Page 8 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“Good.” He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down beside him and rises to his full height.
There’s no reason to feel breathless. No excuse for the way my stomach flips.
He steps toward me, slow and deliberate.
One pace. Then another.
Not touching.
Just there—bigger in the shadows, body carved from heat and hard angles and command.
“Why didn’t you confirm the appointment?” I swallow, the water suddenly sharp against my throat.
“Because I don’t do press. Or deals I didn’t initiate. I’m not interested in exposure. I make wine. That’s it.”
“And yet… here I am.”
A pause. The fire pops.
“You pushed your way in.” His voice is low, like velvet wrapped in barbed wire.
“You could have sent me away.”
“Could I?” He doesn’t look away.
Something shifts in my chest—heat uncoiling slow and deep.
“You want me to pretend I don’t see the way you’re looking at me?” His eyes trail back to mine.
“I’m not?—”
He lifts a brow.
I flush. “You’re not exactly hard to look at.”
“Neither are you.”
The air thickens. My skin prickles beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. I feel his gaze like a touch, everywhere at once.
“Dominic…”
He steps closer.
Not touching. Not yet.
But close enough to feel the gravity of him.
The heat.
“I don’t play games, Elena.”
My name in his mouth does something I don’t want to analyze. It lands in the center of me. A claim.
“I’m not…” I whisper.
I tip my head back to meet his gaze, and for a second—just one—he sways closer, his breath warm across my cheek.
We’re a breath apart now.
