Page 22 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

I wake slowly, cocooned in warmth—Dominic's body curved protectively around mine, his arm a heavy weight across my waist. The fire has died to embers, but I feel no chill, only a pleasant ache in muscles unused to both cross-country skiing and the more intimate exertions of last night.

I study Dominic's sleeping face, softer in repose than I've ever seen it. The perpetual furrow between his brows has smoothed, making him appear younger and less burdened. Unable to resist, I trace my finger lightly along his jaw, feeling the rough stubble against my skin.

His eyes flutter open at my touch, focusing on me with immediate recognition that sends a thrill through my chest. No morning-after confusion or regret shadows his features—only a slow, devastating smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Morning," he murmurs, voice sleep-rough in a way that stirs something low in my belly.

"Morning." I should feel self-conscious, tangled naked with him beneath the blankets, but instead I feel strangely at home.

His hand slides up my back, drawing me closer. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in years," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.

He hums in approval, fingers playing along my spine with casual intimacy.

We lie like that, touching, exploring, trading lazy kisses that gradually deepen until we're both breathless.

There's none of last night's urgency—just a slow-burning pleasure that builds like properly aged wine, complex and unhurried.

After, as we lie facing each other with limbs still entangled, I'm struck by how natural this feels. How right. Dangerous thoughts for a relationship born of a business trip and a snowstorm, with a clear expiration date looming.

"Coffee?" Dominic finally suggests, pressing one last kiss to my forehead before disentangling himself.

"Please." I watch appreciatively as he stands, unselfconscious in his nakedness.

We move around each other, passing coffee mugs, stealing touches and kisses like we've done this for years rather than hours. Merlot watches us with what I swear is canine amusement, tail thumping against the floor every time we draw near each other.

The radio on the counter crackles to life just as we're sitting down to eat.

"Mercer, you copy? It's Donovan."

Dominic crosses to the radio, shooting me an apologetic look. "I'm here, Sheriff. What's the update?"

"Good news, folks. Road crews made better progress than expected. Main pass is cleared, and they'll be working on your access road by this afternoon. Should have you folks able to come down the mountain by tomorrow morning, if not sooner."

The news lands like a stone in my stomach. Despite my earlier eagerness to escape our enforced isolation, the thought of leaving after last night fills me with unexpected dread.

"That's great news," Dominic responds, his eyes meeting mine across the kitchen. "Thanks for the update."

"Thought your guest would be happy to hear it," Sheriff Donovan remarks, his tone suggesting he's enjoying being the bearer of good news. "Weather's supposed to hold clear for the next few days, too. Perfect timing."

After signing off, Dominic returns to the table, a new tension evident in his shoulders.

"So," I say, attempting lightness, "freedom is imminent."

"Apparently." His tone is carefully neutral, giving nothing away.

"We should probably discuss the business side of things," I suggest, forcing myself back into professional mode. "I'd like to formalize our agreement before I head back to San Francisco."

Something shutters in his expression, the open warmth of moments ago replaced by a cooler reserve. "Of course. That's why you're here, after all."

"Dominic—"

"No, you're right." He cuts me off, rising to clear his barely touched breakfast. "We've gotten sidetracked. Let me grab the distribution paperwork I've been considering."

It should surprise me that this reluctant wine maker drafted his own distribution paperwork, but somehow it doesn’t. I even think I know when he did it. That day, he retreated to his office.

As he disappears, a hollowness fills my chest. The shift is so abrupt that it gives me conversational whiplash—from lovers to business associates in the space of a radio call .

When Dominic returns, he's fully armored in professionalism, spreading contracts and market projections on the table between us like a physical barrier. We spend the next hour discussing production capacity, distribution territories, and exclusivity terms.

His answers are thoughtful and thorough, but lack the passionate engagement I've come to expect from him. It's as if he's retreated behind a glass wall—visible but untouchable.

"I've prepared some marketing concepts," I pull out my tablet. "Based on what I've seen of Silverleaf and your approach."

He reviews my ideas with clinical detachment, nodding occasionally. "These are well thought out."

"But?" I prompt, sensing his reservation.

"But they position Silverleaf as more commercial than I'm comfortable with."

"That's the point of marketing. To sell wine."

"To sell an image," he corrects. "And this isn't the image I've been building."

Frustration bubbles up within me. "The image you've been building is invisible to most of the market. What's the point of creating exceptional wine if no one knows about it?"

"The right people know."

"The right people could be so many more." I try to modulate my tone and stay professional despite the intimacy we've shared. "Your experimental varietals, your high-altitude techniques—these are innovations worth sharing beyond a handful of industry insiders."

He leans back, studying me with that assessing gaze that made me uncomfortable when we first met. "And turning them into marketing bullet points will somehow preserve their integrity?"

"That's not fair," I counter, stung by the implied criticism. "I'm not suggesting we trivialize your work. Just the opposite—I want to honor it by making sure it reaches the audience it deserves."

Before he can respond, a stack of mail on the counter catches my eye, the top envelope bearing an ornate logo I immediately recognize—the Denver Wine Festival, one of the most prestigious events in the western wine circuit.

"You've been invited to the Denver Wine Festival?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

"It's nothing." Dominic follows my gaze, expression darkening.

"Nothing? That's one of the most important industry events in the region. The exposure alone?—"

"I said it's nothing." His tone hardens. "They send an invitation every year. I decline every year."

"Why?" I stare at him, unable to comprehend turning down such an opportunity.

"Because I'm not interested in pairing board meetings with cheese plates while self-important critics who couldn't tell Cabernet from Merlot in a blind tasting pass judgment on my life's work." The vehemence in his voice startles me.

"That's not fair. Many of those critics have dedicated their lives to understanding wine, just as you have."

"Understanding it technically, perhaps. Dissecting it until there's nothing left but component parts and scores out of a hundred." His frustration mirrors my own. "You of all people should understand why that approach misses the point."

"Me, of all people?" I repeat, heat rising to my cheeks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He gestures toward the contracts between us. "Your entire approach is about commodifying what can't be commodified. Breaking wine down into marketable segments and distribution channels, as if it's just another product to be sold."

"That's completely unfair." Anger burns through me, hot and clarifying.

"I respect wine far too much to treat it as 'just another product.

' But I also respect winemakers enough to want them fairly compensated for their art, to want their work recognized and appreciated beyond a select few who happen to stumble upon it. "

"There's a difference between fair compensation and chasing the spotlight."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Chasing the spotlight?"

His hesitation is answer enough.

"Wow." I stand, needing physical distance. "So last night was what? A pleasant distraction with someone you fundamentally don't respect?"

"That's not what I said." He rises too, frustration evident in every line of his body. "I respect your knowledge and your palate. But we have different visions for what success looks like."

"Yes, because my vision includes actually sharing your wine with people who would appreciate it, rather than hiding up here on your mountain, pretending that obscurity somehow makes your work more authentic."

The words hang between us, too sharp to take back. Dominic's expression closes completely, the final drawbridge raising on his emotional fortress.

"Perhaps this partnership isn't the right fit after all." His voice is deadly calm, more devastating than if he'd shouted.

Before I can respond, Merlot barks frantically at the front door, breaking the tension. Dominic moves to investigate, visibly relieved at the interruption.

Two figures approach through the snow—a woman and a small boy, both on snowshoes. Dominic's posture changes immediately, softening as he opens the door.

"Hannah, Liam. What are you doing up here?" His tone holds genuine concern.

The woman—Hannah—is beautiful in an understated way, with auburn hair escaping a knit cap and cheeks flushed from exertion. The boy beside her, no more than seven or eight, beams at the sight of Merlot bounding toward them.

"Sheriff said the roads would be clear soon, but Dr. Morrison was worried about Merlot." Hannah holds up a small package. "The medicine you called about last week? For his ear infection?"

"You hiked up here for that?" Dominic sounds both exasperated and touched. "You could have waited until I came to town."