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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Copyright

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Heather Heyford

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: August 2017

      eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-828-5

      eISBN-10: 1-60183-828-X

      First Print Edition: August 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-829-2

      ISBN-10: 1-60183-829-8

      Printed in the United States of America

      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.

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