Page 31 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Power outages are common up here," he explains, setting a lantern between us. "The generator should kick in for essential systems, but we'll need to conserve heat. Stick close to the fireplace."
We migrate to the livingroom, bringing our wine and the remains of dinner with us. Without electricity, the temperature drops rapidly, and the storm’s fury is more noticeable in the unnatural silence of a house without ambient noise. Wind rattles the windows, and I curl closer to the fire, grateful for its warmth.
Dominic adds another log, stoking the flames higher. When he settles beside me on the hearth rug, I'm aware of every inch between us, of the way the firelight sculpts his features into planes of gold and shadow.
"You're shivering," he observes, reaching for a throw blanket draped over a nearby chair. Instead of handing it to me, he wraps it around both of us, his arm brushing my shoulder as he adjusts the fabric.
Accidental?
Not a chance.
“Thanks,” I murmur, barely managing the word through the sudden dryness in my throat.
He doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t give me a whisper of space.
His body is a wall of heat at my side, the blanket trapping it between us.
I’m acutely, painfully aware of every breath he draws. Every shift of muscle under the soft cotton of his Henley.
“So tell me,” he murmurs, his mouth close enough that I can feel the whisper of his words against my cheek, “what would you do differently? With my wines, I mean.”
Grasping for professionalism like a drowning woman clutches a rope, I steady myself.
“Nothing fundamental.” My voice is tighter than I want it to be. “They’re exceptional as they are, but I’d adjust your brand narrative. Emphasize the pioneering aspects. The authenticity.”
He hums low in his throat, a rough sound of acknowledgment—or maybe amusement.
The sound vibrates straight through the blanket, straight into me.
"More marketing, less substance," he challenges, but there's no real bite to his words.
“The substance is already there,” I counter, finding my footing, slipping back into the one space where I know how to lead. “Great wine should tell a story. Your current approach—limited distribution, minimal information—makes it harder for people to connect with what you’ve created.”
“Maybe I don’t want them to connect with it,” he says, his gaze sharpening.
I turn toward him fully under the blanket, our knees bumping, then pressing together.
Neither of us moves away.
The contact is subtle, a shared, silent dare.
“Then why make it at all?” My voice is softer now. More raw. "Wine exists to be experienced. To be shared. Keeping it hidden away is like…"
I search for the right comparison, floundering for the words with his body pressed so closely to mine.
"Like what?" he prompts, voice a slow drag of velvet.
"Like painting a masterpiece and hanging it in a dark room where no one can see it."
For a long moment, he says nothing.
Just watches me.
The fire crackles beside us, throwing shadows across the planes of his face, sharpening the hard edge of his jaw.
“Some experiences,” he finally says, his voice low and deliberate, “are meant to be private.”
