Page 1 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The "Road Closed Ahead" sign looms through the blur of snow, half-swallowed by the storm.

I ease off the accelerator, squinting as fat flakes splatter across the windshield.

The sensible thing would be to turn around, head back to Angel's Peak, and hole up at Mabel’s Guesthouse with a mug of something hot like any sane person.

But I didn’t climb my way to the top of the most cutthroat wine scene on the West Coast by being reasonable.

I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening as the rental car lurches forward, tires slipping slightly on the winding mountain road. The GPS, ever confident, announced, "You have arrived at your destination" fifteen minutes ago.

It lies.

Silverleaf Vineyards is still nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere beyond the curtain of white swallowing the mountainside.

"Just a little farther," I mutter, leaning forward as if proximity to the glass will grant me better visibility.

I should have listened to the silver-haired waitress at Maggie's Diner. Darlene refilled my coffee a third time with motherly concern, watching me pore over a local winery map like I was planning a military operation.

"Silverleaf? You’re heading up to see the wine guy?" She set the coffee pot down. "Better move quick. Storm’s coming in faster than expected. They’re saying it might shut down the whole pass."

"I’ll be in and out," I said. "Quick business meeting. Back down the mountain before dinner."

Darlene gave a sound that landed somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "Nobody has quick meetings with Dominic Mercer. Man’s particular about his grapes. And his solitude."

She leaned in then, dropping her voice. "Brilliant, though. Quiet. Keeps to himself mostly. Helped rescue Harold’s dog from a coyote trap last spring. Won’t admit it, but he’s got a good heart somewhere under all that gruff. Just don’t expect warm fuzzies."

Clearly, I should’ve taken the hint.

Instead, here I am—chasing an unconfirmed meeting with a reclusive winemaker in the middle of a blizzard because Davis backstabbed his way into the partnership I earned, and I need a win. Securing Silverleaf’s exclusive line could be exactly that.

The steering wheel jerks suddenly beneath my hands.

My heart shoots into my throat.

The tires lose their grip, the whole car fishtailing. I fight it—counter-steering, tapping the brake like I was taught back in a California parking lot long before I knew what real ice felt like—but physics doesn’t give a damn.

The world outside whirls in dizzying grays and whites. Then everything stops.

The car tilts, passenger side buried deep in a snowbank.

The engine coughs, sputters. Dies.

"Perfect." I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and inhale—sharp, cold air laced with faint traces of leather and panic. My pulse thrums in my ears. "Absolutely perfect."

A quick body check confirms no broken limbs. Just my pride, cracked clean in half.

I dig my phone from my purse.

No bars.

Of course.

The storm thickens, a silent avalanche of white. I push open the door with effort, snow piled high against it, and step out into the howling cold. It slices across my cheeks like tiny blades. My boots vanish into powder with a muffled crunch.

"Hello?" I call out, knowing full well there’s no one to hear me. My voice is swallowed instantly by the wind. The trees creak. Nothing else.

I circle the car. It’s hopeless. The nose is buried so deep it might as well be entombed. I sigh, brushing hair from my eyes, and turn back to the road?—

A bark cuts through the wind.

I spin. Lose my footing. Catch myself just before falling.

A massive chocolate Lab bounds through the snow toward me, pure muscle and excitement, fur slick with snowflakes. I freeze.

Then I see him .

The figure moves through the snow like it owes him something—tall, broad, with the kind of solid presence that doesn’t flinch in storms. His scarf shields most of his face, but his eyes are sharp even through the whiteout, cutting straight to mine.

"Hey!" My voice wobbles against the wind. "My car slid off the road!"

He doesn’t speed up. Just keeps that steady pace until the dog reaches me first—a chocolate Lab with soulful eyes, tail wagging like I’m not stranded on the side of a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm. The dog bumps my thigh, circles once, then settles at my feet like he’s known me forever.

The man pulls down the scarf, and everything in me goes very still.

Sharp cheekbones, a jaw covered in several days of dark stubble, and eyes the color of aged whiskey with traces of floating gold—deep, unblinking, and locked on me like a cipher. A thin scar slices along his temple, half-hidden by dark hair wet with melting snow. He looks rough, unforgiving.

And obscenely compelling.

Heat rushes beneath my skin so fast it steals my breath.

"You shouldn’t be up here." His voice is gravel and smoke. Deep. Distantly irritated.

It lands low in my belly.

"Road’s closed."

"I didn’t see the sign until it was too late," I lie, kneeling to greet the dog. My fingers sink into warm fur, grounding me in something solid. "I’m looking for Silverleaf Vineyards. I have an appointment with Dominic Mercer."

A flicker of something—disbelief, irritation—cuts across his face.

"No, you don’t."

I rise slowly, meeting his gaze. My breath fogs between us. "I emailed last week. Elena Santiago. Wine director for?—"

"I know who you are." The air between us tightens. "I never confirmed that appointment."

My stomach drops. Three hundred miles, a snowstorm, and this is how I meet him.

"I came a long way." The wind slices through my coat. My pride braces harder.

His gaze cuts over me, slow and deliberate. Not leering. Not dismissive. Measuring.

"Clearly."

My pulse stutters. Not from the cold.

"You’re Dominic Mercer."

Not a question. A reckoning.

The way he looks at me—down the line of my body, slow and unreadable—makes me shiver.

Not from cold.

"Look, Mr. Mercer, I understand I should’ve waited for confirmation. But I’m here now, and my car?—"

He cuts me off. "Merlot, come."

The Lab obediently trots to his side.

Dominic’s gaze slices back to mine. "We need to move. Get your car in neutral before the snow buries it completely."

I blink, startled by the shift from stonewall to command.

"Your dog’s name is Merlot?"

Something flickers across his expression. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Got a problem with that?"

"No," I say, suddenly breathless. "It’s... fitting."

Something flickers in his eyes. Not quite amusement. Something darker.

His eyes linger for a beat too long.

And just like that, the moment feels sharp again. Cut-glass tension beneath the snow.

Then the crunch of tires breaks it.

The moment shatters when a green ranger truck pulls up, chains on its tires, crunching through the snow. The window rolls down, revealing a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard.

Dominic doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look away from me.

"Dominic," he nods. "Everything alright here?"

"Just a visitor who ignored the road closure signs, Cal," Dominic replies, not taking his eyes off me.

The ranger gives a low whistle. "Better get her off the mountain quick. Storm's picking up faster than expected. They're closing the pass completely in an hour. "

"I'll handle it," Dominic says grimly.

Cal nods. "Radio if you need anything. Be safe." With that, he rolls up his window and continues his journey down the mountain.

Dominic turns back to me, his expression unreadable. "We need to move fast. Get in your car and put it in neutral."

I do exactly as he commands.

Because some part of me already knows—I’d follow him anywhere.

For the next fifteen minutes, I watch through the windshield as Dominic shovels snow from around my tires with a grim expression.

I shouldn’t notice the way his shoulders shift or how the fabric pulls tight across his back. Shouldn’t feel this flush of heat while my teeth are literally chattering.

But I do.

Merlot bounces around him, occasionally diving nose-first into snow drifts, providing unexpected comic relief.

When Dominic finally signals, I release the brake and steer while he pushes. The car rocks, tires spinning, before finally lurching free with a spray of snow. Relief floods through me until Dominic frowns as he walks to my window.

"Engine's making a bad sound," he says after I roll the window down. "Probably got snow in somewhere it shouldn't be."

As if to confirm his diagnosis, the car makes an alarming grinding noise when I press the accelerator.

"Perfect," I mutter.

A particularly vicious gust of wind buffets the car, carrying so much snow that it whiteouts the windshield.

Dominic's jaw tightens. "You won't make it back down the mountain in this.

Not in that car, and not in those shoes.

" His scornful glance at my fashionable boots makes me want to defend my footwear choices, but he continues before I can speak.

"My place is just up ahead. You can wait out the worst of it there. "

The invitation – if it can be called that – comes with all the warmth of an IRS audit.

"Thank you." I try to sound professional rather than pathetically grateful. "I really appreciate?—"

"Follow my tracks. Carefully." It’s not an invitation. It’s a directive. "Come on, Merlot."

The dog looks at me through the window and then at its retreating master. To my surprise, it whines and stays put, its nose pressed against my window.

"Merlot!" Dominic calls again, more sharply this time.

The dog gives a defiant "woof" and remains next to my car.

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I watch Dominic trudge back through the snow, irritation radiating from him like heat.

"Traitor." He mutters to the dog before fixing me with a stern look. "He doesn't like strangers."

"Clearly," I reply, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

Something shifts in his eyes – a flash of interest, quickly suppressed, and there’s an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile. Not quite. But not nothing either.

And just like that, I feel it again.

That current between us. A hum beneath the skin. Not polite. Not professional.

Primal.

He gestures impatiently at the road ahead. "My driveway's just around the next bend. If you get stuck again, I'm leaving you there."

He turns without another word and starts walking.

I put the car in gear and follow, inching forward behind his tall, solid frame with his dog still trotting loyally beside him.

The road curves ahead, flanked by thick pines and snow-laden branches that reach toward us like ghost limbs in the dimming light.

My car groans with every bump, every twist in the road, the heater doing its best to fight the cold leaching through the windows.

Then the trees part.

And I see it.