Page 2 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
A massive chocolate Lab bounds through the snow toward me, pure muscle and excitement, fur slick with snowflakes. I freeze.
Then I seehim.
The figure moves through the snow like it owes him something—tall, broad, with the kind of solid presence that doesn’t flinch in storms. His scarf shields most of his face, but his eyes are sharp even through the whiteout, cutting straight to mine.
"Hey!" My voice wobbles against the wind. "My car slid off the road!"
He doesn’t speed up. Just keeps that steady pace until the dog reaches me first—a chocolate Lab with soulful eyes, tail wagging like I’m not stranded on the side of a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm. The dog bumps my thigh,circles once, then settles at my feet like he’s known me forever.
The man pulls down the scarf, and everything in me goes very still.
Sharp cheekbones, a jaw covered in several days of dark stubble, and eyes the color of aged whiskey with traces of floating gold—deep, unblinking, and locked on me like a cipher. A thin scar slices along his temple, half-hidden by dark hair wet with melting snow. He looks rough, unforgiving.
And obscenely compelling.
Heat rushes beneath my skin so fast it steals my breath.
"You shouldn’t be up here." His voice is gravel and smoke. Deep. Distantly irritated.
It lands low in my belly.
"Road’s closed."
"I didn’t see the sign until it was too late," I lie, kneeling to greet the dog. My fingers sink into warm fur, grounding me in something solid. "I’m looking for Silverleaf Vineyards. I have an appointment with Dominic Mercer."
A flicker of something—disbelief, irritation—cuts across his face.
"No, you don’t."
I rise slowly, meeting his gaze. My breath fogs between us. "I emailed last week. Elena Santiago. Wine director for?—"
"I know who you are." The air between us tightens. "I never confirmed that appointment."
My stomach drops. Three hundred miles, a snowstorm, and this is how I meet him.
"I came a long way." The wind slices through my coat. My pride braces harder.
His gaze cuts over me, slow and deliberate. Not leering. Not dismissive. Measuring.
"Clearly."
My pulsestutters. Not from the cold.
"You’re Dominic Mercer."
Not a question. A reckoning.
The way he looks at me—down the line of my body, slow and unreadable—makes me shiver.
Not from cold.
"Look, Mr. Mercer, I understand I should’ve waited for confirmation. But I’m here now, and my car?—"
He cuts me off. "Merlot, come."
The Lab obediently trots to his side.
Dominic’s gaze slices back to mine. "We need to move. Get your car in neutral before the snow buries it completely."
