Page 91 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"As it should." Catherine nods approvingly. "This would be a separate venture, with both of you as equal partners under the Heritage umbrella. Flexible scheduling, bi-coastal operations as needed." Her meaningful look at me makes clear she understands precisely what constraints we're navigating. "Think about it. We can discuss details tomorrow."
As she walks away, Dominicturns to me with a raised eyebrow. "Did your boss just offer us a solution to our geographical dilemma?"
"I believe she did." I'm still processing the implications of her proposal. "After warning me about blurring professional and personal boundaries, no less."
"Catherine Halsey strikes me as a pragmatist above all else," Dominic observes. "If she sees business value in our partnership, she'll find a way to make it work despite any personal entanglements."
"Speaking of personal entanglements," I begin, heart suddenly racing, "we haven't had a chance to talk since you arrived. About us, I mean. About what happens after today."
His expression softens. "Not here," he says, glancing at the crowded room. "There's a private terrace on the mezzanine level. Meet me there in ten minutes?"
The ten minutes stretch interminably as I make polite conversation with festival attendees, my mind entirely occupied with what awaits on the terrace. When I finally escape and climb the ornate staircase to the mezzanine, I find Dominic waiting, Merlot sitting contentedly at his feet.
The terrace offers a stunning view of downtown Denver, with mountains rising majestically in the distance. Dominic stands at the railing, profile illuminated by the setting sun. For a moment, I absorb the sight of him—this complex, passionate man who has somehow become essential to me in less than a month of knowing him.
He turns as I approach, his expression open in a way that is rarely seen around others. "There you are."
"Here I am," I agree, joining him at the railing. "You look like you belong here, you know. Back in the industry spotlight."
"I don't feel like I belong," he admits. "But I'm finding it's not as unbearable as I feared." His hand covers mine on the railing. "Having the right motivation helps."
The simple touch sends warmth cascading through me. "And what is the right motivation?"
"You know the answer to that." His eyes hold mine, unwavering.
"I'd like to hear you say it anyway." My heart hammers against my ribs.
"You." The single word carries the weight of certainty. "The possibility of building something with you that neither of us could create alone."
"Like a perfect blend," I suggest, emotion tightening my throat.
"Exactly like that." He turns toward me, taking both my hands in his. "These past three weeks have confirmed what I already knew on the mountain. I love you. Your brilliance, your determination, your honesty—even your stubborn insistence on proper tasting notes."
A laugh escapes me, joy bubbling up irrepressibly. "I love you, too. Your passion, integrity, connection to your land—even your hermit tendencies and ridiculous aversion to wine scores."
His smile transforms his face, years of isolation and grief falling away to reveal the man he might have been without tragedy, and might still become with time and love.
"I've spent three weeks developing this." He reaches into his jacket, producing a leather portfolio. "A detailed plan for building a life together without sacrificing our professional identities."
Of course, he has a detailed plan. I wouldn't expect anything less from this methodical man who approaches all meaningful endeavors with such careful consideration.
"Bi-coastal living arrangements, consulting schedules, vineyard expansion timelines," he explains as I flip through the meticulously prepared documents. "Catherine's proposal aligns perfectly withseveral of these scenarios."
"You've thought of everything," I say, genuinely impressed by the thoroughness of his planning. "But you know what's missing from these scenarios?"
Concern flickers in his eyes. "What?"
"This." I close the portfolio, set it aside, and step into his space, sliding my hands up his chest to link behind his neck. "The part where I don't care about perfectly optimized arrangements as long as they include you."
Relief and desire flash across his features. "That's uncharacteristically unanalytical of you, Ms. Santiago."
"I'm discovering that some decisions transcend analysis," I murmur as his hands settle at my waist, drawing me closer. "Some connections defy quantification."
"Like wine that creates an emotional experience beyond its technical components?" His smile is knowing, a callback to our first philosophical disagreement about wine appreciation.
"Exactly like that." I rise on tiptoes, bringing my lips to his. "I think you might have been right about that part."
"I'm recording this historic admission for posterity," he murmurs against my mouth.
