Page 4 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Thank you." I try to sound professional rather than pathetically grateful. "I really appreciate?—"
"Follow my tracks. Carefully." It’s not an invitation. It’s a directive. "Come on, Merlot."
The dog looks at me through the window and then at its retreating master. To my surprise, it whines and stays put, its nose pressed against my window.
"Merlot!" Dominic calls again, more sharply this time.
The dog gives a defiant "woof" and remains next to my car.
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I watch Dominic trudge back through the snow, irritation radiating from him like heat.
"Traitor." He mutters to the dog before fixing me with a stern look. "He doesn't like strangers."
"Clearly," I reply, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
Something shifts in his eyes – a flash of interest, quickly suppressed, and there’s an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Not a smile. Not quite. But not nothing either.
And just like that, I feel it again.
That current between us. A hum beneath the skin. Not polite. Not professional.
Primal.
He gestures impatiently at the road ahead. "My driveway's just around the next bend. If you get stuck again, I'm leaving you there."
He turns without another word and starts walking.
I put the car in gear and follow, inching forward behind his tall, solid frame with his dog still trotting loyally besidehim. The road curves ahead, flanked by thick pines and snow-laden branches that reach toward us like ghost limbs in the dimming light. My car groans with every bump, every twist in the road, the heater doing its best to fight the cold leaching through the windows.
Then the trees part.
And I see it.
Chapter 2
A timber-frame houserises before me like something out of a dream—warm light glowing from high windows, smoke curling from a stone chimney. It’s powerful and precise against the backdrop of storm-heavy sky. Nestled into the mountain as if it belongs there. Like it’s been there for a hundred years and will still be there for a hundred more.
Beneath it, rows of vines lie dormant beneath the snow, lined with impossible precision, vanishing into the whiteness beyond. Even in winter, even in stillness, it’s beautiful. Ordered. Intentional.
This isn’t just a house.
It’s a fortress.
And the man waiting on the wide-covered porch, backlit by firelight and shadows?
The dragon guarding his home.
I pull up beside a rugged Jeep already blanketed in fresh snow, shift into park, and kill the engine. My breath fogs in the quiet stillness.
The light is fading fast, and the snow falls in a thick, silent curtain. I grab my purse and the overnight bag I packed on awhim, though “just in case” didn’t include getting snowed in with the winemaker I came to negotiate with. The wind cuts through my coat the moment I open the car door, and I hiss through clenched teeth as my boots hit snow. It’s deeper here, heavier, blanketing the ground in silence. Everything’s muffled.
Except for my pulse, which pounds loudly in my ears.
Dominic waits on the covered porch, Merlot now dutifully at his side.
I force myself to climb the steps one at a time, pretending I don’t feel his eyes tracking me, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every sway of my hips, every shift of fabric across my thighs.
