Page 3 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I blink, startled by the shift from stonewall to command.
"Your dog’s name is Merlot?"
Something flickers across his expression. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Got a problem with that?"
"No," I say, suddenly breathless. "It’s... fitting."
Something flickers in his eyes. Not quite amusement. Something darker.
His eyes linger for a beat too long.
And just like that, the moment feels sharp again. Cut-glass tension beneath the snow.
Then the crunch of tires breaks it.
The moment shatters when a green ranger truck pulls up, chains on its tires, crunching through the snow. The window rolls down, revealing a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard.
Dominic doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look away from me.
"Dominic," he nods. "Everything alright here?"
"Just a visitor who ignored the road closure signs, Cal," Dominic replies, not taking his eyes off me.
The ranger gives a low whistle. "Better get her off the mountain quick. Storm's picking up faster than expected. They're closing the pass completely in an hour."
"I'll handle it," Dominic says grimly.
Cal nods. "Radio if you need anything. Be safe." With that, he rolls up his window and continues his journey down the mountain.
Dominic turns back to me, his expression unreadable. "We need to move fast. Get in your car and put it in neutral."
I do exactly as he commands.
Because some part of me already knows—I’d follow him anywhere.
For the next fifteen minutes, I watch through the windshield as Dominic shovels snow from around my tires with a grim expression.
I shouldn’t notice the way his shoulders shift or how the fabric pulls tight across his back. Shouldn’t feel this flush of heat while my teeth are literally chattering.
But I do.
Merlot bounces around him, occasionally diving nose-first into snow drifts, providing unexpected comic relief.
When Dominic finally signals, I release the brake and steer while he pushes. The car rocks, tires spinning, before finally lurching free with a spray of snow. Relief floods through me until Dominic frowns as he walks to my window.
"Engine's making a bad sound," he says after I roll the window down. "Probably got snow in somewhere it shouldn't be."
As if to confirm his diagnosis, the car makes an alarming grinding noise when I press the accelerator.
"Perfect," I mutter.
A particularly vicious gust of wind buffets the car, carrying so much snow that it whiteouts the windshield.
Dominic's jaw tightens. "You won't make it back down the mountain in this. Not in that car, and not in those shoes." His scornful glance at my fashionable boots makes me want to defend my footwear choices,but he continues before I can speak. "My place is just up ahead. You can wait out the worst of it there."
The invitation – if it can be called that – comes with all the warmth of an IRS audit.
