Page 6 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“It’s warm,” he says simply, then starts to turn away.
I don’t know what possesses me to stop him, but the words leave my mouth before I can think better of it.
“Dominic.”
I don’t know what I wasgoing to say. I only know I don’t want this moment to end. Not yet. Not when the air between us feels like it might combust.
He watches me for too long. Long enough to see everything I’m trying not to show. His gaze doesn’t slide away. It pins me there. Heavy. Sharp.
His eyes settle on mine, then drift lower. Not in a leer—no smirk, no cocky grin. Just a long, unapologetic look that sinks teeth into my gut and twists.
“Something else you need?” he asks.
Yes.
The answer nearly slips out. Not just to the question he asked—but to the ones he didn’t.
Need. Want. Crave.
The tension tightens like strings pulled taut between us. The storm outside could be a hundred miles away. In here, there’s just breath and heat and the pulse pounding at the base of my throat.
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me for a second longer than he should. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns to leave.
“Dominic.” I don’t know why I repeat his name. I can’t stop myself.
“I think it’s best if you settle in and get some sleep.” His voice is softer this time, but firmer too. No room for debate. “Go to bed, Ms. Santiago.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him with the finality of a vault closing forever.
I stand in the middle of the room, breath shallow, pulse racing, throat dry.
Sleep? Impossible.
Because somehow, with just one look and not a single kiss, Dominic Mercer managed to stake a claim on every nerve ending I have.
I lie in bed for hours, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the wind scream against the house and the restless creak of old beams in the cold. His scent clings to the room—oak and citrus and something pine-sharp beneath it. It curls around me like smoke.
I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then I kick off the quilt and sit, breathing hard.
Sheets tangled around my legs. Air too warm. Skin too tight. Every breath tastes like smoke and salt and the memory of him—Dominic, standing in that doorway, his voice low and final.
Go to bed, Ms. Santiago.
I did.
And now I’m wide awake, pulse thudding like it’s got something to prove.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m here for a business meeting. A negotiation. Not to fantasize about the brooding mountain winemaker who barely tolerates my presence.
Except he does more than tolerate me. I saw it in the way his gaze lingered. The way his jaw flexed when I smiled—the way his body angled between me and the cold.
He hasn’t touched me. Barely spoken at all. And still, I feelsomething.
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, my skin burns.
