Page 24 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The shower helps.
A little.
The hot water doesn’t last long—mountain plumbing—but it’s enough to scrub away the scent of damp linen and nerves. I towel off quickly, slipping into another oversized gray T-shirt that Dominic set out for me. It falls nearly to my knees. Smells faintly of cedar and smoke and something else—him, again.
Of course.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Hair damp and curling around my face. Bare legs. Bare feet.
My heart beating way too fast for someone just waiting out a storm.
Back in the kitchen, he’s made tea. Or coffee. Or something warm that smells like citrus peel and spice.
He’s sitting at the island now, barefoot, his forearms braced on the wood, flipping through a worn copy of The World Atlas of Wine. I half expect him to ignore me, but the moment I cross into the room, his eyes lift.
Slowly. Deliberately.
They don’t flick back down.
They stay.
“I didn’t peg you for a tea drinker,” I say, forcing casual as I cross to the stove.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Not usually. But I figured you might need something to do with your hands.”
I glance down. He’s right. Mine are fidgeting, restless.
Dominic pours a second cup without asking. Pushes it across the island toward me.
I sit.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s just there. Heavy and waiting.
The wind picks up outside again. The fire crackles faintlyin the living room.
Every tick of the clock on the wall is another second closer to the thing neither of us is talking about.
One bed.
He doesn’t mention it again. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t gloat. Just acts like it’s settled.
I offer to help with dinner, mostly because I need something to do, something other than spiral about sleeping arrangements.
He hands me a cutting board and a chef’s knife without protest. Wordless, but not unkind. Just… watching me again.
Always watching.
We fall into a rhythm, slicing vegetables in the expansive, open kitchen with its butcherblock counters and antique copper pans. He moves with the kind of efficiency that only comes from doing everything yourself. I chop. He sears venison in a cast iron skillet, the scent rich and mouthwatering.
“How do you have a freezer full of gourmet ingredients up here but no cell reception?”
“Priorities.” His mouth twitches as he glances at me. “Wine, food, peace, and quiet.”
I raise a brow. “And random stranded sommeliers?”
“That part wasn’t planned.” He doesn’t take the bait. Just flips the steak.
