LITMIR.BIZ

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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:

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