Page 53 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
He pats the space beside him without looking up.
I hesitate only a moment before lowering myself down, my body grateful for the heat and the solid comfort of him nearby.
We sit like that for a while, thecrackle of the fire filling the room, the sharp scent of woodsmoke and melting snow heavy in the air.
Dominic lifts his glass in a lazy salute.
“To snowball wars and poorly built snowmen.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up without effort.
“To adult men cheating at snowball wars and building hideous abominations,” I counter, clinking my glass against his.
“It had character.” He snorts into his whiskey.
“It had one arm,” I retort, grinning. “And two noses.”
“Art is subjective.”
“Not when it’s that ugly,” I tease, taking a slow sip of my drink. The whiskey burns pleasantly, warming me from the inside out.
For a while, we talk. About nothing. About everything.
Old stories. Childhood winters. The kinds of stupid adventures only kids believe they’ll survive.
Dominic tells me about growing up in Napa, sneaking into vineyards after dark, the slow, inevitable pull of winemaking in his blood. I tell him about climbing trees in the orchards outside San Jose, about the time I broke my arm trying to ride a skateboard down a dirt hill because my brothers dared me.
Our laughter fades into quieter smiles.
Our glasses empty slowly, forgotten on the rug.
The fire crackles lower, casting the room in molten gold and deepening shadows.
And with the darkness… comes the shift.
I feel it in the way Dominic’s eyes linger on me longer than they should. In the way the air thickens between us. In the way the silence stretches, soft and dangerous.
His arm brushes mine as he shifts closer, and it’s nothing—just skin, just casual—but my body goes electric under the contact.
I set my glass down, fingers trembling slightly.
Dominic sees it.
Of course he does.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Dominic pushes himself to his feet. The firelight carves him in bronze and shadow, every line of his body taut with control. He crosses to the hearth and sets his glass down with a soft clink.
When he turns back to me, his eyes are molten.
"I was hoping you might be interested in a special tasting." He hesitates, uncharacteristically uncertain.
"At midnight?" The formal request, so at odds with our snow fights and skiing lessons, intrigues me.
"Best time for it, but if you're too tired?—"
