Page 5 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“Your place is… beautiful,” I offer as I reach the top, breathless in more ways than one.
He doesn’t answer.
The man is as intimidating as his reputation suggests, but something else simmers beneath the surface. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness despite the professional veneer I'm struggling to maintain.
"I should call Mabel at the guest house to cancel my reservation." I stamp snow from my boots.
Dominic raises an eyebrow. "You booked with Mabel without confirming our meeting?"
"I was optimistic." Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Dominic reaches past me to open the front door, his arm brushing mine. Even through layers of clothing, the contact sends a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with static electricity.
I pass him, close enough to catch the scent of him—oak, cold air, something smoky and sharp. Our sleeves brush. Just that. Barely more than an accident.
But the heat that sparks at the contact zips straight to the center of me like an electric shock.
I step past him, brushing his armagain, and this time there’s no mistaking it—it isn’t static, it’s friction. Skin humming beneath fabric. A slow, steady burn.
He closes the door behind me with a click that feels final.
The whispering wind vanishes, replaced by the soft creak of wood beams and the low pop of logs burning in the massive stone fireplace ahead.
Warmth hits me like a physical thing. Dry, clean heat that smells like cedar and citrus peel, with something richer underneath—aged barrels, fermented grapes, and him.
“This way.” His voice is rough gravel, unpolished, and threaded with something darker. He turns without waiting for me to follow, long strides carrying him past the flickering firelight, through the open-plan living space.
The floors are made of reclaimed wood, and the walls feature a mix of warm cedar and cold stone. Everything smells like smoke and aged oak and something else—him, maybe. Something sharp and earthy that coils around my ribs and won’t let go.
Dominic picks up an ancient landline phone from the table and holds it out without comment. His fingers brush mine when I take it, and that one-second contact jolts me harder than the wind outside.
“Reception’s spotty,” he says. “Landline works better during storms.”
“Thanks.” My voice is thinner than I mean for it to be.
I dial the number from memory, having called earlier to confirm my reservation. After three rings, Mabel's cheerful voice answers.
"Angel's Peak Guest House, where every stay is heavenly!"
"Ms. Wilson? This is Elena Santiago. I'm afraid I won't make it to check in tonight after all." I explain my situation in brief, careful terms, aware of Dominic's presence just feet away.
"Oh my! Stranded at Silverleaf with Dominic Mercer…" Mabel's voice holds a note that makes me grateful the call isn't on speaker. "Don't you worry about a thing, dear. Nothing happens by accident on this mountain."
Before I can ask what she means by that cryptic statement, she hangs up.
The old landline clicks back into its cradle with a finality that is both hollow and resounding.
For a beat, we stand there—Dominic and me—while the storm rattles the windows like a warning.
Outside, it howls louder—wind slamming against the timber frame like it’s trying to claw its way inside, but the warmth in here is immediate, almost overwhelming. Not just from the fire crackling in the massive stone hearth, but from him. From the way Dominic looms beside me, solid and wordless, the heat of his body radiating like the coals behind the grate.
“The guestroom is upstairs,” he says, glancing back at me as I trail a step behind. “Second door on the right. Bathroom’s through the sliding door.”
“I appreciate this,” I manage, voice tight from the cold—or something else entirely. “Letting me stay.”
A noncommittal sound. Almost a grunt.
We reach the landing, and the air is noticeably warmer up here. He pushes open the guestroom door and steps aside, giving me a clear view of a queen-sized bed made with crisp flannel sheets, a thick quilt folded at the foot. There’s a small lamp, an empty glass, and a window framing the snow-covered vineyard below like a painting.
