Page 29 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I'm still paging through it when Dominic returns, fully dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, hair damp from his shower.
"Research?" I ask, holding up the binder.
"Know your critics." He takes the binder from my hands, his fingers brushing mine as he closes it. “Your piece on Eleanor Morgan's vineyard was particularly memorable.”
My stomach drops.
Eleanor Morgan—the name clicks sharply into place. A small producer I reviewed early in my career. A vineyard that tried to compete with the bigger estates but didn’t have the polish to match.
“You know her?” I ask cautiously.
“Everyone in Colorado wine country knows Eleanor.” His voice carries an edge, low and cutting. “She’s stubborn. Believed in this place before it was fashionable. Your review nearly crushed her.”
The memory of that article floods back—an unflinching critique I’d written when I was still clawing my way up, determined to prove I couldn’t be bought by sentiment or nostalgia.
“I stand by my technical assessment,” I say carefully. “The wine had flaws. Major ones.”
“The wine had heart,” Dominic says, shelving the binder. “It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it mattered. It was honest. And you reduced it to a couple of clever insults and a forgettable rating.”
The criticism lands harder than it should, maybe because he isn’t wrong. I hadn’t yet learned that honesty and cruelty can be two very different things.
“If this is going to be an issue for our business relationship—” I start.
“Eleanor sold the vineyard sixmonths after your article.” Dominic’s voice cuts across mine, flat and final. “Some say it was health. Others know better.”
Guilt twists in my chest, sharp and sickening.
I remember the pride on Eleanor's weathered face when she walked me through those rows of struggling vines.
I remember crushing it under my boot, thinking I was doing my job.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “If my words contributed to that decision…I never meant to destroy someone’s life. But I can’t apologize for being honest.”
Dominic studies me across the small kitchen, eyes dark and unreadable.
For a breathless moment, the silence stretches taut between us, full of things neither of us is ready to say.
"I suppose that’s fair." He turns away, effectively ending the conversation. "Breakfast is ready if you're hungry."
The day stretches before us, and we are trapped together as the storm intensifies. Wind howls around the eaves, and snow piles against the windows until the world outside becomes a featureless white void.
We maintain a careful distance after our morning clash, retreating to neutral topics as we share the space.
By afternoon, the temperature inside the house has dropped noticeably despite the woodstove's efforts. Dominic builds a fire in the main fireplace while I wrap myself in a borrowed blanket, watching his methodical movements as he arranges logs.
"How long have you lived here?" I ask, breaking a silence that has stretched too long.
"Seven years. Bought the land after..." He hesitates. "After Napa."
I wait, not pushing, sensing he might continue if given space.
"The first two years were just planning and preparation. Soil tests, microclimate studies, finding the right rootstock." The fire catches, and he sits back, watching the flames grow. "Most people thought I was crazy. A vanity project doomed to fail."
"But you proved them wrong."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Not everyone doubted. Ruth Fletcher from The PickAxe in town—she offered to feature my first vintage exclusively when it was ready, no matter how it turned out." His expression softens with the memory. "Said she'd rather serve interesting failures than boring successes."
"Sounds like someone I'd like."
