Page 13 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"Good to hear. We don't get many big-city wine experts in our little town. You're causing quite a stir. Margie at the bakery has already planned a welcome breakfast for when you make it down the mountain."

Dominic's expression is pained. "Is there an actual update, Donovan, or is this a social call?"

"Just letting you know we've got the lower roads partially cleared. Still working on the mountain access. If the weather cooperates, you should be freed within 36-48 hours." A pause, then: "You two need anything? I could send Paul up on the snowmobile with supplies."

"We're fine," Dominic says firmly.

"Alright then. Stay warm up there." The knowing tone in the sheriff's voice makes heat rise to my cheeks. "Donovan out."

Dominic hangs up the radio with more force than necessary. "And now the entire town will know exactly how long you've been here and speculate accordingly."

"Small towns," I say with a shrug, trying to appear more nonchalant than I feel. "Is he always so..."

"Nosy? Yes." Dominic runs a hand through his damp hair. "Sheriff Donovan considers gossip a crucial part of public safety."

The mental image makes me laugh, breaking the tension. "At least we know we'll be rescued eventually."

We return to our cooking competition, the playful atmosphere restored. After a blind taste test, we declare a diplomatic tie, though Dominic insists my stew has "superior structure," a wine term that makes me smile.

As we clean up, Dominic pauses, seeming to come to a decision. "There's something I want to show you. Professionally speaking."

He leads me to a heavy door I hadn't noticed before, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. Beyond lies a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Dominic flips a switch, illuminating a state-of-the-art wine cellar carved directly into the mountainside.

"My experimental cellar," he explains as we descend. "Where I test new techniques before implementing them in the main production."

The space is immaculate and unexpectedly sophisticated, with climate controls and monitoring systems that would make most established wineries envious. A series of small-batch barrels on one wall bear handwritten labels with dates and cryptic codes.

"You're using concrete eggs." I notice the ovoid fermentation vessels with surprise. "And is that amphora?"

Dominic nods, a hint of pride in his expression. " Traditional techniques with modern monitoring. I'm testing how the altitude affects different fermentation methods."

He shows me around, explaining his experiments with unusual openness. For each question I ask, he provides thoughtful, detailed answers, our shared language of wine creating a bridge between our different philosophies.

"This is the project I'm most excited about." He leads me to a corner where several small barrels bear the label "V79-H." "A hybrid I've been developing specifically for this elevation. Most wine grapes struggle with our seasonal extremes, but this clone has shown remarkable resilience."

He draws a small sample with a wine thief, offering me the first taste. The young wine is startlingly alive, vibrant fruit balanced with an earthy complexity and a mineral finish that must come from the unique soil composition.

"This is extraordinary," I admit, genuinely impressed. "It's unlike anything I've tasted from Colorado. Or anywhere."

Dominic watches me intently, gauging my reaction. "It's not ready yet. Another eighteen months, minimum, but when it is..."

"It could be revolutionary for high-altitude viticulture." I complete his thought, understanding the significance of what he's sharing. "This is why you've been hesitant about wider distribution. You're waiting for this."

He nods slowly. "Silverleaf, as it exists now, is just the beginning. This," he gestures to the experimental barrels, "this is the future I'm building toward."

The trust implicit in showing me these experiments—his vision for the future, his proprietary techniques—isn't lost on me. This is Dominic allowing me behind the professional walls he's constructed, sharing something precious and vulnerable.

"Thank you for showing me," I say softly.

He's standing close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and feel the warmth radiating from him in the cool cellar.

"You understand it," he says. "Most people wouldn't."

The air between us thickens with unspoken awareness. I'm acutely conscious of our isolation, of the privacy this underground space affords. When Dominic takes a half-step closer, I don't back away.

His hand rises, hesitating before brushing a strand of hair from my face with devastating gentleness, but then?—

A tremendous crash from above jolts us apart, followed by the shattering of glass. Merlot's frantic barking propels us both into action. We race up the stairs to find a large pine branch has crashed through one of the living room windows, letting in a blast of snow and frigid air.

"Damn it!" Dominic rushes to assess the damage while I corral a panicked Merlot away from the broken glass.

The next hour is spent in urgent cooperation—Dominic cutting away the remainder of the branch while I gather supplies to seal the broken window temporarily. We work together, anticipating each other's needs without needing to discuss them, forming an effective team despite the chaos.

By the time we've secured a barrier of plastic sheeting and duct tape over the window frame, we're both exhausted and freezing. Merlot watches from a safe distance, tail thumping when we finally step back to survey our handiwork.

"It'll hold until the storm passes," Dominic says, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold. "Then I can make proper repairs."

“Thank goodness it hit the living room and not the bedrooms,” I say, dumping broken glass into the bucket. The sharp clatter is too loud in the stunned quiet.

“Small mercies.” Dominic straightens, dusting debris from his jeans. His hand settles on my shoulder—a brief touch, warm and grounding, sending a jolt straight through me .

“You’re good in a crisis,” he says, his voice roughened by more than exhaustion.

I manage a half-smile, adrenaline still thrumming under my skin.

“Not my first disaster.”

He glances at the shattered living room, the gaping hole where the tree crashed through, exposing beams and snow-filtered air. Then back at me, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

“Would’ve preferred it hit the bedroom instead,” he says, almost casually.

My hands are still around the bucket.

“Why?”

The word croaks out, too raw. Too curious.

Dominic’s mouth curves into a slow, merciless grin—one that steals the air from my lungs.

“Because,” he steps closer, lowering his voice until it’s a dark, rough velvet against my skin, “beds are for sleeping.”

A beat.

“And fires…” His eyes darken, burning into mine. “…fires are for cavemen.” The words hit low, deep, every nerve in my body standing at attention. "Which means you still have a safe place to sleep."

The heat in his gaze doesn’t dim. It intensifies, scorching without touching.

He leans in, close enough to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead—but doesn’t touch me.

The absence is worse than contact.

His voice drops lower, dangerous and final.

“Don’t mistake my restraint for lack of hunger.” A pause, his breath whispering across my cheek. “If you ever decide you want more, all you have to do is cross that line. I’ll take things from there.”

His mouth brushes the barest inch from my temple, not touching, just a ghost of heat. He straightens, steps back, the cool mountain air rushing between us like a gasp. Then, like nothing just happened, he turns and bends to scoop up more debris, utterly in control.

And I stand there, the bucket forgotten in my hands, still burning from a fire that hasn’t even started yet.

As we clean up the remaining debris, Dominic chuckles unexpectedly.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"I was just thinking that Marianne would be disappointed she missed all this excitement."

"Marianne?"

"Local jewelry designer. She's been trying to set me up with her niece for months." He shakes his head, amusement lingering in his eyes. "Orchestrated at least three 'accidental' meetings in town."

The casual revelation of someone else's romantic interest in Dominic stirs an unexpected pang of jealousy.

"Is her niece interested in wine?"

"She's allergic to alcohol." His dry delivery makes me laugh despite myself. "Marianne believes that's a 'minor obstacle' compared to our supposedly perfect compatibility."

"And is it? A minor obstacle?"

Dominic's gaze meets mine, something significant passing between us. "I have other compatibility concerns these days."

The statement hangs between us, loaded with implication as we finish securing the room against the continuing storm.

Later, as evening settles and we share another meal beside the fireplace, the damaged living room too cold to use, I find myself studying Dominic with new understanding.

The gruff exterior, the isolation, the passionate commitment to his vineyard—all of it shaped by loss and determination, by the need to rebuild something meaningful from ashes.

For the first time, I see beyond the reputation, beyond even the undeniable attraction between us, to the complex man beneath. A man who measures his wines by the experiences they create rather than technical perfection.

Who rescued an abandoned dog and maintains quiet friendships with townsfolk despite his supposed reclusiveness. Who carries the weight of his father's death while forging a different path.

This realization shifts something fundamental in my perception.

This isn't just about a business deal anymore, or even about the chemistry that sparks between us.

It's about seeing Dominic Mercer clearly—his wounds and his strengths, his passion and his fear—and finding myself drawn to all of it in ways I never anticipated.

I don’t look away when he catches me watching him. Whatever is developing between us in this snowbound isolation has moved beyond simple attraction into something far more dangerous.

I'm beginning to care about the man behind the wines. And that might be the riskiest vintage of all.