Page 12 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"My pleasure." His charm is effortless and warm—a stark contrast to Dominic's brooding intensity. "Any friend of Dom's is a friend of mine, especially one who appreciates good wine."
"Ms. Santiago isn't a friend," Dominic clarifies, his voice cooling. "She's here on business."
"Don't mind him. He's nicer after you open a bottle or two." Paul gives me a conspiratorial wink. I laugh despite myself, earning a dark look from Dominic.
Dominic’s head snaps up from where he’s inspecting the vines, his gaze locking onto me with a look that could strip paint. My laughter dies mid-breath.
Paul either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.
"Hunter wanted me to remind you about his offer," Paul says, turning to Dominic. "He's still interested in featuring Silverleaf exclusively at The Haven's restaurant."
Dominic’s jaw flexes once. Hard.
“And my answer hasn’t changed. Silverleaf isn’t ready for that kind of exposure.”
"Hunter?" I ask, frowning. "As in Hunter Morgan?"
“That’s him.” Paul nods, grinning.
“The man won a James Beard Award,” I say, incredulous. “His endorsement would put you on the map.”
Dominic straightens to his full height, slow and deliberate, his hands settling low on his hips. The tension rolling off him is a physical thing. He stares down at me, eyes dark beneath the brim of his cap.
“I don’t want to be on the map,” he says flatly.
Paul sighs, shooting me an apologetic look. "See what I have to work with? Hunter Morgan is the most celebrated chef in the state, and this guy turns him down flat. And now that Lucas and his wife have established The Haven as the premier wedding venue in the state, it’s a lot of exposure and free advertising. Hunter’s been chasing Silverleaf for two years now.”
The realization hits harder than I expect. If Hunter Morgan—the king of local sourcing—wants Silverleaf, these wines aren’t just good. They’re extraordinary.
“Enough, Paul.” Dominic’s voice slices clean through the air, sharp as the wind whipping down off the ridge. No bluster. No raised volume. Just quiet command, coiled tight and edged in steel.
Paul goes still. Handslift in mock surrender.
“Just the messenger,” he says, voice still warm, but his eyes flick to Dominic now with more calculation than charm. Then he looks at me. “But if the mountain gets too cold, sweetheart, my sled’s warm and waiting.”
He throws the line like a joke, but there’s something behind it—a dare.
Before I can respond, Dominic steps in.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just there—his body angling between us like a wall. A shield. A line drawn in the snow.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. The heat radiating off him is enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms.
“She’s fine here.” His voice is low and final. “I’ll bring her down when the roads clear.”
The wind howls. The tension howls louder.
Paul holds his smile, but it’s brittle now. Faintly cracked at the edges. He eyes Dominic like he’s seeing something he hadn’t before—like this isn’t just Dominic being the town’s reclusive winemaker.
It’s Dominic claiming.
“Alright then,” Paul says after a beat. He mounts the snowmobile, pausing just long enough to flick his gaze to me. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”
The engine snarls, kicking up powder as he speeds off, leaving a wake of silence behind him.
