Page 10 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Sorry, I was looking for the kitchen." I straighten and roll my shoulders back, refusing to act like a child caught stealing cookies. "You have an impressive collection."
His eyebrow lifts slightly. "And you were professionally assessing it?"
"Hazard of thejob." I gesture toward the racks. "I'm curious about your organization system, though. It's not like any I've seen before."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I noticed. "It's organized by experience."
"Experience?"
He steps into the room, closing some of the distance between us.
Purposeful. Controlled.
The air shifts, heavier with his proximity.
“Wine isn’t just about region or vintage or varietal. It’s about the experience it creates, the memory it forms.” His voice softens, richer now, as if he’s inviting me into something more personal.
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
“These bottles,” he gestures to one section, his arm brushing near mine—not quite touching, but close enough that the hairs on my arm lift in response—“remind me of summer thunderstorms. These,” he points to another area, “pair perfectly with Brahms.”
His theory is naive and profound all at once in my world of detailed tasting notes and technical precision—and yet somehow, in his mouth, it sounds almost… seductive.
“That’s…” I clear my throat, searching for a diplomatic response. “Interesting. But highly subjective."
“All wine is subjective.” He shrugs, slow and easy, the shift of muscle under his Henley impossible to ignore. Then he leans in—just a breath closer than necessary, enough that the low rumble of his voice stirs the fine hair at my temple. “The best technical wine in the world means nothing if it doesn’t create an emotional response.”
I hold my ground, refusing to step back even as my pulse stutters.
“The emotional response comes from understanding whatmakes it technically superior,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Knowledge enhances appreciation.”
“Or blinds you to the pure experience,” he murmurs. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes, a silent challenge that makes my breath catch. He steps closer again, enough that the scent of him—oak, citrus, something darker—wraps around me.
The room suddenly feels smaller. Hotter.
“Tell me, Ms. Santiago,” he says, voice velvet over iron, “when was the last time you drank wine without analyzing it to death?”
The question lands like a challenge. My spine stiffens. "When was the last time you appreciated a wine's technical achievement without reducing it to a mood board?"
His mouth quirks upward—not quite a smile, but close. "Coffee's ready. Unless you'd prefer to continue arguing about wine on an empty stomach."
I follow him to a spacious kitchen with rough-hewn wooden countertops and professional-grade appliances. Large windows showcase the snowbound landscape, now glittering under bright morning sun. Merlot lies on a plush dog bed near a woodstove, tail thumping against the floor when he sees me.
"Sleep well?" Dominic asks, sliding a mug of coffee across the island toward me.
"Yes, thank you." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, surprised by the gesture. "And thank you for letting me stay. I promise I'll be out of your hair as soon as the roads clear."
He looks pointedly out the window, where snow continues falling despite the sunshine. "Might be a while. Storm's supposed to last through tonight, at least."
My heart sinks. As much as I want to secure a business relationship with Silverleaf, being trappedhere complicates things, especially with this unsettling awareness that crackles between us whenever he's near.
"I should call my office," I say. "Let them know I'll be delayed."
"Landline's in the living room. Like I said, cell service comes and goes even in good weather."
I nod my thanks and take my coffee with me, needing a moment away from his intensity. After a brief call to my assistant, who’s far too delighted by my predicament, I return to find Dominic slicing what looks like homemade bread.
"Hungry?" he asks without looking up.
