Page 22 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The words land hard, the double meaning slicing clean through the cold and the chaos.
My body flashes hot.
Soaking wet.
From the burst pipe.
From him.
Heat licks up my spine, igniting my cheeks, my throat. I shift where I stand, the heavy cling of my drenched jeans against my skin suddenly unbearable, suffocating.
He watches me.
Still. Silent.
That faint, knowing gleam in his eyes says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.
I clear my throat, reaching blindly for my suitcase—only to find it half-submerged in a spreading puddle.
Of course.
Just perfect.
Dominic moves first. He crosses the room in two strides, crouching to inspect the dripping bag. His palm tests the fabric, fingers pressing into the soaked canvas.
“You’re not wearing anything out of there.”
I open my mouth to argue—what, exactly, I don’t know—but he’s already rising to his full, intimidating height.
“I’ll grab you a shirt. And some sweats,” he says, voice low and final. “They’ll be big on you. But they’ll be dry.”
I nod, throat too tight to form words, wrapping my arms around myself in a flimsy shield against the biting cold—and against him.
His gaze drags down over me, slow, deliberate, lingering where the soaked cotton clings too tightly to my curves.
Heat blazes under my skin, a pulse throbbing low and dangerous.
He steps closer, close enough that I catch the scent of him—woodsmoke and pine and pure male heat—and tips his head down so his voice brushes against the shell of my ear.
"I’ll get these in the wash."
Then he’s gone, boots heavy as he strides from the room, leaving me alone.
Soaked to the bone.
Burning from the inside out.
I clutch my arms tighter around myself, the ruined room blurring at the edges of my vision. Not from cold.
From him.
From the dangerous knowledge blooming like wildfire inside me. There’s nowhere left to run.
I’m still wondering how I’m going to survive a night beside a man who hasn’t even decided if he wants me, but already owns my body’s every goddamn reaction.
Dominic disappears down the hall, giving no further explanation. No apology. A few minutes later, he stops to toss me one of his shirts and a pair of gray sweatpants. He carries a laundry basket, filled with all my clothes.
We spend the next hour containing the damage. Towels. Buckets. Stripping the bed down to soaked foam and twisted sheets.
