Page 84 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Were you going to tell me?"
"When I had something concrete to offer." His eyes meet mine directly, unapologetic. "Not just questions and hypotheticals."
Around us, the celebration continues, but in our secluded corner beneath the roses, we might as well be alone on the mountain. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the garden, painting everything in gold and amber.
"Why?" I press when he doesn't elaborate.
"Because I wanted to understand what you're going back to." His voice remains controlled, but I catch the undercurrent of emotion beneath the surface. "What's waiting for you there that's worth walking away from what's happening here."
"I have responsibilities." The blunt assessment steals my breath.
"To everyone but yourself," he counters. "That's what I've been trying to figure out—whether your professional identity is so tied to that specific position that you can't imagine alternatives."
"What alternatives?" I ask, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "Angel's Peak doesn't exactly have a thriving wine industry consulting market."
"No, but Denver does. So does Boulder." He steps closer, invading my carefully maintained space. "San Francisco has satellite offices. Video conferences. Consulting arrangements. There are ways to build bridges between our worlds if you want to."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not. It's probably going to be complicated and messy and take a lot of work." His expression softens slightly. "A total pain in the ass, but the question is whether what's developing between us is worth exploring those complications."
"We've known each other for less than a week." My heart hammers against my ribs.
"And yet I feel like I know you better than people I've spent years with." He reaches for my hand, his touch tentative in a way I've never seen from him. "I know how you take your coffee. What makes you laugh. How your voice changes when you're talking about something that matters to you versus something you think should matter."
He's right, and it terrifies me. The intimacy we've built in such a short time defies rational explanation.
"What are you suggesting?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm not asking you to abandon your career or move to Angel's Peak based on a few days together." His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. "What I'm asking is that you don’t dismiss possibilities before we can explore them."
"Such as?"
"Such as you return to San Francisco, handle your immediate professional concerns, and we find ways to continue whatever this is." He gestures between us. "Weekend visits. Meeting in Denver. Finding professional reasons to maintain contact while we figure out if this..." he pauses, searching for words. "Ifthisconnection is something worth restructuring our lives around. It’s something I’m not willing to give up on. Not without a fight. My question is whether you feel the same?"
The proposal is both more reasonable and more frightening than I expected. Not a dramatic ultimatum but an invitation to keep a door open ratherthan slamming it shut.
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then we'll know we tried," he says. "Instead of walking away because we were both too cautious or too proud to acknowledge what's happening here."
"And what is happening here?" I challenge, needing him to be the one to define it.
He holds my gaze, unflinching. "I think we're two people who've spent years hiding behind our respective walls—you behind your professional achievements, me behind my isolation—and somehow found a connection neither of us was looking for or was prepared to handle."
The assessment is devastatingly accurate.
"It's too fast," I say, but the protest sounds hollow even to my ears.
"That's just an excuse to avoid making a choice." Frustration edges his voice. "Fast or slow doesn't change what's real. I think this is real. Definitely fast, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to watch you walk away from me."
My phone vibrates in my pocket—probably Catherine checking on my flight arrangements. The intrusion of the outside world breaks the moment.
"I can't afford to wait while opportunities slip away," I respond, my professional fears surfacing. "Davis is systematically undermining everything I've built. If I don't get back there, fight for my position?—"
"Then what?" Dominic challenges. "You'll lose the job that doesn't value you enough to recognize your contributions? That allows someone else to claim credit for your work? What exactly are you rushing back to save?"
The question lands like a bomb because it articulates doubts I've been suppressing. What am I fighting for? A diminished position in a company that's already demonstrated it doesn't value me?
