Page 47 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Your turn," he calls from below. "Just point your skis downhill and let gravity do the work."
It sounds simple enough. I position myself at the top of the slope, take a deep breath, and push off.
For a few glorious seconds, I'm flying—the cold air rushing past my face, the smooth glide of the skis, the sense of freedom unlike anything I've experienced. Then, inevitably, my novice status reasserts itself. My skis cross, my balance shifts, and I'm tumbling through space in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and equipment.
I brace for impact, but instead of snow, I collide with something solid and warm. Dominic has somehow positioned himself to break my fall, his arms coming around me as we both go down in a chaotic heap.
We land with him partially beneath me, his arms stillwrapped protectively around my waist. For a moment, we're both too stunned to move. Then I become acutely aware of our position—my body pressed against his, his face inches from mine, his hands at the small of my back.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rougher than usual.
I should move. I should absolutely move right now. But his eyes hold mine, and the warmth of him contrasts so perfectly with the cold snow that I remain frozen in place.
"I think so," I manage. "You broke my fall."
"Glad to be of service." His mouth curves into a smile that transforms his entire face, softening the hard angles into something disarmingly handsome.
My heart performs a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest, and I'm certain he must feel it through the layers of our coats. We're suspended in a moment of perfect tension, neither advancing nor retreating.
Then Merlot decides we've been still for too long and crashes into us with exuberant concern, breaking the spell. I roll away, laughing despite the snow now seeping through my clothing, and Dominic sits, brushing snow from his hair.
"I think that's enough skiing for one day." His eyes crinkle with amusement.
Back at the house, we shed our wet outer layers in the mudroom, shivering and laughing at our bedraggled appearance. My hair has escaped its careful braid, hanging in damp tendrils around my face, and Dominic's usually tidy appearance has given way to endearing dishevelment.
"Hot chocolate?" he suggests, already moving toward the kitchen. "It's a required post-skiing tradition."
"With marshmallows?" I follow, rubbing my cold hands together.
He gives me a look of mock offense. "What kind of barbarian do you take me for? Of course with marshmallows."
As he prepares the hotchocolate—from scratch, naturally—I watch his movements with appreciation. There's something deeply attractive about a man so competent in domestic tasks, especially one who initially presented as such a brooding loner.
"You're staring again," he notes without turning.
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Just admiring your technique. Once a critic, always a critic."
He glances over his shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes that suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.
"And how does my technique measure up?"
The double entendre hangs in the air between us, and my blush deepens. "Remains to be evaluated," I manage, aiming for professional detachment and missing by miles.
His soft chuckle sends a pleasant shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with my damp clothes.
The hot chocolate is, predictably, exceptional—rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon and topped with homemade marshmallows that melt slowly into the dark liquid.
"This is divine," I sigh after the first sip. "You're wasted as a winemaker. You should open a café."
"And deal with people all day? No thanks." He settles across from me at the kitchen island. "I prefer grapes. They don't talk back."
"Unlike sommeliers?"
His eyes warm with amusement. "Some sommeliers are worth the conversation."
The compliment, delivered so casually, catches me off guard. "Even when they question your methods?"
"Especially then." He cradles his mug between strong hands. "Echo chambers don't produce growth."
