Page 7 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
And I already know sleep isn’t coming.
I try counting grapes. Vintages. Bad decisions. Nothing works.
The air in the guest room is too warm, the sheets are too soft, and the silence is too loud. Every time I close my eyes, I see his. Sharp as cut amber. Watching me. Unblinking.
After what feels like hours, I give up on sleep.
The wooden floor is cold beneath my feet as I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the door. I don’t bother turning on a light. The hallway is bathed inmoonlight filtering through high windows, the shadows soft and silver as I creep down the stairs, clutching the empty glass from the nightstand like a talisman.
The stairs creak under my weight as I move quietly, moonlight slanting across the landing. The fire downstairs glows faintly through the railing—dim red embers pulsing like a sleeping heart.
I round the corner into the living room and stop.
He’s still up.
Dominic sits in a worn leather armchair facing the fire, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A glass of deep red wine rests in his hand, catching the glow like blood. He’s shirtless, just loose sweats riding low on his hips, the planes of his chest carved from shadow and flame.
His gaze lifts the moment I enter. Eyes locked on mine.
I freeze mid-step. Something inside me stutters. Catches.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is rougher now, raspy from disuse and something else—like gravel scraped slowly across stone.
I clutch the glass tighter. “Neither could you.”
“Didn’t try.” He takes a slow sip.
I should back away. Should get the water I came for and retreat before I say something stupid.
But I don’t.
I step closer.
The fire crackles.
“You always drink wine shirtless in the dark?” I ask, voice dry, not nearly as steady as I want it to be.
One corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile. “Only when storms trap sommeliers in my house.”
I edge toward the kitchen. “I just needed water.”
“You’ll find it in the fridge. Filtered.”
I nod, but my feet don’t move right away. Not until his eyes flick toward thekitchen and I force myself to go.
The light from the refrigerator spills across the slate tile floor. I fill my glass, every movement suddenly loud. The clink of glass. The rush of water. The beat of my pulse in my ears.
When I turn, he’s still watching me.
I should head back upstairs.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the fire.
The moment I step back into its warmth, his gaze drops, skimming down the line of my body. The hem of my sleep shirt hits just below mid-thigh. Bare legs. Bare feet. I should have grabbed something else. Anything else.
But I don’t move to cover myself.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say quietly.
