Page 28 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I let myself lean back, just enough to feel him more fully. The heat. The safety. The question I’m not ready to ask and the answer I feel anyway.
And with his arm draped across my waist, his body curled protectively around mine, I finally drift into sleep.
Chapter 7
The first thingI feel is heat, low and slow, sinking deep into the mattress and radiating against my side, as if someone had just been there.
The second is absence.
I blink awake to the soft glow of morning filtering through heavy curtains. The king-sized bed stretches wide around me, too big, too empty. One side of the quilt is rumpled. The pillow still carries the faint indentation of his head.
But Dominic is gone.
I lie there for a beat, my mind fogged with sleep and the memory of the night before—Dominic’s voice against the firelight, his body barely a breath away, the heavy weight of his arm curling around my waist like something he couldn’t stop even in sleep. My skin still hums from the contact.
I roll toward the warm side of the bed, fingers grazing the cooled sheets, the ache of something unspoken blooming low and slow in my chest.
Then it hits me.
Clang.
A sharp metallic rattle echoes through the silence of the house, followed by a muttered curse.
I sit, pulse kicking. Not alarmed—just curious. The kind of curiosity that drags me out of the warmth and into movement before I can think better of it.
Dominic’s sweatshirt lies draped over a nearby chair. I pull it over my sleep shirt, the soft cotton sliding against my bare skin. The sleeves swallow my hands, the hem brushes my thighs. It smells like cedar and cold air and him.
I slip quietly down the hall, the hardwood cool under my feet, following the sound of metal clashing and low, frustrated grumbling.
I find the source of the noise in a small utility room off the kitchen. Dominic kneels before an exposed section of pipe, tools scattered around him. He's shirtless, wearing only low-slung jeans, his back a landscape of muscle and unexpected scars. A thin white line tracks from his left shoulder blade to his spine. Another puckered and angry curve along his ribs.
My breath catches, not just at the evidence of past injuries, but at the raw physicality of him. Droplets of water glisten on his shoulders, sliding down the contours of his back as he works. His skin is flushed with exertion, a startling contrast to the dark hair curling at his nape.
"You're staring," he says without turning around, his voice morning-rough.
Heat floods my face. "Do you need help?"
"Unless you're hiding plumbing expertise under that sommelier certification, not really." He twists something with a wrench, cursing when water sprays in response.
I step closer, spotting another pipe with frost forming along its length. "That one's freezing too."
Dominic follows my gaze and mutters something that sounds like a prayer for patience. "Hand me that heat tape."
I pass him the electrical tape and find myself drafted into emergency plumbing service.
For the next hour, Dominic makes repairs while I hold tools, shine flashlights into dark corners, and occasionally mop up water. The close quarters force us into constant proximity, my arm brushing his bare shoulder, his hand guiding mine to hold something steady.
Each accidental touch sends a rush of awareness through me that has nothing to do with the actual work we're doing. I find myself simultaneously hoping for and dreading these brief contacts, my body responding with a mind of its own.
"That should hold," Dominic finally says, sitting back on his heels. A sheen of sweat covers his chest despite the chill, highlighting the definition of muscles earned through physical labor rather than a gym. "But we'll need to keep the faucets dripping. The temperature's still dropping."
Only then does he seem to register his state of undress, as if suddenly remembering I'm not Paul or some other mountain buddy accustomed to emergency repairs. Something shifts in his expression—awareness, maybe even a flicker of self-consciousness.
"I'll get cleaned up," he says, rising in a fluid motion that reminds me his physical power isn't just for show.
While Dominic showers, I wander through his home, studying the bookshelves with professional and personal interest. Between viticulture texts and reference books sits a binder labeled simply "Reviews." Curiosity gets the better of me.
Inside, I find a meticulously organized collection of wine reviews—not just of his wines but various Colorado vineyards over the years. And tucked within those pages, a separate section containing my published work: columns from Wine Spectator, features I'd written for industry publications, even my controversial piece on emerging wine regions that earned both praise and condemnation.
