Page 24 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The sound of engines rumbling up the mountain road wakes me.

I sit up quickly, disoriented to find myself alone on the couch where Dominic and I sat talking late into the night, maintaining that careful distance that somehow felt more intimate than touch.

He must have covered me with a blanket after I fell asleep.

Through the window, a snowplow followed by a county utility truck make their way up Dominic's long driveway, carving a path through the pristine white. Freedom, it seems, has arrived right on schedule.

"They made good time," Dominic says from the kitchen doorway, already dressed and holding a steaming mug of coffee. He offers it to me, his expression unreadable. "Sheriff Donovan radioed that they'd be here early."

"Thank you." I accept the coffee gratefully, our fingers brushing in a way that still sends sparks despite yesterday's tension.

An awkward silence falls between us, the rumble of machinery outside emphasizing what we're both thinking—I can leave now. The snowbound bubble that has contained us for four days is about to pop.

"I should get dressed," I say finally, setting the mug down and gathering the blanket around me like armor. "My boss will be expecting an update."

Dominic nods, stepping aside to let me pass.

As I head upstairs to gather my things, my phone buzzes with incoming messages.

Apparently, cell service was restored along with the roads.

I scan through the notifications, pausing at an email from Davis marked "URGENT" with a subject line that makes my stomach clench: "Status on Silverleaf Exclusive? "

I open it with trepidation:

Elena,

Ownership is asking for an update on the Silverleaf acquisition. Need confirmation of exclusive rights ASAP—Biltmore Group is circling with a competitive offer. Don't return without a signed agreement. Your position with the company depends on it.

Davis

The thinly veiled threat lands like a gut punch. After everything—the partnership I was denied, the credit he stole—now my very job hinges on securing this deal. The unfairness of it burns, but the urgency is clear. I need this contract.

When I return downstairs, showered and dressed in my own clothes for the first time in days, Dominic is at his desk reviewing paperwork. He looks up as I enter, his business persona firmly in place.

"I've drafted terms for a limited partnership," he says without preamble, pushing a document toward me. "Exclusivity for your restaurant group in California, with graduated volume commitments as production increases."

I scan the contract, professionally impressed despite the emotional whiplash. The terms are fair, even generous—everything I came for. Yet the clinical way he presents it, after everything we've shared, leaves me cold.

"This is... very comprehensive," I manage, keeping my voice steady.

"I had most of it prepared before you arrived," he admits. "I've been considering limited distribution channels for some time."

The revelation stings—that what felt like a connection built from nothing was, at least partially, a business strategy long in the making.

"I see."

He must read something in my expression because his professional facade cracks slightly.

"The terms are negotiable, of course. And separate from... everything else."

"Is that possible?" I ask quietly. "To separate everything so neatly?"

His eyes meet mine, conflict evident in their depths. "It has to be. You're returning to San Francisco. I'm staying here. This contract is the only part of our... interaction... that can survive those realities."

The stark truth of his assessment silences me. He's right, of course. Whatever developed between us during the storm was always temporary—a hothouse flower that can't survive transplantation to the real world.

"The road crews said the main highway is open all the way to town," Dominic continues when I don't respond. "You could make it to Denver by nightfall if you leave soon."

"Actually..." An idea forms, part professional strategy, part desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. "I'd like to meet Ruth Fletcher before I go. Put a face to the name after hearing about her support for Silverleaf."

Surprise flickers across his features. "The PickAxe doesn't open until noon."

"Then I have time for breakfast," I reply, offering a tentative smile. "And I believe I was promised an introduction."

Something shifts in his expression—relief, perhaps, that I'm not simply walking away.

"Ruth would never forgive me if I let you leave without meeting her. Fair warning, though, she has no filter and even less mercy."

"Sounds like my kind of woman."

The drive into Angel's Peak reveals a landscape transformed from what I glimpsed during the storm. Sunlight glitters off snow-covered peaks, and the small town nestled in the valley looks like a postcard come to life.

Dominic navigates the winding road with the confidence of long familiarity, Merlot sitting happily in the back seat of his Jeep.

"It's beautiful," I say, breaking the comfortable silence that settled between us.

"That's the thing about mountains," he replies, eyes on the road. "They're most impressive after a storm passes."

I wonder if he's speaking about more than geography.

The PickAxe sits at the far end of Main Street, a rough-hewn log building that looks as if it's been there since the town's mining days.

A hand-painted sign featuring crossed pickaxes swings gently in the mountain breeze.

Inside, warmth and the scent of something delicious greet us, along with the distinctive smell of well-worn wood and beer.

Despite the early hour, a few locals occupy scattered tables, all of whom turn to stare as we enter.

Their curious gazes track our progress to the bar, where a striking woman in her sixties polishes glasses.

Her silver hair is cut in a stylish bob that frames her sharp features and knowing eyes, which miss nothing.

"Well, well, well," she says by way of greeting, setting down her towel. "The hermit emerges from his cave. And with company, no less."

"Ruth," Dominic acknowledges, his tone exasperated but fond. "This is Elena Santiago."

Ruth's shrewd gaze assesses me, lingering on the slight space between Dominic and me, the way we carefully don't touch despite standing close enough to. A knowing smile curves her lips.

"So you're the California wine expert who got trapped up the mountain with our resident grouch." She extends a hand across the bar. "I've been fielding calls about you for days. Half the town's wondering if you survived, the other half's making bets on whether you'd kill each other."

Her directness startles a laugh from me. "And which half were you in?"

"Oh, honey, I started a third category entirely." She winks, the implication clear. "Now, what can I get you two? We're not officially open, but I've never turned away Dominic yet, especially when he finally brings a woman to meet me."

Ruth turns to me with conspiratorial warmth. "He thinks he's such a mystery, but this town's had his number since day one."

I instantly like Ruth. She has the same no-nonsense authenticity as Dominic, but without the protective layers he's built around himself.

She pours coffee for us both without asking, then leans on the bar. "So, Elena from California. You're here about the wine, Mabel tells me."

"That was my original purpose," I admit, conscious of Dominic beside me.

"And now?" Ruth's perceptiveness is almost uncanny.

"I'm still here about the wine," I reply carefully. "But with a better appreciation for the winemaker."

Ruth's laughter is rich and knowing. "I bet you are." She turns to Dominic. "I like this one. She doesn't bullshit around."

Dominic's ears redden slightly, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Ruth was the first person to carry Silverleaf," he explains. "When it was still an experiment more likely to fail than succeed."

"Best bet I ever made," Ruth says proudly. "Now I can't keep it in stock. Had to implement a two-bottle limit per customer to keep the tourists from wiping me out every weekend."

As Ruth bustles away to check on something in the kitchen, I turn to Dominic. "She's exactly as you described."

"Terrifying yet impossible not to like?"

"Exactly." I smile, feeling some of the tension between us ease. "She reminds me of my grandmother. Equal parts warmth and tactical nuke."

When Ruth returns, she brings plates of what she calls "emergency lunch"—hearty stew and fresh bread that tastes like it came straight from Margie's bakery. As we eat, she regales me with stories of Dominic's early days in Angel's Peak.

"You should have seen him when he first arrived," she says, ignoring Dominic's pained expression. "Looking like he'd been through war, with plans for a vineyard that every local expert said was doomed to fail. Wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't accept help from anyone."

"Some things don't change," I observe, earning a mock glare from Dominic.

"Oh, he's practically a socialite now compared to then," Ruth continues, warming to her subject. "First winter, his pipes froze because he was too stubborn to let George Washington show him how to properly winterize the place. Found him in here half-frozen, too proud to admit he needed help."

Dominic stares fixedly at his stew. "Are you quite finished embarrassing me?"

"Not even close, dear." Ruth pats his hand affectionately. "But I'll take a break to check on Jason. He's in the back taking inventory."

As she disappears into a storeroom, Dominic exhales dramatically.

"I warned you."

"I like her," I say honestly. "She sees right through you, and loves you anyway."

Something vulnerable flashes in his eyes at my choice of words, but before he can respond, Ruth returns with a tall man in his thirties. He moves with military precision, despite a slight limp; his posture straightens further when he sees Dominic.