Page 42 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“Good thing he’s not here to stop me.”
The banter flows easily now, the weight between us lightened by laughter, by the simple satisfaction of creation.
The storm still howls against the windows.
The fire still crackles in the hearth.
But inside this kitchen, over borrowed spices and stubborn pride, we carve out a moment that feels… almost normal.
Almost safe.
Even if we both know it’s only temporary.
"And what would your grandfather know about pasta? You said he was Spanish."
"Married an Italian woman. My grandmother terrorized the entire family with her culinary standards." The memory makes me smile. "She's the one who taught me the connection between food and wine—how the right pairing creates something greater than either alone."
Dominic pauses in his stirring. "Is that when you discovered your palate?"
"Partly." I taste my stew, adjusting the seasoning. "But it was my grandfather who noticed it first. He'd blindfold me and have me identify spices, fruits, and even olive oil. Called it my 'superpower.'"
"He wasn't wrong." Dominic's assessment catches me off guard with its straightforward admiration. "Your technical understanding of wine is... impressive."
Coming from him, the compliment carries unusual weight. "Thank you. Though you'd probably say I overthink it."
"You do." His smile softens the criticism. "But that's not always a bad thing."
Before I can respond, frantic barking erupts outside, followed by a distinctive fox's cry. We rush to the door to find Merlot has cornered a fox beneath the woodpile, both animals raising a tremendous racket.
"Merlot, no!" Dominic plunges into the snow, struggling toward the standoff.
I follow without thinking, immediately sinking thigh-deep in the drift. The cold punches through my borrowed pants, but I push forward, circling to approach the fox from a different angle than Dominic.
"Be careful," he warns. "It might be rabid."
But the fox looks more terrified than aggressive, trembling as it faces down the much larger dog. "I think it's just scared," I call back. "Merlot probably interrupted its hunt."
Working in tandem, we manage to distract Merlot long enough for the fox to make its escape, darting away through the snow with remarkable agility. Dominic grabs Merlot's collar, checking him for injuries.
"He's fine," he reports with obvious relief. "Just overexcited."
We trudge back to the house, laughing at the absurdity of our rescue mission, snow clinging to our clothes and hair. Inside, we shed wet outer layers, our earlier awkwardness forgotten in the shared adventure.
As I towel dry my hair, a crackling voice emanates from the radio on the kitchen counter.
"Mercer, you copy? It's Donovan."
Dominic crosses to the radio, picking up the handset. "I'm here, Sheriff.What's the update?"
"Roads are still impassable, but we're making progress." The sheriff's voice carries a hint of amusement. "Just checking that you and your guest are managing alright up there. Mabel's been worried."
"We're fine. No issues." Dominic's eyes flick to mine, a silent communication passing between us.
"Glad to hear it. Your guest settling in okay? Ms. Santiago, was it? From California?"
The specific knowledge makes me raise an eyebrow at Dominic, who rolls his eyes in response.
"She's right here if you want to ask her yourself," Dominic replies dryly.
