Page 46 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Embraced your inner hermit?" I supply.
His mouth quirks. "Something like that. Hunter was one of the first locals I met. He recognized my name from Napa and offered to show me around the food scene." He shrugs. "We got along until I made it clear I wanted privacy more than social connections."
"Yet he still wants to feature your wines."
"Hunter respects the craft, regardless of his opinion of the craftsman." Dominic takes a sip of coffee.
As we finish breakfast, thesun climbs higher, transforming the snowscape outside into a dazzling expanse of diamonds. The storm has finally broken, leaving behind a pristine, silent world.
"Ever been skiing?" Dominic asks, following my gaze to the window.
"Twice. Both times ending with me wrapped around a tree." I grimace at the memory. "I'm not exactly known for my athletic prowess."
"Cross-country is different. Gentler." He clears our plates, already moving with decided purpose. "I have extra equipment. We could try the vineyard trails."
The invitation surprises me. "You trust me not to destroy your precious vines?"
"The snow's deep enough to protect them." His eyes meet mine, a challenge in their depths. "Unless you're afraid?"
"Of a little snow?" I raise my chin. "Never."
An hour later, I'm questioning my bravado as Dominic adjusts the bindings on a pair of cross-country skis that look far too long and precarious for my comfort.
"These belonged to a friend," he explains, kneeling before me to check the fit of the boots he's lent me. His fingers brush against my ankle as he tightens a strap, sending an electric awareness up my leg. "They should be about right for your height."
We're on his back porch, preparing to venture into the winter wonderland his property has become. The temperature has risen just enough to make the excursion pleasant rather than punishing, the sky a brilliant Colorado blue overhead.
"The basics are simple," Dominic explains, demonstrating the gliding motion. "It's more like walking than downhill skiing. You'll get the hang of it quickly."
His confidence is entirely misplaced. My first attempt sends me sprawling face-first into a snowdrift, much to Merlot's delight. The dog bounds around me, barkingencouragement as I emerge spluttering and covered in white powder.
Dominic's laughter, rich and unexpected, fills the crisp air. "Maybe we start with balance first."
He offers his gloved hands, pulling me upright with effortless strength. Then, instead of releasing me, he moves to stand behind me, his chest nearly touching my back.
"Like this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as his hands come to rest lightly on my hips. "Shift your weight forward slightly."
My body responds to his guidance, but my mind is entirely occupied with his proximity and the solid warmth of him so close behind me. His hands remain firm but respectful, professional in their instruction, even as my pulse accelerates for reasons that have nothing to do with exercise.
"Now glide," he instructs, moving with me for the first few steps.
Under his patient guidance, I gradually progress from helpless flailing to something resembling actual cross-country skiing. We follow a gentle trail around the perimeter of the vineyard, Dominic always slightly ahead or beside me, ready to offer a steadying hand when my balance falters.
The simple joy of movement in the pristine landscape works a kind of magic. For the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind isn't racing with professional calculations or competitive strategies. There's only the rhythmic slide of skis, the brightness of sun on snow, and Dominic's steady presence beside me.
"You're a natural," he says as we pause at the top of a gentle slope overlooking the vineyard. His praise is exaggerated, but delivered with such genuine warmth that I find myself smiling anyway.
"Liar. But thank you for protecting my ego." I turn to face the view, catchingmy breath. "It's beautiful up here."
The vineyard spreads below us, dormant vines peeking through snow like an architectural sketch waiting to be colored in spring. Beyond the vines, the mountains rise in majestic tiers, their slopes a patchwork of white snow and dark pine.
"This is why I chose this spot," Dominic says softly. "First time I stood here, I knew. Everything else—the soil composition, the microclimate—that came later. But this view..." He trails off, eyes scanning the horizon with possessive appreciation.
"It feels like being on top of the world," I agree, understanding exactly what moved him.
"Ready to head back?" He gestures down the gentle slope we've climbed. "This part's actually fun."
Before I can respond, he's gliding down the incline, Merlot racing alongside him. His form is perfect—clearly, he's spent countless hours on these trails. The sight of him in motion, powerful and at ease in this environment, stirs something in me that has nothing to do with professional admiration.
