Page 17 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

We stumble into the house in a flurry of cold and laughter, shedding boots and jackets in the mudroom, both of us dripping snow and breathless from the mad dash inside.

Dominic shrugs out of his coat and boots without a word, steam rising faintly from his clothes as the heat finds us.

He runs a hand through his wet hair, shaking out the snow, his movements easy, loose in a way I haven’t seen before.

A low chuckle escapes him—real, rich, warm—and the sound slides under my skin like a slow caress.

“Remind me,” I say, kicking off my boots with a soggy thunk, “why we thought a snowball fight was a good idea?” I peel off my soaked jacket, laughing under my breath. “Pretty sure we made Merlot’s year.”

Dominic glances at the dog, sprawled blissfully on the rug, tongue lolling, tail thumping against the floor—a rare smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I wring out my hair, feeling the delicious flush of exertion and leftover adrenaline still buzzing through me .

“It was fun,” I admit, surprising myself. “God, I can’t remember the last time I did something so… ridiculous.”

“It was.” He shakes his hair like an oversized wolf, droplets catching the firelight. “I think we both needed to laugh.”

I smile despite myself.

There’s no denying the warmth in his eyes as he gestures toward the fire.

“Come on. You’re freezing.”

Dominic crosses to the fire, crouching low to feed more logs into the flames. His broad shoulders flex with the motion, and when he rises, brushing his hands together, there’s something unguarded in his expression.

I follow him into the living room, peeling off my damp sweater and trading it for one of his dry flannels folded over the back of the couch. It’s huge on me, swallowing my frame.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, throwing long shadows across the floor. The heavy scent of woodsmoke and melting snow fills the air, wrapping around me as thickly as the borrowed flannel clinging damp to my skin.

“To an awesome day, playing in the snow.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. A flash of the boy he must have been once, before life made him hard and sharp.

“Cheers to that,” he says, voice low and rough.

My chest tightens, stupid and aching.

He pushes off the hearth slowly, setting his empty glass down. His eyes stay on mine the whole time.

Dominic pours another finger of whiskey for each of us, then sinks onto the rug before the fire, stretching out long legs still clad in worn jeans.

He pats the space beside him without looking up.

I hesitate only a moment before lowering myself down, my body grateful for the heat and the solid comfort of him nearby.

We sit like that for a while, the crackle of the fire filling the room, the sharp scent of woodsmoke and melting snow heavy in the air.

Dominic lifts his glass in a lazy salute.

“To snowball wars and poorly built snowmen.”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up without effort.

“To adult men cheating at snowball wars and building hideous abominations,” I counter, clinking my glass against his.

“It had character.” He snorts into his whiskey.

“It had one arm,” I retort, grinning. “And two noses.”

“Art is subjective.”

“Not when it’s that ugly,” I tease, taking a slow sip of my drink. The whiskey burns pleasantly, warming me from the inside out.

For a while, we talk. About nothing. About everything.

Old stories. Childhood winters. The kinds of stupid adventures only kids believe they’ll survive.

Dominic tells me about growing up in Napa, sneaking into vineyards after dark, the slow, inevitable pull of winemaking in his blood.

I tell him about climbing trees in the orchards outside San Jose, about the time I broke my arm trying to ride a skateboard down a dirt hill because my brothers dared me.

Our laughter fades into quieter smiles.

Our glasses empty slowly, forgotten on the rug.

The fire crackles lower, casting the room in molten gold and deepening shadows.

And with the darkness… comes the shift.

I feel it in the way Dominic’s eyes linger on me longer than they should. In the way the air thickens between us. In the way the silence stretches, soft and dangerous.

His arm brushes mine as he shifts closer, and it’s nothing—just skin, just casual—but my body goes electric under the contact .

I set my glass down, fingers trembling slightly.

Dominic sees it.

Of course he does.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Neither of us speaks.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Dominic pushes himself to his feet. The firelight carves him in bronze and shadow, every line of his body taut with control. He crosses to the hearth and sets his glass down with a soft clink.

When he turns back to me, his eyes are molten.

"I was hoping you might be interested in a special tasting." He hesitates, uncharacteristically uncertain.

"At midnight?" The formal request, so at odds with our snow fights and skiing lessons, intrigues me.

"Best time for it, but if you're too tired?—"

"No," I interrupt, curiosity overriding fatigue. "I'd love to."

He leaves and, after a few minutes, returns with a tray.

Dominic settles beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.

The tray holds an assortment that immediately sparks my professional interest—four wine glasses, each slightly different in shape, and three bottles, including the Savennières we discussed earlier.

"I've been saving these," he explains, lifting the most aged-looking bottle. The label has faded with time, but I can make out a distinctive crest and the vintage, 2017. "This was the year I decided to rebuild."

"After the fire," I say softly, understanding the significance.

He nods, his movements deliberate as he opens the bottle. "I bought this the day I found this property. I promised myself I’d open it when Silverleaf was established as something real, sustainable."

"And is it? Established?"

His eyes meet mine across the small space between us. "I think so. Which is why tonight feels right."

There's something ceremonial about how he handles the wine, carefully decanting it to separate any sediment. The process feels intimate, as if I'm being invited to witness a private ritual never intended for outside eyes.

"The others?" I gesture to the remaining bottles.

"A vertical tasting of sorts. The Savennières we discussed—" he indicates the bottle we found earlier "—and this.

" The third bottle bears Silverleaf's distinctive label, marked simply 'Prototype V79-H' with a date from last year.

"The experimental varietal I showed you.

It's not ready, but I want you to taste it alongside these others. To understand the journey."

The thought he's put into this selection touches me deeply. This isn't just wine; it's Dominic telling his story through vintages that mark the chapters of his life.

He pours the first wine—the 2017. The color catches the firelight, deep amber with hints of gold at the edges. When he hands me the glass, our fingers brush, a momentary contact that sends awareness dancing along my skin.

"Tell me what you notice," he says, not as a test but an invitation to share the experience.

I close my eyes, breathing in the complex bouquet. "Age, certainly. Dried apricots, honey, a hint of beeswax." Another breath. "Something mineral underneath—wet stone after rain."

When I open my eyes, Dominic is watching me with undisguised admiration. "And on the palate?"

I sip slowly, allowing the wine to spread across my tongue, noting each flavor as it unfolds.

"Remarkable acidity for its age. Stone fruits, dried flowers—chamomile, maybe.

A touch of salinity on the finish that lingers.

" I take another sip, savoring. "It's beautiful.

Perfectly balanced between richness and precision. "

"Like you," he murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.

Heat rises to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the fire or the wine. Before I can respond, he pours the Savennières, continuing our vertical journey.

Each wine becomes a conversation, not the technical assessment I'd normally provide, but something more personal.

We share impressions and memories, the flavors evoking places we've been and moments we've experienced.

With each glass, we move incrementally closer, the space between us shrinking until our shoulders touch as we lean in to compare notes.

The final wine—his experimental varietal—he pours with visible pride, touched with vulnerability.

"It's young," he cautions. "Still finding itself."

The liquid glows almost silver in the glass, catching and reflecting the firelight. I breathe in its aroma, surprised by its complexity despite its youth. "There's so much happening here—bright citrus, Alpine herbs, a touch of honey, and something... mineral? Flint, maybe?"

Dominic nods, pleased. "The soil composition here creates that mineral character. It's unique to this elevation."

When I taste it, I close my eyes involuntarily, overwhelmed by the vivid intensity. It's like nothing I've encountered before—vibrant yet focused, powerful yet elegant, with a finish that evolves and lingers tantalizingly.

"Dominic," I breathe, opening my eyes to find him watching me intently. "This is extraordinary."

"It's not finished," he says, but the pride in his voice is unmistakable.

"No, but it's..." I search for the right words. "It's full of potential. Like it knows exactly what it wants to become."

Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability that makes my heart stutter. "That's what I felt, the first time I tasted the test batch. Like I'd finally found the path forward."

We're sitting so close now that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight unevenness of the scar along his temple, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The wine has lowered our guards, creating a space where truth feels not just possible but necessary.

The fire crackles lower, the last logs splitting with a soft hiss, casting the room in molten, flickering gold.