Page 9 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
My mouth parts—no sound.
He leans in, his gaze dropping to my lips?—
And then he stops.
His voice, when it comes, is low and final and not up for debate.
“Go to bed, Elena.”
His voice wraps around my name like velvet over steel. My breath catches.
I should say no. Push back. Demand clarification.
But my body’s already moving.
Not because I’m scared.
Because some part of me likes being told whatto do…by him.
I don’t know what that says about me.
But as I climb the stairs, pulse hammering and thighs pressed too tightly together, I know one thing for sure. If he said one word—just one—to stop me, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.
I turn. Slowly. Every inch of me sparking like a live wire as I step away. I walk slowly, feeling the heat of his gaze on my back like a brand.
Up the stairs. Down the hall.
Back to the room that smells faintly of woodsmoke and something that feels dangerously like temptation.
Sleep still doesn’t come.
But now, it’s for a very different reason.
Chapter 3
Sunlight streams through unfamiliar curtains,painting golden patterns across a handmade quilt I don't recognize. For a moment, disorientation clouds my mind before memories of yesterday's misadventure come rushing back.
The storm. The accident.
Dominic Mercer.
I sit, listening. The house creaks softly with the sounds of someone moving around downstairs. The knowledge that I'm under the same roof as the notoriously reclusive winemaker sends a flutter of both professional excitement and something more personal through my chest.
The guest room is simple yet thoughtfully appointed, featuring exposed wooden beams, a sturdy antique dresser, and landscape photographs that capture the mountain in all its seasons. No television, no clock, nothing to distract from the spectacular view outside the window: rows of dormant vines stretching down the slope, now covered in a pristine blanket of snow at least two feet deep.
After a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, I dress inmy most professional-looking casual outfit—dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater. If I'm going to be stranded here, I might as well make the most of it and turn this disaster into a business opportunity.
The aroma of coffee guides me downstairs. I follow my nose through the living room, noting the space’s understated luxury—comfortable leather furniture, a massive stone fireplace, shelves lined with books about viticulture and oenology. No personal photographs. Nothing that offers insight into the man himself.
Instead of finding the kitchen, I stumble upon what can only be described as wine heaven. A climate-controlled room with floor-to-ceiling racks holds hundreds of bottles, organized in some system I can't discern. Not alphabetical by winery, not by region, not by vintage.
I step closer, unable to resist. My fingers hover near a bottle of Château Margaux, 1983—a legendary vintage. Next to it sits a humble-looking bottle with a handwritten label in Italian that I don't recognize, but from the placement, it must be something special.
"Find something interesting?"
I jump at Dominic's voice, nearly knocking into a rack of wine. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.
In daylight, without snow gear obscuring him, he's even more striking—tall and solid, with dark hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He's dressed simply in jeans and a dark gray Henley that does nothing to hide his athletic build.
