Page 18 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I freeze.
His voice is lower now, deliberate.
“Not like that. Not the textbook ritual. Let it in first. Let it speak.”
Something in me resists. My training, my pride. But he just watches, unblinking, until resistance feels ridiculous. Childish.
I swirl. Slowly. Let the wine coat the bowl. It stains the glass with a deep ruby sheen, clinging like a secret. When I lift it, I catch the scent—dark fruit and wet earth, a hint of something smoky underneath. Primitive. Wild.
Still, I don’t speak.Not yet. He said to taste.
I let the wine touch the tip of my tongue—just a whisper—then pull it deeper, letting it unfurl across my palate.
It blooms. Not like a flower. Like heat. Like silk turning to flame.
Black cherry. Crushed herbs. Smoke and shadow and the memory of sunlight.
I close my eyes.
A low sound escapes before I can catch it. Not a word. Not a note. Just breath laced with pleasure.
When I open them again, Dominic is closer. Not quite touching, but the air between us buzzes like an electric current.
“No notes?” he murmurs, amused. “No critiques?”
I shake my head. Swallow hard.
“Good. That one was meant to be felt first. Then understood.”
The next sip is richer, more structured. My brain itches to dissect it—cabernet franc, maybe?—But Dominic’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Don’t name it yet. Let it take you.”
Every word he speaks becomes part of the wine—velvet and iron, slow and inescapable. Each taste unwinds another part of me, loosening the bindings of discipline and precision until all that’s left is sensation and heat.
By the fourth sip, the space between us is molten.
I lift the glass to the firelight, watching the garnet liquid shimmer.
“There’s tension here,” I say softly. “Structure, yes, but… something beneath it. Something it’s fighting to contain.”
Dominic steps in.
His glass finds mine, their rims brushing with a soft, aching chime.
“That vineyard’s on the edge of a south-facing slope,” hesays. “Sun all morning. But the soil’s lean. Rocky. The vines fight for everything.”
His fingers graze mine as he takes the stem of my glass, holding it steady between us.
“And that fight,” he adds, eyes locked on mine, “pulls something out of them they wouldn’t give up otherwise. Something raw. Unpredictable. But unforgettable.”
His thumb lingers at the base of my fingers—just a touch. Just enough.
“Struggle breeds intensity,” he says. “If you know how to guide it. Shape it.” He leans in slightly, his breath stirring the loose hair near my cheek. “If you know how tomasterit.”
The word lands heavily between us.
I don’t breathe.
