Page 45 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Marianne?"
"Local jewelry designer. She's been trying to set me up with her niece for months." He shakes his head, amusement lingering in his eyes. "Orchestrated at least three 'accidental' meetings in town."
The casual revelation of someone else's romantic interest in Dominic stirs an unexpected pang of jealousy.
"Is her niece interested in wine?"
"She's allergic to alcohol." His dry delivery makes me laugh despite myself. "Marianne believes that's a 'minor obstacle' compared to our supposedly perfect compatibility."
"And is it? A minor obstacle?"
Dominic's gaze meets mine, something significant passing between us. "I have other compatibility concerns these days."
The statement hangs between us, loaded with implication as we finish securing the room against the continuing storm.
Later, as evening settles and we share another meal beside the fireplace, the damaged living room too cold to use, I find myself studying Dominic with new understanding.
The gruff exterior, the isolation, the passionate commitment to his vineyard—all of it shaped by loss and determination, by the need to rebuild something meaningful from ashes.
For the first time, I seebeyond the reputation, beyond even the undeniable attraction between us, to the complex man beneath. A man who measures his wines by the experiences they create rather than technical perfection.
Who rescued an abandoned dog and maintains quiet friendships with townsfolk despite his supposed reclusiveness. Who carries the weight of his father's death while forging a different path.
This realization shifts something fundamental in my perception. This isn't just about a business deal anymore, or even about the chemistry that sparks between us. It's about seeing Dominic Mercer clearly—his wounds and his strengths, his passion and his fear—and finding myself drawn to all of it in ways I never anticipated.
I don’t look away when he catches me watching him. Whatever is developing between us in this snowbound isolation has moved beyond simple attraction into something far more dangerous.
I'm beginning to care about the man behind the wines. And that might be the riskiest vintage of all.
Chapter 11
The aromaof sizzling bacon and something sweet pulls me from sleep. For a moment, I lie still, orienting myself in Dominic's bedroom. Through the window, brilliant morning light reflects off pristine snow, creating a dazzling brightness that makes me squint.
Merlot, who has officially abandoned his master to sleep at my feet, raises his head expectantly.
"You smell it too, huh?" I scratch behind his ears, earning an enthusiastic tail thump against the mattress. "Let's investigate."
I follow the enticing scent downstairs, Merlot trotting ahead as if leading the way. The kitchen tableau stops me in the doorway.
Dominic stands at the stove, his back to me, expertly flipping what appears to be the most perfect French toast I've ever seen. A cast-iron skillet beside it cradles sizzling bacon, while a small pot of something fragrant simmers on the back burner.
He moves with surprising grace for such a powerfully built man, his actions efficient and practiced. This isn't someonewho occasionally cooks—this is someone who knows his way around a kitchen with professional competence.
"That smells incredible," I say, finally announcing my presence.
Dominic glances over his shoulder, a half-smile softening his features. "Morning. Coffee's ready."
I pour myself a cup, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip. "Perfect strength. Is there anything you don't do well?"
"Small talk. Tolerating fools. Dancing." He transfers the French toast to waiting plates with practiced precision. "Also, I can't whistle."
The casual admission of vulnerability, delivered so matter-of-factly, makes me smile. "Tragic. And here I thought you were perfect."
"Far from it." He sets a plate before me that looks like it belongs in a gourmet brunch spot. The French toast is golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, accompanied by perfectly crisped bacon and a small ramekin of what appears to be homemade fruit compote.
My first bite draws an involuntary sound of appreciation. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Dominic busies himself with his breakfast, a hint of self-consciousness in his movements. "Hunter Morgan gave me some lessons when I first moved here. Before I..."
