Page 1 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Chapter 1
The "Road Closed Ahead"sign looms through the blur of snow, half-swallowed by the storm. I ease off the accelerator, squinting as fat flakes splatter across the windshield. The sensible thing would be to turn around, head back to Angel's Peak, and hole up at Mabel’s Guesthouse with a mug of something hot like any sane person.
But I didn’t climb my way to the top of the most cutthroat wine scene on the West Coast by being reasonable.
I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening as the rental car lurches forward, tires slipping slightly on the winding mountain road. The GPS, ever confident, announced, "You have arrived at your destination" fifteen minutes ago.
It lies.
Silverleaf Vineyards is still nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere beyond the curtain of white swallowing the mountainside.
"Just a little farther," I mutter, leaning forward as if proximity to the glass will grant me better visibility.
I should have listened to the silver-haired waitress atMaggie's Diner. Darlene refilled my coffee a third time with motherly concern, watching me pore over a local winery map like I was planning a military operation.
"Silverleaf? You’re heading up to see the wine guy?" She set the coffee pot down. "Better move quick. Storm’s coming in faster than expected. They’re saying it might shut down the whole pass."
"I’ll be in and out," I said. "Quick business meeting. Back down the mountain before dinner."
Darlene gave a sound that landed somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "Nobody has quick meetings with Dominic Mercer. Man’s particular about his grapes. And his solitude."
She leaned in then, dropping her voice. "Brilliant, though. Quiet. Keeps to himself mostly. Helped rescue Harold’s dog from a coyote trap last spring. Won’t admit it, but he’s got a good heart somewhere under all that gruff. Just don’t expect warm fuzzies."
Clearly, I should’ve taken the hint.
Instead, here I am—chasing an unconfirmed meeting with a reclusive winemaker in the middle of a blizzard because Davis backstabbed his way into the partnership I earned, and I need a win. Securing Silverleaf’s exclusive line could be exactly that.
The steering wheel jerks suddenly beneath my hands.
My heart shoots into my throat.
The tires lose their grip, the whole car fishtailing. I fight it—counter-steering, tapping the brake like I was taught back in a California parking lot long before I knew what real ice felt like—but physics doesn’t give a damn.
The world outside whirls in dizzying grays and whites. Then everything stops.
The car tilts, passenger side buried deep in a snowbank.
The enginecoughs, sputters. Dies.
"Perfect." I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and inhale—sharp, cold air laced with faint traces of leather and panic. My pulse thrums in my ears. "Absolutely perfect."
A quick body check confirms no broken limbs. Just my pride, cracked clean in half.
I dig my phone from my purse.
No bars.
Of course.
The storm thickens, a silent avalanche of white. I push open the door with effort, snow piled high against it, and step out into the howling cold. It slices across my cheeks like tiny blades. My boots vanish into powder with a muffled crunch.
"Hello?" I call out, knowing full well there’s no one to hear me. My voice is swallowed instantly by the wind. The trees creak. Nothing else.
I circle the car. It’s hopeless. The nose is buried so deep it might as well be entombed. I sigh, brushing hair from my eyes, and turn back to the road?—
A bark cuts through the wind.
I spin. Lose my footing. Catch myself just before falling.
