Page 16 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“Exclusive distribution through some of the most respected restaurants in California,” I continue smoothly, as if we’re just two professionals talking shop, not two live wirescrackling across a dangerously short distance. “It’s an opportunity to enter the market with immediate prestige.”
Dominic swirls the water in his glass slowly, watching it the way most people watch a dangerous animal—calm, but never careless.
“Why Silverleaf?” he asks finally. His voice is quiet, but it sinks beneath my skin. “There are bigger vineyards. Flashier names. Larger production capacity.”
I lean in slightly, feeling the hum in the air between us. Letting my passion, not my nerves, guide me.
“Because you’re doing something different. Something real.” My voice softens, deepens. “You’re not trying to make California wines in Colorado. You’re letting this place—this specific soil, this mountain—speak for itself.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s seeing me more clearly than he did a moment ago.
“Most California buyers want wines that taste like home,” he says.
“I’m not most buyers.” I meet his gaze head-on. “I’m looking for wines with a story. With a soul. Wines that don’t just fill a glass but leave a mark.”
For a long beat, he says nothing.
Just watches me.
The space between us vibrates—part challenge, part something darker and hotter, thrumming underneath.
Then something shifts in his expression, so subtle I almost miss it.
“We should taste,” he says, voice gruff, as if the words cost him something. He pushes back from the table, standing. “If you’re going to represent Silverleaf…” A pause. A slow burn in his eyes. “You should know what you’re selling.”
The professional part of me sparks with victory.
The woman inside me feels somethingelse entirely and catches fire.
He disappears into the wine room, the door swinging shut behind him with a faint click.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to will my heartbeat back to something normal. It doesn’t work.
When Dominic returns, his arms are full—three bottles tucked against his chest, a fourth dangling from his long fingers. The sight should be professional. Practical. But the way he moves—the raw strength, the casual command of the space—sends a new rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with wine.
Without a word, he sets the bottles down on the rustic island and reaches for two glasses.
“First rule,” he says, voice a low rumble, “no talking until you’ve taken a sip.”
My brows lift. “You’re banning me from talking?”
He leans in slightly—close enough that I catch the faint scent of oak and cedar on his skin. His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You can moan if you want.”
The heat that flares in my cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. It’s molten.
Dangerous.
He pours the first glass, then holds it out, not setting it down. Waiting for me to take it from his hand.
The distance between us shrinks to nothing as I reach out. His fingers brush mine, deliberate and slow, lingering a beat longer than necessary.
A current arcs between us, hot enough to make my stomach clench.
He doesn’t release the glass immediately. His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, featherlight. Testing.
I feel the rasp of his calloused fingers as he passes me the glass, the roughness dragging across my skin like a match strike. My breath stutters, my pulse flaring in placesI’d rather not acknowledge.
He doesn’t step back.
