way off the main road to her boutique winery. Junie owed Sam big-time.
When she figured they’d suffered long enough, she broke out in a conciliatory smile. “C’mon,” she said, stepping aside.
The men shuffled past Junie into the tasting room in single file, with Tall, Dark, and Sketchy bringing up the rear.
“After you, ma’am.”
His baritone was soft and deep. Arrogant eyes the rich brown of espresso made the back of her neck prickle. A man who seems too good to be true usually is. She brushed off her warning instinct, slipped behind the counter, and dealt out five generic white coasters. Those would have to do until the day she could afford to have them done right, custom-printed with her name.
Lieutenant Santos’s head swiveled on his neck, absorbing every detail of Junie’s humble tasting room…the unfinished ceiling, the plywood walls, the makeshift bar cobbled together from cast-off parts. The closer he looked, the more inadequate she felt. So what if it wasn’t the Taj Mahal? She was doing the best she could.
She kept half an eye on him as he wandered over to the opposite side of the room, where a picture window would be someday, if she was lucky. His every movement was a study in controlled power. Wherever he went, the others followed, drawn to him like bees to a hive. He said something Junie couldn’t quite decipher. Whatever it was, her friends found it highly entertaining.
Daryl Decaprio, Clarkston High’s most notorious flirt. The resemblance was uncanny.
When the laughter finally died down, Daryl’s twin drifted over to watch her work. The temporary bar served only four without crowding. But there was an eighteen-foot slab of live-edge white oak out in the barn just waiting for the right time to be installed.
“You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat back there, would you?”
“This is a wine-tasting room. If you’re hungry, there’re some restaurants in town.”
He raised a palm. “Fair enough. No harm in asking.”
She launched into her rehearsed pitch. “So, where’re you from?”
“Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey. But I left there a long time ago.”
Junie busied herself opening a two-year-old vintage. She felt the heat of his gaze travel over her hands, up her arms to her chest, her neck, and finally her face.
“What’s a beauty like you doing hidden away in a place like this?”
Her hands paused where they struggled against the stubborn cork. Beauty? Her? He didn’t just look like Daryl; he laid it on thick like him, too.
Stick to your script, Junie. What had they said at that free class for entrepreneurs at the Yamhill County Extension? She was the one who should be asking the questions. Marketing 101.
She gave the screw a vicious twist. The cork came out with a muted pop, and she began to pour the one-ounce servings used for sampling.
“How long will you be in the Willamette Valley?”
“Not long. I’m a traveling man. Just passing through.”
Lieutenant Manolo Santos was a walking, talking cliché, thanks to his good looks and bad lines.
Be nice to everyone, they said in the class. You never know who might turn out to be an ally. She clenched the bottle tighter in her moist palm, determined not to fumble under his penetrating glare, ally or not.
Sam hoisted his glass and the others followed suit. But before he could make a toast, the stranger beat him to it.
“To the Beaver State,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
That brought more cautious chuckles, as her friends weighed their loyalty to her against the novelty of the suave newcomer in their midst.
Sam swirled his wineglass at eye level, checking for all the signs: color, viscosity, legs.
Rory downed his glass like cider and followed it with a satisfied belch.
Junie’s heart sank. Heath was a brewer and Sam was in the wine business, like Junie. Keval was industry, too, if doing IT for the consortium counted. Was it too much to ask for them to appreciate what she was trying to do here? They’d tried her wine before. They knew word of mouth was everything. That’s where sales came from. But they couldn’t pass the word on about how great her pinot was if they persisted in chugging it like marathoners on Gatorade. Maybe they couldn’t handle three tastings in one day, after all.
“Yummy.” Keval licked his lips and picked up a battered copy of Wine Spectator from the bar. “Just think, Juniper. Maybe you’ll be in here someday.”
Yeah, right. She couldn’t even afford to renew her subscription.
At least Sam had the decency to give his wine time to wander around his palate, letting it speak to his taste buds. “Your wine sings, Junie.”
Junie swelled with pride. High praise, coming from Sam. But even he couldn’t seem to find her a distributor, though he’d been looking for the past couple of years.
True to his word, he spat into the receptacle provided. “Now, how about that rosé?”
Junie poised the new bottle to pour, but there were only four empty glasses on the counter. She skimmed the room for the fifth, spotting it in the hand of Mr. New Jersey.
Thick, workingman’s fingers cradled her fragile stemware. Dense lashes brushed against carved cheekbones as he lowered them to gaze at the ruby liquid. Then he glanced up over the rim, catching Junie staring. “Young, bright appearance.”
He lowered his Roman nose into the bowl and sniffed, then looked up, his eyes landing in the vicinity of her chest. “Juicy plums.” He swirled and sniffed again. “And some other fruit I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of tasting.”
Junie forgot about the bottle she held poised, and it sank to the bar under its own weight. “Lingonberry. It’s native to the Pacific Northwest.”
Manolo drank then. But all the while he worked her wine around in his mouth, he didn’t take his eyes off her.
The tasting room grew uncomfortably warm, despite the chilly April air. Lieutenant Manolo Santos had a politician’s command of the room. Even the guys quit horsing around in anticipation of what he would say next.
“Soft and supple, yet structurally complex. I like that.”
The breath Junie didn’t know she’d been holding whooshed out through her broad grin. This vintage was her most ambitious effort to date, and that was exactly the response she had been going for.
“It’s good in a wine, too.”
While the guys cracked up, Junie’s smile ebbed and her cheeks burned even hotter.
Manolo raised his glass. “To—Junie, was it?”
She glared daggers at him. He may have played her once, but she wouldn’t let it happen again. Thanks to her experience with Daryl, she knew better than to trust guys like him.
“Could we, ah…” Sam motioned to the still-empty quartet of glasses.
Only then did she remember the bottle of rosé she still clenched by the neck.
After she set them up again, her usually levelheaded, sweet friends surrounded Mr. Big Shot.
“To Junie!” he exclaimed, eyes aglow with a fire that disconcerted her, despite her resolve.
“To a promising future,” said Sam, with a nod of appreciation for her skill as a winemaker.
The others echoed with woozy tributes of their own.
Testosterone-fueled shoulder bumps were followed by more enthusiastic clinks. “One more?” Heath asked, holding out his empty glass.
More laughter, more rowdy toasting.
Then Junie shrank at the sound of crystal shattering.
“I’ll get the broom.” She hurried back to her office, adding the cost of replacing the broken stemware to her long list of expenses.