Page 16 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

After signing off, Dominic shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "And now the entire mountain will know we're here together."

"Martha and George Washington?" I can't hide my amusement. "Like the first president and his wife?"

"Fourth-generation Angel's Peak locals who never tire of the joke." He runs a hand through his still-damp hair. "They've appointed themselves my unofficial grandparents since I moved here. Martha leaves casseroles on my porch and George 'accidentally' plows my driveway when it snows."

"They sound lovely."

"They're incorrigible gossips with no concept of personal boundaries." His gruff tone can't disguise the affection underneath. "But yes, they're good people."

As evening approaches, we find ourselves comparing notes on obscure wine varietals we've encountered. The conversation flows as easily as the wine Dominic has opened—a limited production Petit Manseng from Virginia that surprises me with its quality.

"Savennières," I say in response to his question about unexpected favorites. "Particularly from Roche aux Moines. There's something about that specific terroir that creates a tension in the wine—austere yet somehow generous."

Dominic goes still, staring at me as if seeing me for the first time. "You know Savennières?"

"Of course. Chenin Blanc from the Loire, historically associated with sweet wines but actually producing some of the most interesting dry whites in France."

"Roche aux Moines," he repeats, shaking his head slightly. "That's?—"

"What?" I'm bewildered by his reaction.

He crosses to his wine room without explanation, returning moments later with a dusty bottle. The label confirms my suspicion—a Savennières from the very terroir I mentioned.

"This is my desert island wine," he says. "The bottle I'd choose if I could only have one for the rest of my life."

The coincidence strikes us both as significant beyond reason—that of all the thousands of wine regions and producers in the world, we would share this specific, relatively obscure preference.

"What do you say? Want a taste?"

"You should save it," I suggest, understanding its importance to him. "For a special occasion."

His eyes hold mine. "This feels special enough."

We don't open it immediately, both acknowledging without words that doing so would cross some invisible threshold. Instead, we finish the Petit Manseng as our conversation ranges across wines we've loved, places we've visited, and meals we remember.

When Dominic suggests we check the conditions outside before dark, I eagerly agree, needing fresh air to clear my head after the unexpected intimacy of our shared passion for wine.

The temperature has risen enough to make the snow perfect for packing. Without discussion, we begin shaping snowballs, Merlot bounding excitedly around us as primitive competitive instincts take over.

"I bet I can build a better snowman than you," I challenge, already gathering snow between gloved hands.

Dominic's eyebrow arches. "Those sound like fighting words, Santiago."

"Afraid you can't measure up, Mercer?"

His slow smile sends a flutter through my stomach. "You're going down."

What follows is the most ridiculous and joy-filled hour I've spent in years. We labor on opposite sides of the yard, occasionally stealing glances at each other's progress while Merlot alternately helps and hinders us both.

My snowman takes shape with careful attention to proportion and detail, while Dominic's approach appears more architectural, focusing on structural integrity.

"Time's up!" I call finally, stepping back to assess our creations.

My snowman is classically proportioned, with pinecones for buttons, twigs for arms, and stones for eyes and mouth. Dominic's is more abstract—taller, with an asymmetrical design that somehow works despite breaking the traditional snowman rules.

"Mine's more technically correct," I argue, adopting my professional critic voice.

"Mine has character," he counters, mimicking my tone.

Our eyes meet over our snowy creations, mutual recognition of our ongoing philosophical difference sparking between us. Then, with unspoken agreement, we both reach for more snow.

The first snowball hits me squarely in the shoulder, exploding in a powdery burst. I retaliate immediately, my aim true as it catches Dominic in the chest. From there, all pretense of decorum vanishes as we engage in gleeful combat, ducking behind trees and snowmen for cover.

Merlot joins the fray, barking excitedly and occasionally intercepting snowballs mid-flight. I land several good hits, but Dominic's aim is frustratingly accurate. When I duck behind a pine tree to refill my ammunition, I lose track of his position.

Too late, I sense movement behind me. Before I can turn, strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet as Dominic's deep laughter rumbles against my back.

"Surrender," he demands, his breath warm against my ear.

"Never," I gasp, breathless from exertion and his proximity.

We struggle playfully, my attempts to escape his grasp entirely ineffective against his strength. In the tussle, we lose balance, toppling into a deep snowdrift together. I land on my back with Dominic above me, his weight supported on his forearms to avoid crushing me.

The playfulness evaporates instantly, replaced by something electric and urgent. Snow clings to his dark hair, his cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, his eyes intent on mine.

I'm suddenly, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect, of the solid warmth of him contrasting with the cold snow beneath me.

I reach up, unable to stop myself from brushing snowflakes from his eyelashes. My gloved hand lingers against his cheek, and he turns into the touch, his eyes never leaving mine. The moment stretches, taut with possibility as he lowers his head incrementally toward mine.

A furry missile crashes into us, destroying the moment. Merlot, apparently concerned by our stillness, has decided to join the pile, inserting himself between us with enthusiastic disregard for the tension he's interrupting.

Dominic rolls away, laughing despite the frustration evident in his expression. " Worst timing ever, buddy."

I sit, brushing snow from my coat, grateful for Merlot's intervention even as my body hums with disappointment. This attraction is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore—and increasingly dangerous to my professional objectivity.

As we trudge back toward the house in the fading light, snow clinging to my borrowed clothes and laughter still caught in my chest, I steal glances at Dominic’s profile.

The stern, isolated winemaker I thought I was meeting has vanished. In his place stands a man infinitely more dangerous—because he’s real.

A man who builds unconventional snowmen with a glint in his eye. Who makes hot chocolate from scratch with the same care he pours into his wine. Who hurls snowballs with ruthless precision and the kind of full-throttle intensity he brings to everything he touches.

And yet, it’s more than that.

Dominic embraces his masculinity without apology. The dominance simmering just under the surface. The fire in his blood, he doesn’t bother hiding. The raw, visceral hunger he doesn’t pretend to tame.

I saw it that night—saw it in the way he stood before the fire, hand wrapped around himself, pleasure rough and unrepentant. Saw it in the way he never flinched from what he wanted, never hid the dark, unvarnished parts of himself.

He’s not ashamed of the need burning through him.

He doesn’t tuck it away.

Doesn’t apologize for it.

He lets it consume him without fear.

I wish I could do the same.

I wish I could stop second-guessing every need, every craving that rises like a tide inside me when he’s near. I wish I could strip myself bare the way he does—honest, raw, without shame or apology.

But I can’t .

Not yet.

Although the longer I’m around him, the more I realize there’s no way to keep these lines in place. No way to maintain the neat little professional boundaries I keep clinging to like a shield.

Those boundaries aren’t protection.

They’re fear.

Fear of how good it will feel to surrender.

Not just to Dominic, but to everything he represents.

I’ve heard of men like him—men who take. Men who command. Men who don’t ask for your heart, but demand your trust.

Your submission.

Your truth.

Maybe once, a long time ago, I could have given that.

Before Davis.

Before I learned how dangerous love could be.

Davis never raised his voice. He never struck me. He didn’t have to. He made me believe every mistake was mine. Every failure was my fault. Every stumble was proof that I wasn’t enough.

Why are you so sensitive, Elena?

Why do you always overreact?

You should be grateful someone like me even noticed you.

Little cuts, every day.

Until I apologized for things I hadn’t done, begged for forgiveness for wounds I hadn’t caused. Until I couldn’t tell where I ended and his disappointment began.

I remember the way his hand would brush my arm—not reverent, but corrective.

A warning dressed as affection.

Compared to that, Dominic’s touch is an earthquake.

That night, standing in the dark, watching him before the fire…It wasn’t shame th at rooted me in place.

It was awe.

The way he touched himself. Confident. Not ashamed. Like a man worshipping the hunger inside him, instead of denying it.

He let it consume him.

No apologies.

No shame.

Just truth.

And somehow, the truth he showed me stripped me bare, too.

Because Dominic doesn’t want my kisses or my body.

He wants my surrender.

And if Davis could gut me with the scraps I offered willingly, what would Dominic be able to do if I gave him everything?

The longer I’m around him, the more I realize those professional boundaries I keep clinging to aren’t about the job. They’re not about my reputation. They’re not about common sense, or what I should and shouldn’t do.

They’re about fear.

Fear of how badly I want to fall. Fear of who I’ll become if I let go of the last piece of armor protecting me.

Because deep down, in the place I can’t lie even to myself, I don’t want a normal courtship.

I want the caveman. I want the fire. I want a man who will strip me down to nothing but gasping need and never apologize for taking me apart.

I drag in a shaky breath.

Get it together, Elena. This isn’t a fairy tale. This isn’t a fantasy. This is business.

It’s supposed to be business.

I can’t afford to fall for a man like Dominic Mercer.

Standing here now, my boots crunching through snow, I know one brutal truth. It wasn’t the sight of him stroking himself that undid me. It was the knowledge that if he ever turned all that fire on me, I would combust.

The realization hits me with startling clarity: my attraction to Dominic Mercer has evolved beyond the physical. I'm drawn to his mind, his principles, his contradictions. To the quiet vulnerability beneath his strength and the unexpected gentleness in his hands as he tends his vines.

This is no longer chemistry. It's connection. And that makes it infinitely more dangerous to my heart—and to the professional boundaries I'm increasingly struggling to maintain.