Page 23 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"And miss a chance to be the first to meet your mysterious guest?" Hannah's smile is teasing but genuine as she spots me hovering in the background. "Hi there. I'm Hannah Lewis. Town librarian and occasional delivery service."

"Elena Santiago." I step forward with a practiced smile. "It's lovely to meet you."

Hannah's gaze flicks between Dominic and me, a knowing gleam in her eyes that suggests she's reading far more into the situation than I'm comfortable with.

"So you're the wine expert everyone's talking about. Mabel has been beside herself with curiosity."

"Mom," the boy interrupts impatiently, "can I play with Merlot now?"

"Outside only, bud. Remember what happened last time." Hannah's fond exasperation speaks of familiarity with both dog and owner that twists something uncomfortable in my chest.

As Liam leads an eager Merlot into the yard, Hannah turns her attention to Dominic. "How are you holding up? When Sheriff Donovan said you had a guest stranded here, I was worried you might not have enough supplies."

"We're fine," Dominic assures her, his tone warmer than anything I've heard since our argument began. "But I appreciate you checking on us."

The "us" feels performative given the tension still crackling between us, but Hannah seems not to notice or care. Her eyes linger on Dominic with unmistakable affection, confirming my suspicion that her interest goes beyond neighborly concern.

"Dr. Morrison says to put three drops in each ear twice daily," she explains, handing over the medicine. "And Merlot needs to finish the full course this time, even if he seems better."

"I know, I know." Dominic accepts the package with a rueful smile that I've never seen him direct at me. "Can I get you two something warm before you head back? It's a long trek down."

"That would be great." Hannah beams, unwinding her scarf. "Liam insisted we could make it up and back before lunch, but I'm already dreading the return journey."

As they settle in the kitchen, the easy camaraderie between Hannah and Dominic becomes increasingly evident.

She knows where the mugs are kept, how he takes his coffee, which cupboard holds the special hot chocolate she makes for Liam when he's called inside.

The domesticity of it all—this pretty, capable woman so comfortable in Dominic's space—sends an unexpected pang of jealousy through me.

I excuse myself to check on Merlot and Liam, needing a moment away from the cozy kitchen scene. Outside, the boy carefully examines Merlot's ears while the dog sits with surprising patience.

"Are you a dog doctor?" I ask, crouching beside them in the snow.

Liam looks up, his serious expression giving way to a gap-toothed smile. "Not yet. But I'm studying. Merlot's my best patient 'cause he holds still."

"He seems to like you a lot."

"He likes everyone," Liam says with the certainty of childhood. "Even Mr. Dominic, and he pretends to be all grumpy."

I can't help but smile at the astute observation. "Does he? Pretend to be grumpy?"

"Mom says he's just sad inside but doesn't know how to say it." Liam gently strokes Merlot's head. "That's why she keeps trying to make him come to town stuff. She says solitude is solitary confinement you give yourself."

The insight, delivered with the innocence of childhood, strikes uncomfortably close to the heart of my argument with Dominic. I help Liam check Merlot's other ear, contemplating the concept of self-imposed isolation as protection rather than punishment.

When we return inside, Dominic administers the first dose of medicine to a remarkably cooperative Merlot. Hannah watches with approval before gathering her things.

"We should head back before the sun gets too high and turns the snow to slush," she says. "It was lovely meeting you, Elena. Will you be staying in town for a while once the roads clear?"

Before I can answer, Dominic speaks. "Ms. Santiago has business back in San Francisco. She won't be staying."

The dismissal stings more than it should, reinforcing the distance that's opened between us since our argument.

"That's too bad," Hannah says, genuine disappointment in her voice. "We could use more sophisticated tastes in town. I'm still trying to convince Dominic to host a tasting at the library fundraiser."

"Speaking of fundraisers," Liam pipes up, "Mom says we have to say thank you again for the guest house money, Mr. Dominic, even though you said not to tell anyone."

Hannah flushes. "Liam! That was supposed to be private."

"What guest house money?" I ask, curiosity overriding my determination to remain professionally detached.

"It's nothing," Dominic mutters, suddenly very interested in Merlot's ear .

"Nothing?" Hannah laughs. "He anonymously funded half the renovation costs for Mabel's place when the county threatened to shut it down over code violations. Without him, we'd have lost the only historic guest house in Angel's Peak."

The revelation doesn't surprise me as much as it might have days ago. I've seen enough of Dominic's character to recognize his capacity for generosity, however much he tries to disguise it beneath gruffness.

After Hannah and Liam depart, an uncomfortable silence descends. Dominic busies himself with Merlot's medicine, his back to me as he carefully administers the drops to the patient dog.

"You didn't want anyone to know about the guest house," I observe.

"It wasn't relevant." His shoulders are tense, defensive.

"Why hide your generosity?"

He sighs, finally turning to face me. "Because I don't do it for recognition or gratitude. I do it because I can, and because places like Mabel's matter to this community."

"The same way the Denver Wine Festival matters to the wider wine community?" I can't help the comparison.

"That's different."

"Is it? You're willing to support others anonymously but refuse opportunities that might benefit you and your work."

"You don't understand." His voice holds an edge of frustration.

"After the fire, after my father..." He stops, gathering himself.

"The industry vultures descended. Everyone wanted a piece of the tragedy, the drama.

Journalists calling for statements, competitors offering fake sympathy while eyeing our distribution channels.

People I'd known my entire life suddenly treating me like a combination of charity case and sideshow attraction. "

The raw pain in his voice silences my argument.

"I came here to make wine on my terms," he continues, quieter now. "Without the baggage of the Mercer name, without people watching for me to fail or succeed based on my father's legacy. Silverleaf is mine in a way Mercer Vineyards never could have been."

"And you think the festival would threaten that?"

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize as signaling internal conflict. "You can’t control how people see you once you enter that spotlight. Or your work."

The vulnerability beneath his words touches me, tempering my earlier anger.

"Isolation isn't the answer either. Not for your wines, and not for you."

"Maybe not," he concedes, surprising me. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready for the alternative."

We stand at an impasse. Both understand the other’s position better, but are unwilling to concede. The argument exposes fundamental differences in our approaches to life and career that can’t be easily reconciled, regardless of our chemistry.

"I should pack," I say finally, needing distance to sort through my conflicted feelings. "If the roads will be clear tomorrow."

Dominic nods, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "I'll help you with your things."

As I climb the stairs to gather my belongings, the reality of our situation settles heavily upon me.

Tomorrow, I'll return to San Francisco, to the career I've built and the partnership agreement I came here to secure.

Dominic will remain on his mountain, creating extraordinary wines that few will ever taste.

Last night feels like a dream already fading in the harsh light of day—a perfect moment of connection that couldn't survive contact with our separate realities. The fact that I'm more troubled by this than the potential business implications tells me how far I've strayed from my original purpose.

When I return downstairs, Dominic sits by the fireplace, Merlot's head in his lap, staring into flames that mirror the intensity I've come to associate with him. He looks up as I enter, his expression softening.

"I don't regret last night," he says. "Whatever happens with the business side of things."

The unexpected olive branch loosens something tight in my chest.

"Neither do I."

A tentative truce forms between us, fragile but genuine.

We spend the afternoon in separate orbits that occasionally intersect—he is in his office reviewing production notes, and I’m at the kitchen table finalizing my proposal.

When our paths cross, there's a careful politeness that feels both better and worse than outright conflict.

By evening, we've reached an unspoken agreement to set aside both business discussions and deeper emotional revelations.

Instead, we prepare dinner together, and the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring creates a temporary harmony.

We share one of his Silverleaf bottles, discussing its merits with professional appreciation that carefully avoids straying into more personal territory.

As we clean up afterward, Dominic's hand brushes mine while passing a plate. The brief contact sends familiar electricity through me despite everything. Our eyes meet, acknowledging what lies between us even as circumstances pull us in different directions.

"Tomorrow will be here soon enough," he says quietly. "Let's not waste tonight arguing about things we can't change."

The wisdom in his suggestion resonates with me, even as I wonder what can't be changed—our professional disagreement, our separate lives, or the unexpected depth of feeling that developed between us in just four short days.

As we settle on the couch, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels closer than it should, I'm left with questions that have no easy answers.

What happens when the snow melts and reality intrudes?

Can what we've found here survive beyond this mountain?

And most troubling of all—do I want it to, given the fundamental differences in our visions for the future?

I have no answers, only the certainty that tomorrow will force us to confront what we've both been avoiding since last night: the bitter truth that the most intoxicating connections aren't always the ones we can sustain.