Page 27 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Waiting.
My fingers curl into his. My feet move.
And I follow him. Upstairs. Into the dark.
Straight into the storm we haven't started yet.
Upstairs, the hall is quiet, the wood creaking softly beneath our steps. He leads me past the guest room I was meant to use—now waterlogged and dark—to the last door at the end of the hallway.
His room.
He pushes it open, releasing a wave of warmth. The air smells like cedar and something deeper—him, sharp and clean. The bed dominates the space: a low, wide frame made from dark wood, layered in charcoal gray sheets and a thick quilt.
There’s no clutter. No mess. Just simplicity and silence, broken only by the storm outside.
Dominic releases my hand and crosses the room, flipping the corner of the quilt back on one side without looking at me. “The sheets are clean, and you already know where the bathroom is.”
“Thanks.” I nod, throat tight.
He heads into the bathroom without another word. The door clicks softly behind him.
I stand frozen in the center of his bedroom, suddenly unsure what to do with my body. I breathe in, breathe out, toes curling in the plush rug, heart thumping like it hasn’t figured out he said safe. That he promised to be a gentleman. That he hasn’t touched me—won’t touch me—unless I ask.
And I’m not asking. Not tonight.
When the door opens again, he’s stripped down to a pairof low-slung navy sweatpants and nothing else. My mouth goes dry. Muscles carved in quiet strength. Scar near his shoulder. The kind of body that doesn’t come from vanity—it’s forged from work. Restraint. Control.
He lifts a brow. “Something wrong?”
“No.” I move quickly into the bathroom before I combust.
Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Try not to stare at the clean stack of towels, the bar of soap that smells like pine and citrus and rain. When I return, the lights are off, save for a warm amber glow from the fireplace tucked into the wall across from the bed.
Dominic’s already under the covers. On his side. Facing away.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t turn.
I slip beneath the sheets as quietly as possible. The mattress is soft, the warmth immediate. But it’s the space beside me—filled with heat and tension and too much silence—that makes it hard to breathe.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer.
Eventually, his breath evens out. The slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
I lie there, eyes open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. My body is tired, but my mind won’t stop spinning. Not with the weight of the day. The storm. Him.
I shift slightly. The sheet slides over my hip.
And then I feel it.
His arm snakes around my waist in one slow, unconscious motion. Not urgent. Not possessive. Just solid. Heavy. Warm.
He curls behind me without waking, the weight of him pressing into my back, anchoring me. His chest brushes my spine, breath stirring the hair at my neck.
I hold still, every nerve sparking.
And then—slowly, slowly—I exhale.
I don’t pull away.
