Page 40 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“How much longer?” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t crack.
“At least another day, maybe two, before it tapers off.” He pours more coffee like he’s discussing a grocery list, not our enforced captivity. “Then it depends on how quickly they can clear the roads.”
Another day.
Another night.
Another endless stretch of pretending I don’t ache for the man standing ten feet away, completely unaffected while I unravel thread by thread.
The prospect of continued confinement with Dominic after that kiss, his voice in my ear, and the brutal truth he laid at my feet fills me with dread and desperate, clawing anticipation.
Chapter 10
After breakfast,Dominic retreats to his office to check weather updates and make calls on the backup satellite phone. Left to my own devices, I wander through the main living area, studying the bookshelves more carefully than before.
A leather-bound journal catches my eye, tucked between viticulture references. Something about its worn edges and handcrafted cover suggests personal significance. Before my professional ethics intervene, I slip it from the shelf and open to a random page.
Inside are meticulous notes about Silverleaf's development—soil composition analyses, temperature tracking, and vine responses to various treatments. Interspersed among the scientific observations are more personal entries:
Six months in. Still wake up sometimes expecting to smell smoke. The locals think I'm crazy for trying this. Maybe I am. But what else is there?
And later:
First viable buds on the west slope today. Almost wept like a child when I saw them. Dad would have laughed at the sentimentand called it weakness. But he's not here, and his way died with him in those flames.
The intimacy of these thoughts makes me close the journal quickly, a flush of shame heating my cheeks at this invasion of privacy. I return it to the shelf just as Dominic reappears in the doorway.
"Finding something to read?" His tone suggests he knows exactly what I was looking at.
"Just browsing." I step away from the bookshelf. "Any news on the weather?"
"Nothing good." He crosses to the window, shoulders tense beneath his sweater. "We're on our own for at least another forty-eight hours."
Something in his posture—a vulnerability I haven't seen before—emboldens me. "I saw the journal," I admit. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked."
He stiffens but doesn't turn. "No, you shouldn't have."
"Will you tell me about the fire?"
For a long moment, he's silent, staring out at the endless white. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of carefully contained pain.
"My family's vineyard was one of the oldest in the valley. Three generations of Mercers built it into something respected, significant." His hands clench at his sides. "I was supposed to be the fourth, taking over the business side while my father maintained creative control."
"But you wanted more than the business end?"
A bitter smile touches his lips. "I wanted to be involved in the winemaking. Dad saw it as a betrayal—his lawyer son suddenly wanting to get his hands dirty in the cellar." He shakes his head. "We fought about it constantly. The night of the fire, we had the worst argument yet. I stormed off to clear my head."
My heart sinks,anticipating what comes next.
"Faulty wiring in the main production facility. By the time I got back, everything was engulfed. My father went back in to save the barrel room—vintage wines going back decades." His voice cracks slightly. "They never found his body. Just his wedding ring in the ashes."
"Dominic, I'm so sorry." I move toward him instinctively.
"The vineyard was underinsured—Dad cut corners where he thought he could. Between the debt and the lawsuits from neighboring properties affected by the fire, there was nothing left."
"And your mother?"
"Died when I was twelve. It was just Dad and me." He finally turns from the window, his expression raw with a grief that time has tempered but not erased. "I couldn't stay there, surrounded by the ruins of everything he built. So I came here, as far from Napa as I could get while still growing grapes."
