Page 41 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The revelation settles between us, reshaping my understanding of this complex man. His isolation isn't a preference. It’s protection, a fortress built from painful experience.
"Thank you for telling me," I say quietly.
He shrugs, visibly uncomfortable at the vulnerability he’s just shown. "You'd have heard it eventually. Small towns love their tragedy stories."
"Still." I hold his gaze. "It helps me understand Silverleaf better. Why it matters so much."
"It's just wine," he deflects, but we both know it's far more.
The moment is broken by Merlot barking urgently at the kitchen door, demanding to be let out despite the storm.
"He'll need to be quick," Dominic warns as he opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid air. "Stay close to the house, Merlot."
The dog bounds into the snow, immediately disappearing into a drift before emerging with a joyful bark, tail wagging furiously.
With the heaviness of Dominic’s revelation still coiled tight in my chest, we turn—mutually, silently—to the practical matter of lunch.
The continuing power fluctuations render the refrigerator unreliable, creating an impromptu challenge with the few salvageable ingredients left.
“We could do pasta,” I suggest, surveying the limited options scattered across the counter.
Dominic arches a brow, unimpressed.
“Boring.” He pulls out a can of chickpeas and some nearly-frozen vegetables with a deliberate clatter, his mouth tugging at one corner. “We can do better.”
I cock my head, letting a smirk lift my lips.
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Mercer?”
For the first time today, a genuine smile flickers across his face. Not sharp. Not dangerous.
Real.
It transforms him, stripping away the heavy armor for just a moment.
“Absolutely, Ms. Santiago.”
The simple formality—last names—acts like a shield between us.
Safe.
Neutral.
It draws a subtle line, letting me step across the minefield of this morning’s tension without detonating.
And I breathe easier for the first time in what feels like hours.
What follows is a surprisingly playful culinary battle, with each of us claiming half the available ingredients and one burner on the gas stove.
The constraint breeds creativity.
I craft a Spanish-inspired chickpeastew, layering smoky paprika, roasted peppers, and a touch of sherry vinegar into something hearty and defiant.
Dominic, meanwhile, ruthlessly invents a pasta dish, tossing together ingredients that make my inner traditionalist cringe and my tastebuds sit up and take notice.
“My grandfather would be scandalized by what you’re doing to that pasta,” I tease, watching him add a daring swirl of honey and a reckless shake of red pepper flakes to the pan.
Dominic flashes me a grin, cocky and wicked.
