Chapter 1

The public display of affection at Poppy’s Café was enough to make even a sensible girl like Red McDonald sink her chin in her hand and swoon.

Lost in each other’s eyes, the two lovebirds were oblivious to the furtive glances of the breakfast crowd. The man’s hands rested lightly on the woman’s waist. Her arms extended straight across his shoulders, hands dangling limply from her wrists, her new diamond sparkling brilliantly in the morning sunshine.

“Take a picture,” drawled Sam Owens, sitting across from Red, spreading lingonberry jam on his toast. “It’ll last longer.”

Red’s palm fell to the Formica. She cut Sam a pointed look. “That’s a cushion cut, one-point-five carat stone in a platinum halo setting, for your information. How can I not stare? Even if it were just a cigar band, can’t you see how romantic that is…to have found the one? To have that deep down assurance that never again will you have to face the world alone, as long as you both shall live?”

Up at the register, the man kissed his fiancée’s cheek. “See you at home tonight.”

Home. Red continued to watch her friends and pictured the sleek, glass and steel structure on the bank of Chehalem Creek where Heath Sinclair and Poppy Springer lived. To her, it was paradise on earth. Not because of the impressive architecture. Red longed for a special place of her own. Not just another apartment or mobile home, but the permanence of four, solid walls surrounding her. A refuge where she could curl up at the end of each day, safe and protected from the outside world.

She sighed audibly while the pent-up force of nature across from her devoured his toast in one bite and, grabbing his mug, washed it down with a slug of Stumptown Hairbender.

The bell above the café door clanged and in walked Juniper Hart, making a beeline for the counter. When she spotted Red and Sam, she cut a detour over to their corner booth.

“Hey, you guys.” She turned to Sam. “I just dropped off two cases of pinot at the consortium. Your idea for a monthly wine subscription was genius.”

Red gave Sam an inquiring look.

“He didn’t mention it to you?” Junie asked. “Sam came up with a plan to let customers sign up for two reds and two whites a month from any local vintner. They can either pick them up at the consortium or have them shipped practically anywhere in the country. Their order comes with information about the wine and the winemaker, plus a recipe written by the chef at The Radish Rose.”

Red cocked an admiring brow at Sam. “Well. Aren’t you the marketing ninja?”

“It’s the cross I bear,” replied Sam with an air of nonchalance, folding another toast triangle into his mouth.

Red saw right through Sam’s cocky attitude. Beneath those taut pectorals beat the heart of a teddy bear.

“There were the usual naysayers,” Junie continued. “The ones who said Sam was crazy. But he turned out to be brilliant. Ask any winemaker. Any grower. None of us know what we did before Sam came along.”

“Junie, your order’s up,” called Poppy from behind the register, setting a paper bag and two lidded cups on the counter.

“That’ll be Manolo’s sticky buns. I bribed him to come with me to meet up with my mom. Glad I ran into you two. Mom’s still waiting for your RSVPs. She needs an exact head count. You two and Keval are the only three still in limbo.”

Keval Patel, the Clarkston Wine Consortium’s god of I.T. And, like Red, a perennial singleton. Put like that, being single sounded so...sad.

Red pasted on a smile. This was Junie’s special time, and she was her sole wedding attendant. There was no time for her own wishful thinking.

“I still can’t believe you and Manolo are getting married in two months.”

Love was definitely in the air these days. Heath and Poppy were the second couple in Clarkston to announce that they were tying the knot. Of course, everyone had always known they were meant to be.

But this time last summer, Junie was alone and in dire straits. All the smart money was on her losing her vineyard to creditors and moving to Portland with her mother to get a “real” job. And then Sam’s Army buddy, Manolo Santos, had come to town and transformed Junie’s tasting room into one of the hottest destinations in the Yamhill-Clarkston viticultural area, just in time for the annual fall crush.

“Eight weeks. I know you’re both coming. Just do me a favor and pop your replies in the mail so Mom can scratch you off her list, okay? She’s making me a little nuts these days.” She rolled her eyes. “Even more nuts than usual.”

Nothing, not even a prickly mother of the bride, could pop Junie’s bubble, Red realized. Her happiness was almost palpable.

She sighed yet again. How romantic.

“Bye!” Junie’s fingers fluttered in farewell, flaunting her own stone in its antique setting, handed down through Manolo’s family.

And then it was just Red and Sam again. So, thought Red. He hasn’t responded yet, either.

A less competent man might simply have forgotten. Not Sam. There was a carefully calculated reason for everything he did, every move he made.

Her cream-colored invitation addressed to Dr. Sophia McDonald and Guest that she carried around in her bag was getting more tattered by the day. Every time she went for her keys or her wallet, there it was, a nagging reminder that she had no partner.

Obviously, Red was going to the wedding. It was the blank line next to, “and Guest” that had made her nibble the edge of a fingernail yesterday, ruining her manicure before it even dried.

“What’s your excuse, Owens?”

“It’s probably lying in the bottom of my inbox.” He studied her lazily, his long, tawny lashes like crescent moons above those shining eyes…eyes that seduced her without even trying.

If only there were a romantic bone beneath those abs of steel, to go with the charisma.

“Besides, you know what they say. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, the other fifty end in death.”

“Samuel Owens. That’s an awful thing to say.”

Sam attacked his omelet, oozing cheddar all over the sturdy china plate. “You know the stats.”

Oh, she knew. If it weren’t for relationship problems, she’d have no practice. But where was Sam’s sense of hope? His optimism? She fought the urge to both slap him and kiss him. How could any man be so charming and so infuriating at the same time?

While he was preoccupied with his breakfast, Red studied Sam’s perfectly bowed mouth and slightly crooked nose, courtesy of Rory Stillman’s mean fastball freshman year. He was charming, all right. Charming almost to the point of arrogance, if you hadn’t known him back in the day—before he was Clarkston’s favorite son. Sam was that scruffy kid who came to school with uncombed hair, wearing clothes that looked slept in. He had never been gorgeous in the classic sense. And he had more issues than Vogue. So lately, why did her heart thump like a rabbit’s foot every time she was in his presence?

“Omelet’s great. How come you aren’t eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

How could she tell him she’d begun losing her appetite whenever he was around? And that while it was nothing for her to strike up an intimate conversation with a pure stranger, she’d begun stumbling over her words to Sam, and conversely, giving his words way too much weight?

Sam glanced up from his plate and caught her staring.

Immediately, she averted her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”

“No.” Not only had Red never been rail-thin, she’d had the humiliating distinction of being the first girl in the seventh grade to need a bra. But that was sixteen years ago. Since then, she’d come to accept—even appreciate—her womanly curves, the same way she was grateful for having inherited her mom’s long legs, her grandma’s blue eyes, and the thick, auburn hair of her Scots-Irish ancestors.

“Good. I like a woman with something to hold on to,” Sam said with wink, smiling around his sticky bun.

Not one woman. A woman. Meaning, any woman.

And that was precisely the problem.

It was all her fault. She was the one who had pursued him, starting the night of his homecoming celebration, when she’d accidentally-on-purpose spilled her Riesling down the front of his uniform. In hindsight, she didn’t know what she’d been thinking. No—she hadn’t been thinking. It was purely the hormonal response of a healthy, warm-blooded woman at the sight of a hot guy in desert camo.

That is, at first.

For over a year, Red was content to hook up with Sam whenever, wherever. She was a modern woman. When it came to love, she kept her senses. After all, practicality and flexibility were two of the traits that had helped her rise from humble beginnings to the respected professional she was today.

But lately, she felt some deep, seismic shift. An incandescent tingle of joy swirled inside of her at the mere mention of Sam’s name. What was worse, she felt like her feelings were written all over her face. It amazed her that no one—not Sam, their many mutual friends, not even Grandma—had a clue.

“I can’t blame Junie for the nudge. The replies are due back in a matter of days,” Red said, regretting her words as they came out of her mouth. Some modern woman she was. She sounded like an old school marm scolding a student about a late assignment.

Sam spread his palms and let them drop. “Goes without saying that I’m going.”

“You still have to mail back the reply card. It’s a courtesy to Junie and her mother. A lot goes into planning a wedding reception, you know. There’s the food and the cake and the seating plan—”

“They’re keeping it simple. I figure all I have to do is remember the rings and judge the number of shots of tequila it’ll take to, A, get the lieutenant down the aisle and, B, keep his feet through the recitation of the vows.”

“Sam.”

“Right. There’s the speech. Hope I don’t get a last minute case of the jitters.”

“You? Stage fright? Not likely. But what about supervising the guest parking—”

“Taken care of. Hired a couple of neighbor boys.”

“—and the music?”

“Manny and Junie want to make their own playlist. Already booked the DJ.”

“How about organizing the bride and groom’s departure from the reception?”

He laughed easily. “Don’t worry about me. When did I ever not step up to the plate? What’s with you, anyway, Doc? Ever since the fashion show, you’re getting as wrapped up with weddings as you are with houses.”

They’d worked together on The Brides for a Cause fundraiser earlier that spring, to benefit couples in need. Maybe that was the trigger for all these weird, nesting feelings she’d been having. In the months since the benefit, she’d collected enough ideas on her computer to start a full-fledged bridal blog. And she spent her evenings hoarding even more pictures of rings, her favorite, full-skirted dress styles, and the most painstakingly crafted cakes.

So far, it was an untidy agglomeration. Red was far better at collecting pictures than she was organizing them.

The wedding board might be new, but her assortment of old house pictures had started even before she was old enough to borrow Grandma’s car to drive around hunting for them. Last year she’d even rescued a crumbling Victorian from the wrecking ball by bringing it to the attention of the local historical society. Now it sported a fresh coat of Loch Blue with Wild Currant trim, shades from the official Newberg Downtown Coalition Color Palette.

But Red didn’t spend her valuable weekends house hunting out of goodwill. She was driven by the concept of home. The very word conjured up a slew of clichés: the smell of warm apple pie in the oven and newly mown grass. She’d sat on the other side of the couch enough times to recognize those as symbolic of an entrenched longing for security that dangled just out of reach of transient kids like her. But that didn’t stop her from searching. She was still bound and determined that one of these days, if she just kept looking, she would stumble across the one house that would satisfy her deepest need.

Meantime, she lived with her grandmother, sharing expenses, driving an old clunker. Saving every cent toward the day she finally pinned down her forever home.

Her only indulgence was a regular manicure, though she sometimes forgot to show up for it.

“Maybe you’re right. Or maybe it’s because I’m maid of honor, and I’m already getting anxious about my responsibilities.”

“What do you have to do besides…” He blanked. “What the hell does a maid of honor do?”

Astounded by his blissful, male ignorance, Red began counting off the daunting list of tasks that had to be accomplished in the next two months. “Go with the bride to her final fitting so I know how to get her into her gown when the saleswoman isn’t around. Check off my own copy of her to-do list to make sure no detail falls through the cracks. And then there’s the bachelorette party.”

Sam’s head came up from his eggs.

“Oh. You haven’t heard? We’re taking Junie to see The Lumber Jack Hammer Show a couple of weeks before the wedding.”

Sam coughed on his gulp of Hairbender.

“You okay?”

His eyes watering, he shook his head and slurped from his water glass. “Toast crumb. Does Manolo know about this?”

She lifted a brow and shrugged. “I think so. It’s not a secret.”

“Isn’t Lumber Jack Hammer a little, I don’t know…racy for Clarkston girls?”

“What do you mean?” Red huffed, insulted. “Junie and Poppy and I are plenty racy. In case you don’t remember, Cool Pain invited me back to his hotel room after that concert at Edgefield. Nothing happened, mind you. All we did was drink a little pinot and listen to music. But it could have, if I hadn’t had an eight o’clock final in Behavior Modification the next morning.”

“I’m sure Cool Pain was impressed with your academic dedication. All I was saying is that, in my humble opinion, Junie doesn’t exactly seem like the strip show type.”

She peered up through lowered lids. “It’s called delegating.”

“Ohhh.” Sam nodded sagely. “Delegating.”

“It was Mona’s idea.” Mona Cruz was a single mom of two who had spent time in Los Angeles before returning to Clarkston and going to work for Sam. “Letting Mona take the reins of the bachelorette party gives me one less thing to do. Mona says Lumber Jack’s the hottest act around for bachelorette parties. He’s like six-five and totally ripped. We were lucky to get in.” Her eyes grew round. “She said one bride-to-be actually left her fiancé for him.”

“So much for the rule against exotic dancers fraternizing with the customers,” Sam mumbled.

“I know, right?” She giggled. “Kind of sleazy.” More soberly, she added, “But fascinating, from a purely behavioral standpoint.”

“Don’t worry so much, Doc. It’ll all fall into place.” Sam wiped his mouth, crossed his arms, and sat back against the padded booth. “Live in the present. Isn’t that what all those self-help books say? Speaking of which, what are you doing the next couple hours?”

His eyes glittered with meaning.

“Looking for that house again.” Don’t cave. She might be putty in Sam’s hands, but she wouldn’t be sidetracked today, on her day off.

He smirked. “Again? You’re obsessed.”

“Maybe it has something to do with growing up in trailer parks,” she said.

Their eyes flirted in a mirror memory of harder times, hers of free school lunches and thrift store clothes, and Sam’s of somewhat murkier origin.

“You may be happy to go on living in your old office forever, Owens. But I want a real house. And I’m not stopping till I find it.”

“Go on.” He cocked his head, humoring her. “Tell me what it is about this one that’s got you so fired up.”

“I’ve been doing some research,” she said eagerly, “and I think there’s a good chance it might be the only surviving saltbox in Yamhill County.”

“Saltbox?” Sam’s eyes grew guarded.

“A style of architecture that’s two stories in the front and one in the back,” she said, sketching a rectangle in the air with her finger. “It got its name from the lidded boxes the early New England settlers kept salt in. A few of the original Oregon pioneers built them, but overall, they’re scarce. They’re easy to spot, though, from the central chimney and the long, low rear roofline.”

“How do you know about this place?”

A small part of her took note of Sam’s knuckles, white around his balled up napkin. But her fascination with the house eclipsed all else.

“Back when I was living with my mom, she used to drive way out past Meadowlake Road to one of those U-pick places to pick strawberries. I made her take a picture of it. Still have it. Want to see?” She brought up the photo on her phone and turned it his way. “It was different from all the other houses. It’s been stuck in my mind all this time.”

He looked at the image and though his fingers barely brushed against hers, his touch reverberated throughout her body.

An untrained observer never would have caught Sam’s face falling for that split second. Maybe not even another PhD in Psychology—if she didn’t also happen to be attuned to his every nuance.

Red frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

His face returned to normal with a speed that had her not trusting her own eyes. Then his gaze darted around the room and circled back to her. When he leaned in, she fell into their depths, trying for the umpteenth time to put a name on their color. Hazel. No, Amber. No—

“Brought the extra helmet and the blanket roll on the back,” he said in a whisky-smooth voice. “Weather’s perfect. Forget the house. Let me take you for a ride.”

An expanse of azure blue filled the front windows of the café. She pictured herself on the back of his Harley, wind whipping through her hair.

She knew what would happen if she said yes…the same thing that always happened when she and Sam went riding.

She bit her lip.

“I’ve been looking for that saltbox for weeks, and I’m getting close. I can feel it. Maybe we can do something else together later. Like, see a movie or something.”

She held her breath. Sam didn’t do movies, or romantic dinners for two, or any of the other things official couples did—like go to weddings together.

True to form, he didn’t get sucked in. Just gave her that sideways grin that made her insides go gooey. “What’s better? Some old, run-down house? Or you and me and a bottle of Montinore 2014 Reserve out on Ribbon Ridge? We’ll stop and get some good bread and cheese. Have a picnic.”

Under the table, Sam’s foot rubbed against hers. She felt like there was an invisible string attached to her core, pulling her toward him. It was all she could do not to slide out of her seat and into his, wrap herself around him, and confess her infatuation for the whole town to hear.

But that would send him running for the hills, not to mention scandalize Poppy’s breakfast crowd and jeopardize Red’s reputation as a mental health professional.

She shivered. How did he get to her? Make her put aside her priorities for him?

She knew how. As pragmatic as he was in public, the real Sam was the most loving, giving man imaginable. And not just because he’d volunteered space in his new consortium building for her favorite fashion show charity. When they were alone, he knew exactly how to please her. How to coax her along…draw out her pleasure at his own expense until the look of raw need in his eyes alone was almost enough to send her over the edge. Finally, when she was beyond ready, he unleashed a passion that had her moaning, clawing his blanket, and thrashing around in ways that never failed to leave her limp as a noodle, her cheeks burning with the memory.

Sam grabbed both their checks and got to his feet. “Meet you in the usual spot in five.”

And Red knew she would be there, back behind her office a few doors down from the café, waiting.