Page 87 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The label is hand-designed, elegant in its simplicity: "First Snowfall." The vintage date matches the day of my arrival. In place of standard technical information, handwritten text encircles the label:Some collisions are meant to happen. Some storms change landscapes forever. Some risks are worth taking.
"It's from the experimental vineyard," Dominic explains, his voice low and intent. "It won't be ready for years, but..." He exhales slowly. "I wanted you to have it. To remember."
I accept the bottle with hands that aren't entirely steady, the weight of it representing farmore than wine.
"Dominic, I can't?—"
"I'm going to the Denver Wine Festival," he interrupts, the words rushing out as if he fears losing courage. "Hunter's been after me for years, and I finally said yes. Eleanor thinks I'm ready. I think... I hope she's right."
The revelation stuns me. "That's a huge step for you."
"One of several I've been considering." His eyes meet mine, direct and honest in a way that steals my breath. "I've been talking with Hunter about a collaborative project—Silverleaf wines featured at his restaurants, with regular events in both Denver and San Francisco."
My heart stutters at "San Francisco," at the implication contained in those two words.
"You'd travel to California?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.
"If there was sufficient reason." His gaze holds mine. "Professional and personal."
Before I can process this, he continues, words emerging with increasing momentum. "I've researched satellite vineyard operations, consulting arrangements with flexible residency requirements. There are models that work, Elena. Ways to bridge locations without either of us having to completely surrender what we've built."
"You've been planning this," I realize, remembering Eleanor and Ruth's overheard conversation. "Researching options."
"Considering possibilities," he corrects gently. "Looking for solutions rather than obstacles. It's... not my natural approach. But for this—for you—I'm trying to see pathways instead of barriers."
Hope flutters against my ribcage, fragile but persistent. "Why didn't you tell me any of this yesterday, when I was making my decision?"
"Because I wasn't ready." His honesty cuts through any defensiveness I might have felt. "I needed to be certain I could actually do it—step back into the public eye, consider a lifethat isn't completely contained on this mountain. I couldn't ask you to bet on possibilities I wasn't sure I could deliver."
This admission’s vulnerability touches me deeply. Dominic, who meticulously plans every detail of his vineyard, wouldn’t make half-formed promises. He needed certainty before offering options.
"I submitted Silverleaf for the Rising Star award at the Wine Association," I blurt out, needing to match his honesty with mine. "Last week, before I left San Francisco. That’s why I was so determined to meet you and secure the exclusivity agreement. I'd already nominated your wines for one of the industry's most prestigious recognitions for emerging vineyards."
Surprise flashes across his face. "You believed in Silverleaf before you tasted it?"
"I researched your methods, tracked down people who sampled early vintages. Everything pointed to something extraordinary happening here." I step closer, clutching the bottle between us like a talisman. "I believed in your work before I met you. Now I believe in you."
For a moment, he seems speechless, processing this revelation. "We've both been taking steps toward each other," he says finally. "Without actually communicating about it."
"It appears we have a communication problem," I acknowledge, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the gravity of the moment.
"Among other compatible flaws." His answering smile holds equal parts warmth and sadness. "I'm not asking you to stay. Not right now. But I want my future to have you in it."
The clarification sends a chill through me.
"I'm asking you to consider a real partnership," he continues. "Professional and personal. Not a hasty decision made in the heat of emotion, but a deliberately considered path forward that honorsboth our ambitions."
He reaches into his pocket, producing not a ring as my startled heart first feared, but a flash drive. "This contains business proposals—distribution models with bi-coastal operations, consulting arrangements, festival circuits that would create regular touchpoints between Colorado and California."
I stare at the small device, amazed by the thought and planning it represents. "You developed all this since Catherine's email yesterday?"
"I've been working on versions since our first wine tasting together," he admits. "Refining, researching, looking for ways to make this work. Yesterday just... accelerated the timeline."
"While I was booking a flight and running away," I say, shame coloring my cheeks.
"While you were making the responsible choice based on the information you had," he corrects firmly. "I didn't give you alternatives to consider. That's on me."
Standing amid melting snow with a bottle of impossibly young wine between us, I see Dominic Mercer with complete clarity. He is not the remote, broken man I first imagined, nor the secretly perfect partner my romantic mind briefly conjured during our snowbound idyll. He is complex, wounded in places that may never fully heal, stubborn and meticulous, and occasionally infuriating in his need for control.
