Page 19 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
He steps back, slow as a drawl. Swirls his glass again with that same quiet command.
“Some things need taming,” he says, voice like sin over silk. “Others…” A pause. A glance that drags over me. “You taste once—and let them ruin you.”
I shiver—and it’s not from the cold.
I try to focus, to act unaffected, but the scent of him—oak and smoke and mountain air—wraps around me, thick and heady.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit, my voice softer now, reverent, unable to disguise my admiration. “You could sell this for three times your current price point.”
He gives a rough huff of breath, almost a laugh, almost a growl.
“It’s not about the price.”
I tip my head toward him, a little teasing, trying to cut through the thick gravity between us.
“It’s always about the price,” I counter, my voice light but sure. “Sustainability requires profitability. Even torturedvines can’t live on poetry alone.”
A shadow cuts across his face, slicing through the simmering heat. His mouth tightens, like he’s weighing several arguments—none of them easy.
Before he can respond, a loud crack echoes through the house—sharp, violent—and a moment later, a rush of water follows.
Inside the house.
Dominic curses, the sound low and visceral, his whole body going taut.
He’s moving before I can process it, already sprinting toward the stairs.
I set my glass down on the heavy wooden counter and chase after him, the charged air between us snapping like a live wire.
Chapter 5
When I roundthe corner at the top of the stairs, I find Dominic in the guest bathroom, water spraying wildly from a burst pipe near the ceiling right onto the bed.
"Shut-off valve," he shouts over the noise, pointing beneath the sink in the adjoining bathroom.
I drop to my knees, locate the valve, and twist it closed while Dominic attempts to control the spray with a towel. Even with the water off, significant damage has already been done—the guest room carpet is soaked.
The bed is a disaster.
“Damn it.” Dominic’s curse slices through the air, low and sharp, as he kicks aside a soaked throw rug. Water pools across the floor, glinting in the broken light. He rakes a hand through his wet hair, eyes narrowing as he surveys the damage.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, useless and breathless.
His head snaps up. He gives me a look—half exasperation, half that amused challenge he wears like a second skin.
“Why are you apologizing for physics?”
The words hit harder than they should. I force a laugh, thin and shaky.
“Reflex.”
Because that’s what Davis taught me.
Apologize.
Soften.
Absorb the blame before it can land any harder, even when it’s not mine to carry.
