Page 70 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
As I climb the stairs to gather my belongings, the reality of our situation settles heavily upon me. Tomorrow, I'll return to San Francisco, to the career I've built and the partnership agreement I came here to secure. Dominic will remain on his mountain, creating extraordinary wines that few will ever taste.
Last night feels like a dream already fading in the harsh light of day—a perfect moment of connection that couldn't survive contact with our separate realities. The fact that I'mmore troubled by this than the potential business implications tells me how far I've strayed from my original purpose.
When I return downstairs, Dominic sits by the fireplace, Merlot's head in his lap, staring into flames that mirror the intensity I've come to associate with him. He looks up as I enter, his expression softening.
"I don't regret last night," he says. "Whatever happens with the business side of things."
The unexpected olive branch loosens something tight in my chest.
"Neither do I."
A tentative truce forms between us, fragile but genuine. We spend the afternoon in separate orbits that occasionally intersect—he is in his office reviewing production notes, and I’m at the kitchen table finalizing my proposal. When our paths cross, there's a careful politeness that feels both better and worse than outright conflict.
By evening, we've reached an unspoken agreement to set aside both business discussions and deeper emotional revelations. Instead, we prepare dinner together, and the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring creates a temporary harmony. We share one of his Silverleaf bottles, discussing its merits with professional appreciation that carefully avoids straying into more personal territory.
As we clean up afterward, Dominic's hand brushes mine while passing a plate. The brief contact sends familiar electricity through me despite everything. Our eyes meet, acknowledging what lies between us even as circumstances pull us in different directions.
"Tomorrow will be here soon enough," he says quietly. "Let's not waste tonight arguing about things we can't change."
The wisdom in his suggestion resonates with me, even as I wonder what can't bechanged—our professional disagreement, our separate lives, or the unexpected depth of feeling that developed between us in just four short days.
As we settle on the couch, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels closer than it should, I'm left with questions that have no easy answers. What happens when the snow melts and reality intrudes? Can what we've found here survive beyond this mountain? And most troubling of all—do I want it to, given the fundamental differences in our visions for the future?
I have no answers, only the certainty that tomorrow will force us to confront what we've both been avoiding since last night: the bitter truth that the most intoxicating connections aren't always the ones we can sustain.
Chapter 18
The soundof engines rumbling up the mountain road wakes me. I sit up quickly, disoriented to find myself alone on the couch where Dominic and I sat talking late into the night, maintaining that careful distance that somehow felt more intimate than touch. He must have covered me with a blanket after I fell asleep.
Through the window, a snowplow followed by a county utility truck make their way up Dominic's long driveway, carving a path through the pristine white. Freedom, it seems, has arrived right on schedule.
"They made good time," Dominic says from the kitchen doorway, already dressed and holding a steaming mug of coffee. He offers it to me, his expression unreadable. "Sheriff Donovan radioed that they'd be here early."
"Thank you." I accept the coffee gratefully, our fingers brushing in a way that still sends sparks despite yesterday's tension.
An awkward silence falls between us, the rumble of machinery outside emphasizing what we're boththinking—I can leave now. The snowbound bubble that has contained us for four days is about to pop.
"I should get dressed," I say finally, setting the mug down and gathering the blanket around me like armor. "My boss will be expecting an update."
Dominic nods, stepping aside to let me pass. As I head upstairs to gather my things, my phone buzzes with incoming messages. Apparently, cell service was restored along with the roads. I scan through the notifications, pausing at an email from Davis marked "URGENT" with a subject line that makes my stomach clench: "Status on Silverleaf Exclusive?"
I open it with trepidation:
Elena,
Ownership is asking for an update on the Silverleaf acquisition. Need confirmation of exclusive rights ASAP—Biltmore Group is circling with a competitive offer. Don't return without a signed agreement. Your position with the company depends on it.
Davis
The thinly veiled threat lands like a gut punch. After everything—the partnership I was denied, the credit he stole—now my very job hinges on securing this deal. The unfairness of it burns, but the urgency is clear. I need this contract.
When I return downstairs, showered and dressed in my own clothes for the first time in days, Dominic is at his desk reviewing paperwork. He looks up as I enter, his business persona firmly in place.
"I've drafted terms for a limited partnership," he says without preamble, pushing a document toward me. "Exclusivity for your restaurant group in California, with graduated volume commitments as production increases."
I scan the contract, professionally impressed despite the emotional whiplash. The termsare fair, even generous—everything I came for. Yet the clinical way he presents it, after everything we've shared, leaves me cold.
"This is... very comprehensive," I manage, keeping my voice steady.
