Page 25 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"Jason," Dominic greets him, standing to shake his hand. "How's the inventory system working out?"

"Like a dream, boss." Jason's respect for Dominic is evident in every line of his body. "Those spreadsheets you designed save hours of manual counting."

"Jason helps me manage the bar when my arthritis acts up," Ruth explains for my benefit. "When he's not working up at Silverleaf during harvest season."

"Dominic gave me my first job when I got back from Afghanistan," Jason adds, his straightforward delivery making the significance even more powerful. "Nobody else would hire a guy with PTSD and a bum leg who couldn't guarantee he'd show up every day."

I glance at Dominic, who looks distinctly uncomfortable with the praise. "The vineyard needs seasonal help," he says, as if it were the most practical decision rather than an act of compassion. "Jason's methodical and doesn't waste time with small talk. Perfect employee."

Jason's smile suggests this is a familiar exchange between them. "Still, not everyone would take a chance on damaged goods. "

"All of us are damaged," Dominic replies quietly. "Some scars are just more visible than others."

The simple truth in this statement resonates through the room, creating a moment of connection between these three very different people who've built something like family from shared understanding of pain.

As we prepare to leave, Ruth pulls me aside while Dominic settles their perpetual tab argument.

"He's different with you," she says without preamble. "More present. Less guarded."

I don't know how to respond to this assessment from someone who knows him better than almost anyone. "We've only known each other for a few days."

"Sometimes that's all it takes." She studies me with those perceptive eyes. "He needs someone who understands both worlds—the one he left and the one he's building. Someone who sees the wine and the man as parts of the same."

"Ruth—" I begin, uncertain how to explain the complications.

"Just an observation," she interrupts, patting my arm. "I'm not meddling. Much." Her smile softens. "Whatever happens, thank you for bringing him into town. Some of us were beginning to think he'd turned into a proper hermit for good."

The drive back to the vineyard feels different—a shared experience rather than separate journeys in the same vehicle. We talk about Ruth, Jason, and the town itself, with its mix of longtime locals and newer transplants seeking mountain peace.

"You've built a life here," I observe as we turn onto his property. "A real community, despite your best efforts to avoid one."

He glances at me, a half-smile playing at his lips. "I'm as surprised as you are."

Inside, the notification light on my phone blinks insistently. I check it while Dominic lets Merlot out for a run, finding another email from Davis that makes my blood run cold.

Elena,

Just presented your Napa Valley microclimates research to the ownership group as part of my sustainability initiative.

Huge success—they want to implement my recommendations immediately across all properties.

Better hurry back with that Silverleaf contract if you want to remain relevant around here.

Attached is a PDF of my work—months of research into how climate change is affecting microclimates in traditional growing regions, with specific sustainability recommendations for adaptation.

All presented under Davis's name, with only a token acknowledgment of my "assistance" buried in the footnotes.

I'm still staring at my phone, shock giving way to white-hot anger, when Dominic returns.

"Elena?" His voice sounds distant through the roaring in my ears. "What's wrong?"

"He did it again." I thrust the phone at him, unable to articulate further. "He took my research. Work I've been developing for over a year—and presented it as his own."

Dominic scans the email, his expression darkening with each line. "This is blatant intellectual theft."

"And completely unprovable." The helplessness is the worst part—knowing there's nothing I can do without seeming petty or vengeful. "I can't even confront him without looking like I'm bitter about the partnership."

"You have the original files, though? Timestamps, drafts, research notes?"

I nod, surprised by the practical question. "Of course. I document everything."

"Then you have options." He sets the phone down, his voice taking on a strategic edge I haven't heard before. "Don't respond to him directly. Don't show your hand. Instead, compile everything into an intellectual property portfolio with clear documentation of your development process."

The shift from emotional support to tactical planning catches me off guard.

"What good will that do if the ownership has already credited him?"

"It gives you leverage." Dominic paces the room, energy radiating from him. "You present the full portfolio directly to the highest-ranking woman in the ownership group?—"

"Catherine Halsey," I supply automatically.

"—with a straightforward account of what happened. Not as an accusation, but as a professional clarification of authorship. Frame it as wanting to ensure the company has proper attribution for legal and intellectual property purposes."

His strategy is surprisingly savvy, revealing a business acumen I hadn't fully appreciated. "That's... actually brilliant."

"I may avoid the spotlight, but I didn't spend years as my father's designated successor without learning how corporate politics work.

" A shadow crosses his face at the mention of his father, but he pushes through it.

"Men like Davis rely on women not wanting to seem difficult or confrontational. Use that expectation against him."

The protective fury underlying his advice warms something in me even as my own anger burns. He's not offering empty sympathy—he's giving me practical tools to fight back, treating my career as something worth defending.

"Thank you," I say simply, the words inadequate for what his support means.

Dominic steps closer, his hand rising to cup my cheek with unexpected tenderness. "You're brilliant at what you do, Elena. Don't let anyone diminish that or take credit for it."

The conviction in his voice, the absolute certainty with which he affirms my value, breaks something loose inside me. I lean into his touch, seeking the connection we've both been carefully avoiding since our argument the day before.

His arms come around me, solid and secure, offering comfort that quickly transforms into something more urgent as I tilt my face to his. The kiss begins as reassurance but ignites into passion with the speed of dry tinder catching flame.

All the tension and the careful distance we’ve maintained since leaving his mountain sanctuary dissolve in the heat building between us.

His hands are in my hair, mine fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer with desperate need. We stumble backward until my spine meets the wall, his body pressing against mine in a way that makes rational thought impossible.

There's anger in this kiss—at Davis, at the circumstances separating us, at the unfairness of finding this connection only to have it constrained by geography and career.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Dominic rests his forehead against mine. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, though his hands still hold me close. "I shouldn't have?—"

"Don't," I interrupt, unwilling to hear him apologize for something I wanted—still want—just as much as he does. "Please don't say this is a mistake."

His eyes search mine, vulnerability naked in his gaze.

"What is it then?"

"Complicated," I admit. "But real."

He exhales slowly, stepping back just enough to create space for conversation but keeping his hands lightly on my waist, as if unwilling to break contact completely. "You could still make Denver by nightfall," he says, though his tone suggests he's hoping I won't.

The reminder of my imminent departure settles heavily between us. I should go. My career, my confrontation with Davis, my life—all wait for me in San Francisco. The smart play would be to secure the contract and leave while I still have some professional perspective intact.

Yet as I look at Dominic—this complicated, passionate man who keeps revealing new depths that intrigue and move me—I find myself unwilling to end whatever this is so abruptly.

"Actually," I hear myself saying, "I was thinking I might stay another day or two. To finalize the contract details in person and maybe... get a more complete understanding of Silverleaf's operations."

It's a thin professional justification for what we both know is a personal choice, but Dominic accepts it without challenge, relief visible in the subtle relaxation of his shoulders.

"The guest room is still water damaged," he says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sure we'll manage," I reply, matching his tone.

Later, as I send a carefully worded email to my assistant explaining my extended stay, I'm only postponing the inevitable.

The real world—with its professional complications and geographical realities—hasn't disappeared.

Davis still waits in San Francisco, my career still demands attention, and Dominic still belongs to this mountain in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

Yet for now, for these stolen days, I choose to explore this unexpected connection that feels increasingly like something I can't walk away from—at least, not without discovering exactly what it might become given just a bit more time to breathe.