Page 2 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

A timber-frame house rises before me like something out of a dream—warm light glowing from high windows, smoke curling from a stone chimney.

It’s powerful and precise against the backdrop of storm-heavy sky.

Nestled into the mountain as if it belongs there.

Like it’s been there for a hundred years and will still be there for a hundred more.

Beneath it, rows of vines lie dormant beneath the snow, lined with impossible precision, vanishing into the whiteness beyond. Even in winter, even in stillness, it’s beautiful. Ordered. Intentional.

This isn’t just a house.

It’s a fortress.

And the man waiting on the wide-covered porch, backlit by firelight and shadows?

The dragon guarding his home.

I pull up beside a rugged Jeep already blanketed in fresh snow, shift into park, and kill the engine. My breath fogs in the quiet stillness.

The light is fading fast, and the snow falls in a thick, silent curtain.

I grab my purse and the overnight bag I packed on a whim, though “just in case” didn’t include getting snowed in with the winemaker I came to negotiate with.

The wind cuts through my coat the moment I open the car door, and I hiss through clenched teeth as my boots hit snow.

It’s deeper here, heavier, blanketing the ground in silence. Everything’s muffled.

Except for my pulse, which pounds loudly in my ears.

Dominic waits on the covered porch, Merlot now dutifully at his side.

I force myself to climb the steps one at a time, pretending I don’t feel his eyes tracking me, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every sway of my hips, every shift of fabric across my thighs.

“Your place is… beautiful,” I offer as I reach the top, breathless in more ways than one.

He doesn’t answer.

The man is as intimidating as his reputation suggests, but something else simmers beneath the surface. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness despite the professional veneer I'm struggling to maintain.

"I should call Mabel at the guest house to cancel my reservation." I stamp snow from my boots.

Dominic raises an eyebrow. "You booked with Mabel without confirming our meeting?"

"I was optimistic." Heat rushes to my cheeks.

Dominic reaches past me to open the front door, his arm brushing mine. Even through layers of clothing, the contact sends a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with static electricity.

I pass him, close enough to catch the scent of him—oak, cold air, something smoky and sharp. Our sleeves brush. Just that. Barely more than an accident.

But the heat that sparks at the contact zips straight to the center of me like an electric shock.

I step past him, brushing his arm again, and this time there’s no mistaking it—it isn’t static, it’s friction. Skin humming beneath fabric. A slow, steady burn.

He closes the door behind me with a click that feels final.

The whispering wind vanishes, replaced by the soft creak of wood beams and the low pop of logs burning in the massive stone fireplace ahead.

Warmth hits me like a physical thing. Dry, clean heat that smells like cedar and citrus peel, with something richer underneath—aged barrels, fermented grapes, and him.

“This way.” His voice is rough gravel, unpolished, and threaded with something darker. He turns without waiting for me to follow, long strides carrying him past the flickering firelight, through the open-plan living space.

The floors are made of reclaimed wood, and the walls feature a mix of warm cedar and cold stone. Everything smells like smoke and aged oak and something else—him, maybe. Something sharp and earthy that coils around my ribs and won’t let go.

Dominic picks up an ancient landline phone from the table and holds it out without comment. His fingers brush mine when I take it, and that one-second contact jolts me harder than the wind outside.

“Reception’s spotty,” he says. “Landline works better during storms.”

“Thanks.” My voice is thinner than I mean for it to be.

I dial the number from memory, having called earlier to confirm my reservation. After three rings, Mabel's cheerful voice answers.

"Angel's Peak Guest House, where every stay is heavenly!"

"Ms. Wilson? This is Elena Santiago. I'm afraid I won't make it to check in tonight after all." I explain my situation in brief, careful terms, aware of Dominic's presence just feet away.

"Oh my! Stranded at Silverleaf with Dominic Mercer…" Ma bel's voice holds a note that makes me grateful the call isn't on speaker. "Don't you worry about a thing, dear. Nothing happens by accident on this mountain."

Before I can ask what she means by that cryptic statement, she hangs up.

The old landline clicks back into its cradle with a finality that is both hollow and resounding.

For a beat, we stand there—Dominic and me—while the storm rattles the windows like a warning.

Outside, it howls louder—wind slamming against the timber frame like it’s trying to claw its way inside, but the warmth in here is immediate, almost overwhelming.

Not just from the fire crackling in the massive stone hearth, but from him.

From the way Dominic looms beside me, solid and wordless, the heat of his body radiating like the coals behind the grate.

“The guestroom is upstairs,” he says, glancing back at me as I trail a step behind. “Second door on the right. Bathroom’s through the sliding door.”

“I appreciate this,” I manage, voice tight from the cold—or something else entirely. “Letting me stay.”

A noncommittal sound. Almost a grunt.

We reach the landing, and the air is noticeably warmer up here.

He pushes open the guestroom door and steps aside, giving me a clear view of a queen-sized bed made with crisp flannel sheets, a thick quilt folded at the foot.

There’s a small lamp, an empty glass, and a window framing the snow-covered vineyard below like a painting.

“It’s warm,” he says simply, then starts to turn away.

I don’t know what possesses me to stop him, but the words leave my mouth before I can think better of it.

“Dominic.”

I don’t know what I was going to say. I only know I don’t want this moment to end. Not yet. Not when the air between us feels like it might combust.

He watches me for too long. Long enough to see everything I’m trying not to show. His gaze doesn’t slide away. It pins me there. Heavy. Sharp.

His eyes settle on mine, then drift lower. Not in a leer—no smirk, no cocky grin. Just a long, unapologetic look that sinks teeth into my gut and twists.

“Something else you need?” he asks.

Yes .

The answer nearly slips out. Not just to the question he asked—but to the ones he didn’t.

Need. Want. Crave.

The tension tightens like strings pulled taut between us. The storm outside could be a hundred miles away. In here, there’s just breath and heat and the pulse pounding at the base of my throat.

I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches me for a second longer than he should. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns to leave.

“Dominic.” I don’t know why I repeat his name. I can’t stop myself.

“I think it’s best if you settle in and get some sleep.” His voice is softer this time, but firmer too. No room for debate. “Go to bed, Ms. Santiago.”

And just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him with the finality of a vault closing forever.

I stand in the middle of the room, breath shallow, pulse racing, throat dry.

Sleep? Impossible.

Because somehow, with just one look and not a single kiss, Dominic Mercer managed to stake a claim on every nerve ending I have .

I lie in bed for hours, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the wind scream against the house and the restless creak of old beams in the cold. His scent clings to the room—oak and citrus and something pine-sharp beneath it. It curls around me like smoke.

I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then I kick off the quilt and sit, breathing hard.

Sheets tangled around my legs. Air too warm. Skin too tight. Every breath tastes like smoke and salt and the memory of him—Dominic, standing in that doorway, his voice low and final.

Go to bed, Ms. Santiago.

I did.

And now I’m wide awake, pulse thudding like it’s got something to prove.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m here for a business meeting. A negotiation. Not to fantasize about the brooding mountain winemaker who barely tolerates my presence.

Except he does more than tolerate me. I saw it in the way his gaze lingered. The way his jaw flexed when I smiled—the way his body angled between me and the cold.

He hasn’t touched me. Barely spoken at all. And still, I feel something .

Outside, the wind howls. Inside, my skin burns.

And I already know sleep isn’t coming.

I try counting grapes. Vintages. Bad decisions. Nothing works.

The air in the guest room is too warm, the sheets are too soft, and the silence is too loud. Every time I close my eyes, I see his. Sharp as cut amber. Watching me. Unblinking.

After what feels like hours, I give up on sleep.

The wooden floor is cold beneath my feet as I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the door.

I don’t bother turning on a light. The hallway is bathed in moonlight filtering through high windows, the shadows soft and silver as I creep down the stairs, clutching the empty glass from the nightstand like a talisman.

The stairs creak under my weight as I move quietly, moonlight slanting across the landing. The fire downstairs glows faintly through the railing—dim red embers pulsing like a sleeping heart.

I round the corner into the living room and stop.

He’s still up.

Dominic sits in a worn leather armchair facing the fire, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A glass of deep red wine rests in his hand, catching the glow like blood. He’s shirtless, just loose sweats riding low on his hips, the planes of his chest carved from shadow and flame.

His gaze lifts the moment I enter. Eyes locked on mine.

I freeze mid-step. Something inside me stutters. Catches.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is rougher now, raspy from disuse and something else—like gravel scraped slowly across stone.

I clutch the glass tighter. “Neither could you.”

“Didn’t try.” He takes a slow sip.

I should back away. Should get the water I came for and retreat before I say something stupid.

But I don’t.

I step closer.

The fire crackles.

“You always drink wine shirtless in the dark?” I ask, voice dry, not nearly as steady as I want it to be.

One corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile. “Only when storms trap sommeliers in my house.”

I edge toward the kitchen. “I just needed water.”

“You’ll find it in the fridge. Filtered.”

I nod, but my feet don’t move right away. Not until his eyes flick toward the kitchen and I force myself to go.

The light from the refrigerator spills across the slate tile floor. I fill my glass, every movement suddenly loud. The clink of glass. The rush of water. The beat of my pulse in my ears.

When I turn, he’s still watching me.

I should head back upstairs.

Instead, I find myself walking toward the fire.

The moment I step back into its warmth, his gaze drops, skimming down the line of my body. The hem of my sleep shirt hits just below mid-thigh. Bare legs. Bare feet. I should have grabbed something else. Anything else.

But I don’t move to cover myself.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say quietly.

“Good.” He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down beside him and rises to his full height.

There’s no reason to feel breathless. No excuse for the way my stomach flips.

He steps toward me, slow and deliberate.

One pace. Then another.

Not touching.

Just there—bigger in the shadows, body carved from heat and hard angles and command.

“Why didn’t you confirm the appointment?” I swallow, the water suddenly sharp against my throat.

“Because I don’t do press. Or deals I didn’t initiate. I’m not interested in exposure. I make wine. That’s it.”

“And yet… here I am.”

A pause. The fire pops.

“You pushed your way in.” His voice is low, like velvet wrapped in barbed wire.

“You could have sent me away.”

“Could I?” He doesn’t look away.

Something shifts in my chest—heat uncoiling slow and deep .

“You want me to pretend I don’t see the way you’re looking at me?” His eyes trail back to mine.

“I’m not?—”

He lifts a brow.

I flush. “You’re not exactly hard to look at.”

“Neither are you.”

The air thickens. My skin prickles beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. I feel his gaze like a touch, everywhere at once.

“Dominic…”

He steps closer.

Not touching. Not yet.

But close enough to feel the gravity of him.

The heat.

“I don’t play games, Elena.”

My name in his mouth does something I don’t want to analyze. It lands in the center of me. A claim.

“I’m not…” I whisper.

I tip my head back to meet his gaze, and for a second—just one—he sways closer, his breath warm across my cheek.

We’re a breath apart now.

My mouth parts—no sound.

He leans in, his gaze dropping to my lips?—

And then he stops.

His voice, when it comes, is low and final and not up for debate.

“Go to bed, Elena.”

His voice wraps around my name like velvet over steel. My breath catches.

I should say no. Push back. Demand clarification.

But my body’s already moving.

Not because I’m scared.

Because some part of me likes being told what to do… by him.

I don’t know what that says about me.

But as I climb the stairs, pulse hammering and thighs pressed too tightly together, I know one thing for sure. If he said one word—just one—to stop me, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

I turn. Slowly. Every inch of me sparking like a live wire as I step away. I walk slowly, feeling the heat of his gaze on my back like a brand.

Up the stairs. Down the hall.

Back to the room that smells faintly of woodsmoke and something that feels dangerously like temptation.

Sleep still doesn’t come.

But now, it’s for a very different reason.