Page 50 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Our eyes meet over our snowy creations, mutual recognition of our ongoing philosophical difference sparking between us. Then, with unspoken agreement, we both reach for more snow.
The first snowball hits me squarely in the shoulder, exploding in a powdery burst. I retaliate immediately, my aim true as it catches Dominic in the chest. From there, allpretense of decorum vanishes as we engage in gleeful combat, ducking behind trees and snowmen for cover.
Merlot joins the fray, barking excitedly and occasionally intercepting snowballs mid-flight. I land several good hits, but Dominic's aim is frustratingly accurate. When I duck behind a pine tree to refill my ammunition, I lose track of his position.
Too late, I sense movement behind me. Before I can turn, strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet as Dominic's deep laughter rumbles against my back.
"Surrender," he demands, his breath warm against my ear.
"Never," I gasp, breathless from exertion and his proximity.
We struggle playfully, my attempts to escape his grasp entirely ineffective against his strength. In the tussle, we lose balance, toppling into a deep snowdrift together. I land on my back with Dominic above me, his weight supported on his forearms to avoid crushing me.
The playfulness evaporates instantly, replaced by something electric and urgent. Snow clings to his dark hair, his cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, his eyes intent on mine.
I'm suddenly, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect, of the solid warmth of him contrasting with the cold snow beneath me.
I reach up, unable to stop myself from brushing snowflakes from his eyelashes. My gloved hand lingers against his cheek, and he turns into the touch, his eyes never leaving mine. The moment stretches, taut with possibility as he lowers his head incrementally toward mine.
A furry missile crashes into us, destroying the moment. Merlot, apparently concerned by our stillness, has decided to join the pile, inserting himself between us with enthusiastic disregard for the tension he's interrupting.
Dominic rolls away, laughing despite the frustration evident in his expression. "Worst timing ever, buddy."
I sit, brushing snow from my coat, grateful for Merlot's intervention even as my body hums with disappointment. This attraction is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore—and increasingly dangerous to my professional objectivity.
As we trudge back toward the house in the fading light, snow clinging to my borrowed clothes and laughter still caught in my chest, I steal glances at Dominic’s profile.
The stern, isolated winemaker I thought I was meeting has vanished. In his place stands a man infinitely more dangerous—because he’s real.
A man who builds unconventional snowmen with a glint in his eye. Who makes hot chocolate from scratch with the same care he pours into his wine. Who hurls snowballs with ruthless precision and the kind of full-throttle intensity he brings to everything he touches.
And yet, it’s more than that.
Dominic embraces his masculinity without apology. The dominance simmering just under the surface. The fire in his blood, he doesn’t bother hiding. The raw, visceral hunger he doesn’t pretend to tame.
I saw it that night—saw it in the way he stood before the fire, hand wrapped around himself, pleasure rough and unrepentant. Saw it in the way he never flinched from what he wanted, never hid the dark, unvarnished parts of himself.
He’s not ashamed of the need burning through him.
He doesn’t tuck it away.
Doesn’t apologize for it.
He lets it consume him without fear.
I wish I could do the same.
I wish I could stop second-guessing every need, every craving that rises like a tide inside me when he’s near. I wish I could strip myself bare the way he does—honest, raw, without shame or apology.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Although the longer I’m around him, the more I realize there’s no way to keep these lines in place. No way to maintain the neat little professional boundaries I keep clinging to like a shield.
Those boundaries aren’t protection.
They’re fear.
