Page 44 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
His hand rises, hesitating before brushing a strand of hair from my face with devastating gentleness, but then?—
A tremendouscrashfrom above jolts us apart, followed by the shattering of glass. Merlot's frantic barking propels us both into action. We race up the stairs to find a large pine branch has crashed through one of the living room windows, letting in a blast of snow and frigid air.
"Damn it!" Dominic rushes to assess the damage while I corral a panicked Merlot away from the broken glass.
The next hour is spent in urgent cooperation—Dominic cutting away the remainder of the branch while I gather supplies to seal the broken window temporarily. We work together, anticipating each other's needs without needing to discuss them, forming an effective team despite the chaos.
By the time we've secured a barrier of plastic sheeting and duct tape over the window frame, we're both exhausted and freezing. Merlot watches from a safe distance, tail thumping when we finally step back to survey our handiwork.
"It'll hold until the storm passes," Dominic says, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold. "Then I can make proper repairs."
“Thank goodness it hit the living room and not the bedrooms,” I say, dumping broken glass into the bucket. The sharp clatter is too loud in the stunned quiet.
“Small mercies.” Dominic straightens, dusting debris from his jeans. His hand settles on my shoulder—a brief touch, warm and grounding, sending a jolt straight through me.
“You’re good in a crisis,” he says, his voice roughened by more than exhaustion.
I manage a half-smile, adrenaline still thrumming under my skin.
“Not my first disaster.”
He glances at the shattered living room, the gaping hole where the tree crashed through, exposing beams and snow-filtered air. Then back at me, eyes gleaming with something wicked.
“Would’ve preferred it hit the bedroom instead,” he says, almost casually.
My hands are still around the bucket.
“Why?”
The word croaks out, too raw. Too curious.
Dominic’s mouth curves into a slow, merciless grin—one that steals the air from my lungs.
“Because,” he steps closer, lowering his voice until it’s a dark, rough velvet against my skin, “beds are for sleeping.”
A beat.
“And fires…” His eyes darken, burning into mine. “…fires are for cavemen.” The words hit low, deep, every nerve in my body standing at attention. "Which means you still have a safe place to sleep."
The heat in his gaze doesn’t dim. It intensifies, scorching without touching.
He leans in, close enough to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead—but doesn’t touch me.
The absence is worse than contact.
His voice drops lower, dangerous and final.
“Don’t mistake my restraint for lack of hunger.” A pause, his breath whispering across my cheek. “If you ever decide you want more, all you have to do is cross that line. I’ll take things from there.”
His mouthbrushes the barest inch from my temple, not touching, just a ghost of heat. He straightens, steps back, the cool mountain air rushing between us like a gasp. Then, like nothing just happened, he turns and bends to scoop up more debris, utterly in control.
And I stand there, the bucket forgotten in my hands, still burning from a fire that hasn’t even started yet.
As we clean up the remaining debris, Dominic chuckles unexpectedly.
"What's funny?" I ask.
"I was just thinking that Marianne would be disappointed she missed all this excitement."
