Page 12 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

After breakfast, Dominic retreats to his office to check weather updates and make calls on the backup satellite phone. Left to my own devices, I wander through the main living area, studying the bookshelves more carefully than before.

A leather-bound journal catches my eye, tucked between viticulture references. Something about its worn edges and handcrafted cover suggests personal significance. Before my professional ethics intervene, I slip it from the shelf and open to a random page.

Inside are meticulous notes about Silverleaf's development—soil composition analyses, temperature tracking, and vine responses to various treatments. Interspersed among the scientific observations are more personal entries:

Six months in. Still wake up sometimes expecting to smell smoke. The locals think I'm crazy for trying this. Maybe I am. But what else is there?

And later:

First viable buds on the west slope today. Almost wept like a child when I saw them. Dad would have laughed at the sentiment and called it weakness. But he's not here, and his way died with him in those flames.

The intimacy of these thoughts makes me close the journal quickly, a flush of shame heating my cheeks at this invasion of privacy. I return it to the shelf just as Dominic reappears in the doorway.

"Finding something to read?" His tone suggests he knows exactly what I was looking at.

"Just browsing." I step away from the bookshelf. "Any news on the weather?"

"Nothing good." He crosses to the window, shoulders tense beneath his sweater. "We're on our own for at least another forty-eight hours."

Something in his posture—a vulnerability I haven't seen before—emboldens me. "I saw the journal," I admit. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked."

He stiffens but doesn't turn. "No, you shouldn't have."

"Will you tell me about the fire?"

For a long moment, he's silent, staring out at the endless white. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of carefully contained pain.

"My family's vineyard was one of the oldest in the valley. Three generations of Mercers built it into something respected, significant." His hands clench at his sides. "I was supposed to be the fourth, taking over the business side while my father maintained creative control."

"But you wanted more than the business end?"

A bitter smile touches his lips. "I wanted to be involved in the winemaking.

Dad saw it as a betrayal—his lawyer son suddenly wanting to get his hands dirty in the cellar.

" He shakes his head. "We fought about it constantly.

The night of the fire, we had the worst argument yet. I stormed off to clear my head."

My heart sinks, anticipating what comes next.

"Faulty wiring in the main production facility. By the time I got back, everything was engulfed. My father went back in to save the barrel room—vintage wines going back decades." His voice cracks slightly. "They never found his body. Just his wedding ring in the ashes."

"Dominic, I'm so sorry." I move toward him instinctively.

"The vineyard was underinsured—Dad cut corners where he thought he could. Between the debt and the lawsuits from neighboring properties affected by the fire, there was nothing left."

"And your mother?"

"Died when I was twelve. It was just Dad and me.

" He finally turns from the window, his expression raw with a grief that time has tempered but not erased.

"I couldn't stay there, surrounded by the ruins of everything he built.

So I came here, as far from Napa as I could get while still growing grapes. "

The revelation settles between us, reshaping my understanding of this complex man. His isolation isn't a preference. It’s protection, a fortress built from painful experience.

"Thank you for telling me," I say quietly.

He shrugs, visibly uncomfortable at the vulnerability he’s just shown. "You'd have heard it eventually. Small towns love their tragedy stories."

"Still." I hold his gaze. "It helps me understand Silverleaf better. Why it matters so much."

"It's just wine," he deflects, but we both know it's far more.

The moment is broken by Merlot barking urgently at the kitchen door, demanding to be let out despite the storm.

"He'll need to be quick," Dominic warns as he opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid air. "Stay close to the house, Merlot."

The dog bounds into the snow, immediately disappearing into a drift before emerging with a joyful bark, tail wagging furiously .

With the heaviness of Dominic’s revelation still coiled tight in my chest, we turn—mutually, silently—to the practical matter of lunch.

The continuing power fluctuations render the refrigerator unreliable, creating an impromptu challenge with the few salvageable ingredients left.

“We could do pasta,” I suggest, surveying the limited options scattered across the counter.

Dominic arches a brow, unimpressed.

“Boring.” He pulls out a can of chickpeas and some nearly-frozen vegetables with a deliberate clatter, his mouth tugging at one corner. “We can do better.”

I cock my head, letting a smirk lift my lips.

“Is that a challenge, Mr. Mercer?”

For the first time today, a genuine smile flickers across his face. Not sharp. Not dangerous.

Real.

It transforms him, stripping away the heavy armor for just a moment.

“Absolutely, Ms. Santiago.”

The simple formality—last names—acts like a shield between us.

Safe.

Neutral.

It draws a subtle line, letting me step across the minefield of this morning’s tension without detonating.

And I breathe easier for the first time in what feels like hours.

What follows is a surprisingly playful culinary battle, with each of us claiming half the available ingredients and one burner on the gas stove.

The constraint breeds creativity.

I craft a Spanish-inspired chickpea stew, layering smoky paprika, roasted peppers, and a touch of sherry vinegar into something hearty and defiant.

Dominic, meanwhile, ruthlessly invents a pasta dish, tossing together ingredients that make my inner traditionalist cringe and my tastebuds sit up and take notice.

“My grandfather would be scandalized by what you’re doing to that pasta,” I tease, watching him add a daring swirl of honey and a reckless shake of red pepper flakes to the pan.

Dominic flashes me a grin, cocky and wicked.

“Good thing he’s not here to stop me.”

The banter flows easily now, the weight between us lightened by laughter, by the simple satisfaction of creation.

The storm still howls against the windows.

The fire still crackles in the hearth.

But inside this kitchen, over borrowed spices and stubborn pride, we carve out a moment that feels… almost normal.

Almost safe.

Even if we both know it’s only temporary.

"And what would your grandfather know about pasta? You said he was Spanish."

"Married an Italian woman. My grandmother terrorized the entire family with her culinary standards." The memory makes me smile. "She's the one who taught me the connection between food and wine—how the right pairing creates something greater than either alone."

Dominic pauses in his stirring. "Is that when you discovered your palate?"

"Partly." I taste my stew, adjusting the seasoning. "But it was my grandfather who noticed it first. He'd blindfold me and have me identify spices, fruits, and even olive oil. Called it my 'superpower.'"

"He wasn't wrong." Dominic's assessment catches me off guard with its straightforward admiration. "Your technical understanding of wine is... impressive. "

Coming from him, the compliment carries unusual weight. "Thank you. Though you'd probably say I overthink it."

"You do." His smile softens the criticism. "But that's not always a bad thing."

Before I can respond, frantic barking erupts outside, followed by a distinctive fox's cry. We rush to the door to find Merlot has cornered a fox beneath the woodpile, both animals raising a tremendous racket.

"Merlot, no!" Dominic plunges into the snow, struggling toward the standoff.

I follow without thinking, immediately sinking thigh-deep in the drift. The cold punches through my borrowed pants, but I push forward, circling to approach the fox from a different angle than Dominic.

"Be careful," he warns. "It might be rabid."

But the fox looks more terrified than aggressive, trembling as it faces down the much larger dog. "I think it's just scared," I call back. "Merlot probably interrupted its hunt."

Working in tandem, we manage to distract Merlot long enough for the fox to make its escape, darting away through the snow with remarkable agility. Dominic grabs Merlot's collar, checking him for injuries.

"He's fine," he reports with obvious relief. "Just overexcited."

We trudge back to the house, laughing at the absurdity of our rescue mission, snow clinging to our clothes and hair. Inside, we shed wet outer layers, our earlier awkwardness forgotten in the shared adventure.

As I towel dry my hair, a crackling voice emanates from the radio on the kitchen counter.

"Mercer, you copy? It's Donovan."

Dominic crosses to the radio, picking up the handset. "I'm here, Sheriff. What's the update?"

"Roads are still impassable, but we're making progress." The sheriff's voice carries a hint of amusement. "Just checking that you and your guest are managing alright up there. Mabel's been worried."

"We're fine. No issues." Dominic's eyes flick to mine, a silent communication passing between us.

"Glad to hear it. Your guest settling in okay? Ms. Santiago, was it? From California?"

The specific knowledge makes me raise an eyebrow at Dominic, who rolls his eyes in response.

"She's right here if you want to ask her yourself," Dominic replies dryly.

"Oh! Well, hello there, Ms. Santiago." The sheriff's tone warms considerably. "Welcome to Angel's Peak. Sorry about the accommodations situation, but you couldn't be in better hands. Dominic here's the most capable man on the mountain."

"I'm managing just fine, Sheriff, thank you," I respond, moving closer to the radio.