Page 14 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The aroma of sizzling bacon and something sweet pulls me from sleep. For a moment, I lie still, orienting myself in Dominic's bedroom. Through the window, brilliant morning light reflects off pristine snow, creating a dazzling brightness that makes me squint.

Merlot, who has officially abandoned his master to sleep at my feet, raises his head expectantly.

"You smell it too, huh?" I scratch behind his ears, earning an enthusiastic tail thump against the mattress. "Let's investigate."

I follow the enticing scent downstairs, Merlot trotting ahead as if leading the way. The kitchen tableau stops me in the doorway.

Dominic stands at the stove, his back to me, expertly flipping what appears to be the most perfect French toast I've ever seen. A cast-iron skillet beside it cradles sizzling bacon, while a small pot of something fragrant simmers on the back burner.

He moves with surprising grace for such a powerfully built man, his actions efficient and practiced. This isn't someone who occasionally cooks—this is someone who knows his way around a kitchen with professional competence.

"That smells incredible," I say, finally announcing my presence.

Dominic glances over his shoulder, a half-smile softening his features. "Morning. Coffee's ready."

I pour myself a cup, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip. "Perfect strength. Is there anything you don't do well?"

"Small talk. Tolerating fools. Dancing." He transfers the French toast to waiting plates with practiced precision. "Also, I can't whistle."

The casual admission of vulnerability, delivered so matter-of-factly, makes me smile. "Tragic. And here I thought you were perfect."

"Far from it." He sets a plate before me that looks like it belongs in a gourmet brunch spot. The French toast is golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, accompanied by perfectly crisped bacon and a small ramekin of what appears to be homemade fruit compote.

My first bite draws an involuntary sound of appreciation. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Dominic busies himself with his breakfast, a hint of self-consciousness in his movements. "Hunter Morgan gave me some lessons when I first moved here. Before I..."

"Embraced your inner hermit?" I supply.

His mouth quirks. "Something like that. Hunter was one of the first locals I met. He recognized my name from Napa and offered to show me around the food scene." He shrugs. "We got along until I made it clear I wanted privacy more than social connections."

"Yet he still wants to feature your wines."

"Hunter respects the craft, regardless of his opinion of the craftsman." Dominic takes a sip of coffee.

As we finish breakfast, the sun climbs higher, transforming the snowscape outside into a dazzling expanse of diamonds. The storm has finally broken, leaving behind a pristine, silent world.

"Ever been skiing?" Dominic asks, following my gaze to the window.

"Twice. Both times ending with me wrapped around a tree." I grimace at the memory. "I'm not exactly known for my athletic prowess."

"Cross-country is different. Gentler." He clears our plates, already moving with decided purpose. "I have extra equipment. We could try the vineyard trails."

The invitation surprises me. "You trust me not to destroy your precious vines?"

"The snow's deep enough to protect them." His eyes meet mine, a challenge in their depths. "Unless you're afraid?"

"Of a little snow?" I raise my chin. "Never."

An hour later, I'm questioning my bravado as Dominic adjusts the bindings on a pair of cross-country skis that look far too long and precarious for my comfort.

"These belonged to a friend," he explains, kneeling before me to check the fit of the boots he's lent me. His fingers brush against my ankle as he tightens a strap, sending an electric awareness up my leg. "They should be about right for your height."

We're on his back porch, preparing to venture into the winter wonderland his property has become. The temperature has risen just enough to make the excursion pleasant rather than punishing, the sky a brilliant Colorado blue overhead.

"The basics are simple," Dominic explains, demonstrating the gliding motion. "It's more like walking than downhill skiing. You'll get the hang of it quickly."

His confidence is entirely misplaced. My first attempt sends me sprawling face-first into a snowdrift, much to Merlot's delight. The dog bounds around me, barking encouragement as I emerge spluttering and covered in white powder.

Dominic's laughter, rich and unexpected, fills the crisp air. "Maybe we start with balance first."

He offers his gloved hands, pulling me upright with effortless strength. Then, instead of releasing me, he moves to stand behind me, his chest nearly touching my back.

"Like this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as his hands come to rest lightly on my hips. "Shift your weight forward slightly."

My body responds to his guidance, but my mind is entirely occupied with his proximity and the solid warmth of him so close behind me. His hands remain firm but respectful, professional in their instruction, even as my pulse accelerates for reasons that have nothing to do with exercise.

"Now glide," he instructs, moving with me for the first few steps.

Under his patient guidance, I gradually progress from helpless flailing to something resembling actual cross-country skiing. We follow a gentle trail around the perimeter of the vineyard, Dominic always slightly ahead or beside me, ready to offer a steadying hand when my balance falters.

The simple joy of movement in the pristine landscape works a kind of magic.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind isn't racing with professional calculations or competitive strategies.

There's only the rhythmic slide of skis, the brightness of sun on snow, and Dominic's steady presence beside me.

"You're a natural," he says as we pause at the top of a gentle slope overlooking the vineyard. His praise is exaggerated, but delivered with such genuine warmth that I find myself smiling anyway.

"Liar. But thank you for protecting my ego." I turn to face the view, catching my breath. "It's beautiful up here."

The vineyard spreads below us, dormant vines peeking through snow like an architectural sketch waiting to be colored in spring. Beyond the vines, the mountains rise in majestic tiers, their slopes a patchwork of white snow and dark pine.

"This is why I chose this spot," Dominic says softly. "First time I stood here, I knew. Everything else—the soil composition, the microclimate—that came later. But this view..." He trails off, eyes scanning the horizon with possessive appreciation.

"It feels like being on top of the world," I agree, understanding exactly what moved him.

"Ready to head back?" He gestures down the gentle slope we've climbed. "This part's actually fun."

Before I can respond, he's gliding down the incline, Merlot racing alongside him. His form is perfect—clearly, he's spent countless hours on these trails. The sight of him in motion, powerful and at ease in this environment, stirs something in me that has nothing to do with professional admiration.

"Your turn," he calls from below. "Just point your skis downhill and let gravity do the work."

It sounds simple enough. I position myself at the top of the slope, take a deep breath, and push off.

For a few glorious seconds, I'm flying—the cold air rushing past my face, the smooth glide of the skis, the sense of freedom unlike anything I've experienced.

Then, inevitably, my novice status reasserts itself.

My skis cross, my balance shifts, and I'm tumbling through space in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and equipment.

I brace for impact, but instead of snow, I collide with something solid and warm. Dominic has somehow positioned himself to break my fall, his arms coming around me as we both go down in a chaotic heap.

We land with him partially beneath me, his arms still wrapped protectively around my waist. For a moment, we're both too stunned to move. Then I become acutely aware of our position—my body pressed against his, his face inches from mine, his hands at the small of my back.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rougher than usual.

I should move. I should absolutely move right now. But his eyes hold mine, and the warmth of him contrasts so perfectly with the cold snow that I remain frozen in place.

"I think so," I manage. "You broke my fall."

"Glad to be of service." His mouth curves into a smile that transforms his entire face, softening the hard angles into something disarmingly handsome.

My heart performs a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest, and I'm certain he must feel it through the layers of our coats. We're suspended in a moment of perfect tension, neither advancing nor retreating.

Then Merlot decides we've been still for too long and crashes into us with exuberant concern, breaking the spell. I roll away, laughing despite the snow now seeping through my clothing, and Dominic sits, brushing snow from his hair.

"I think that's enough skiing for one day." His eyes crinkle with amusement.

Back at the house, we shed our wet outer layers in the mudroom, shivering and laughing at our bedraggled appearance. My hair has escaped its careful braid, hanging in damp tendrils around my face, and Dominic's usually tidy appearance has given way to endearing dishevelment.

"Hot chocolate?" he suggests, already moving toward the kitchen. "It's a required post-skiing tradition."

"With marshmallows?" I follow, rubbing my cold hands together.

He gives me a look of mock offense. "What kind of barbarian do you take me for? Of course with marshmallows."

As he prepares the hot chocolate—from scratch, naturally—I watch his movements with appreciation. There's something deeply attractive about a man so competent in domestic tasks, especially one who initially presented as such a brooding loner.