Page 73 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I don't know how to respond to this assessment from someone who knows him better than almost anyone. "We've only known each other for a few days."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." She studies me with those perceptive eyes. "He needs someone who understands both worlds—the one he left and the one he's building. Someone who sees the wine and the man as parts of the same."
"Ruth—" I begin, uncertain how to explain the complications.
"Just an observation," she interrupts, patting my arm. "I'm not meddling. Much." Her smile softens. "Whatever happens, thank you for bringing him into town. Some of us were beginning to think he'd turned into a proper hermit for good."
The drive back to the vineyard feels different—a shared experience rather than separate journeys in the same vehicle. We talk about Ruth, Jason, and the town itself, with its mix of longtime locals and newer transplants seeking mountain peace.
"You've built a life here," I observe as we turn onto his property. "A real community, despite your best efforts to avoid one."
He glances at me, a half-smile playing at his lips. "I'm as surprised as you are."
Inside, the notificationlight on my phone blinks insistently. I check it while Dominic lets Merlot out for a run, finding another email from Davis that makes my blood run cold.
Elena,
Just presented your Napa Valley microclimates research to the ownership group as part of my sustainability initiative. Huge success—they want to implement my recommendations immediately across all properties. Better hurry back with that Silverleaf contract if you want to remain relevant around here.
Attached is a PDF of my work—months of research into how climate change is affecting microclimates in traditional growing regions, with specific sustainability recommendations for adaptation. All presented under Davis's name, with only a token acknowledgment of my "assistance" buried in the footnotes.
I'm still staring at my phone, shock giving way to white-hot anger, when Dominic returns.
"Elena?" His voice sounds distant through the roaring in my ears. "What's wrong?"
"He did it again." I thrust the phone at him, unable to articulate further. "He took my research. Work I've been developing for over a year—and presented it as his own."
Dominic scans the email, his expression darkening with each line. "This is blatant intellectual theft."
"And completely unprovable." The helplessness is the worst part—knowing there's nothing I can do without seeming petty or vengeful. "I can't even confront him without looking like I'm bitter about the partnership."
"You have the original files, though? Timestamps, drafts, research notes?"
I nod, surprised by the practical question. "Of course. I document everything."
"Then you have options." He sets the phone down, his voice taking on a strategic edge I haven't heard before. "Don'trespond to him directly. Don't show your hand. Instead, compile everything into an intellectual property portfolio with clear documentation of your development process."
The shift from emotional support to tactical planning catches me off guard.
"What good will that do if the ownership has already credited him?"
"It gives you leverage." Dominic paces the room, energy radiating from him. "You present the full portfolio directly to the highest-ranking woman in the ownership group?—"
"Catherine Halsey," I supply automatically.
"—with a straightforward account of what happened. Not as an accusation, but as a professional clarification of authorship. Frame it as wanting to ensure the company has proper attribution for legal and intellectual property purposes."
His strategy is surprisingly savvy, revealing a business acumen I hadn't fully appreciated. "That's... actually brilliant."
"I may avoid the spotlight, but I didn't spend years as my father's designated successor without learning how corporate politics work." A shadow crosses his face at the mention of his father, but he pushes through it. "Men like Davis rely on women not wanting to seem difficult or confrontational. Use that expectation against him."
The protective fury underlying his advice warms something in me even as my own anger burns. He's not offering empty sympathy—he's giving me practical tools to fight back, treating my career as something worth defending.
"Thank you," I say simply, the words inadequate for what his support means.
Dominic steps closer, his hand rising to cup my cheek with unexpected tenderness. "You're brilliant at what you do, Elena. Don't let anyone diminish that or take credit for it."
The conviction in his voice, the absolute certainty with which he affirms my value, breakssomething loose inside me. I lean into his touch, seeking the connection we've both been carefully avoiding since our argument the day before.
