Page 25 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
We eat in front of the fire.
The plates are mismatched. The food is flawless. Venison, roasted root vegetables, and a red wine reduction. I’m ninety percent sure he improvised on the spot.
I make a few vague comments about terroir and food pairings to fill the silence, but Dominic doesn’t say much in return.
Not verbally, at least.
His gaze says plenty. Every time I reach for my glass, everytime I lick sauce from the corner of my mouth, every time my knee brushes his under the low coffee table, we both go still. Not tense. Not uncomfortable.
But waiting.
The fire snaps behind us, casting his face in flickering gold. Shadows catch in the hollow of his throat, the slope of his cheekbone, the sharp cut of his jaw. There’s too much beauty in this room. Too much heat. And not enough distance.
“I’m small,” I say after the silence stretches too long. “I can fit on the couch.”
He doesn’t look up. Just finishes his wine, sets the glass down carefully, and levels his gaze at me like a challenge.
“No.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“I heard you.” His voice is low. Final. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“No,” he says again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t. But you’re still not doing it.”
“You know, some people would feel awkward about this.” I cross my arms, ignoring the flutter deep in my stomach.
“I’m not some people.” His eyes meet mine, dark and steady. “The bed is big enough. End of discussion.”
End of discussion.
The words land in my chest like a stone dropped in deep water.
I look away, suddenly interested in the last piece of roasted carrot on my plate.
Dominic stands, taking both our dishes without a word. He moves to the sink, the scrape of silverware the only sound in the room now. I stare into the fire and pretend I’m not aware of every step he takes, every dish he rinses, every flicker ofmovement in my periphery.
When he finally returns to the hearth, he sits on the arm of the leather chair instead of the cushion. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Watching the fire like it might crack open and spill secrets.
I set down my wine.
He speaks before I can get up.
“I don’t bite.”
That voice again. Rough silk and rust. It slides under my skin.
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“Wouldn’t dream of reassuring you.” His smile is slow. Dangerous.
I stand, suddenly needing space. Air. Distance that doesn’t exist in this house.
“I think I should sleep on the couch,” I say.
“No.”
