Page 3 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

Sunlight streams through unfamiliar curtains, painting golden patterns across a handmade quilt I don't recognize. For a moment, disorientation clouds my mind before memories of yesterday's misadventure come rushing back.

The storm. The accident.

Dominic Mercer.

I sit, listening. The house creaks softly with the sounds of someone moving around downstairs. The knowledge that I'm under the same roof as the notoriously reclusive winemaker sends a flutter of both professional excitement and something more personal through my chest.

The guest room is simple yet thoughtfully appointed, featuring exposed wooden beams, a sturdy antique dresser, and landscape photographs that capture the mountain in all its seasons.

No television, no clock, nothing to distract from the spectacular view outside the window: rows of dormant vines stretching down the slope, now covered in a pristine blanket of snow at least two feet deep.

After a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, I dress in my most professional-looking casual outfit—dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater. If I'm going to be stranded here, I might as well make the most of it and turn this disaster into a business opportunity.

The aroma of coffee guides me downstairs.

I follow my nose through the living room, noting the space’s understated luxury—comfortable leather furniture, a massive stone fireplace, shelves lined with books about viticulture and oenology.

No personal photographs. Nothing that offers insight into the man himself.

Instead of finding the kitchen, I stumble upon what can only be described as wine heaven. A climate-controlled room with floor-to-ceiling racks holds hundreds of bottles, organized in some system I can't discern. Not alphabetical by winery, not by region, not by vintage.

I step closer, unable to resist. My fingers hover near a bottle of Chateau Margaux, 1983—a legendary vintage. Next to it sits a humble-looking bottle with a handwritten label in Italian that I don't recognize, but from the placement, it must be something special.

"Find something interesting?"

I jump at Dominic's voice, nearly knocking into a rack of wine. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.

In daylight, without snow gear obscuring him, he's even more striking—tall and solid, with dark hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He's dressed simply in jeans and a dark gray Henley that does nothing to hide his athletic build.

"Sorry, I was looking for the kitchen." I straighten and roll my shoulders back, refusing to act like a child caught stealing cookies. "You have an impressive collection."

His eyebrow lifts slightly. "And you were professionally assessing it?"

"Hazard of the job." I gesture toward the racks. "I'm curious about your organization system, though. It's not like any I've seen before."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I noticed. "It's organized by experience."

"Experience?"

He steps into the room, closing some of the distance between us.

Purposeful. Controlled.

The air shifts, heavier with his proximity.

“Wine isn’t just about region or vintage or varietal. It’s about the experience it creates, the memory it forms.” His voice softens, richer now, as if he’s inviting me into something more personal.

I stare at him, momentarily speechless.

“These bottles,” he gestures to one section, his arm brushing near mine—not quite touching, but close enough that the hairs on my arm lift in response—“remind me of summer thunderstorms. These,” he points to another area, “pair perfectly with Brahms.”

His theory is naive and profound all at once in my world of detailed tasting notes and technical precision—and yet somehow, in his mouth, it sounds almost… seductive.

“That’s…” I clear my throat, searching for a diplomatic response. “Interesting. But highly subjective."

“All wine is subjective.” He shrugs, slow and easy, the shift of muscle under his Henley impossible to ignore.

Then he leans in—just a breath closer than necessary, enough that the low rumble of his voice stirs the fine hair at my temple.

“The best technical wine in the world means nothing if it doesn’t create an emotional response. ”

I hold my ground, refusing to step back even as my pulse stutters.

“The emotional response comes from understanding what makes it technically superior,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Knowledge enhances appreciation.”

“Or blinds you to the pure experience,” he murmurs. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes, a silent challenge that makes my breath catch. He steps closer again, enough that the scent of him—oak, citrus, something darker—wraps around me.

The room suddenly feels smaller. Hotter.

“Tell me, Ms. Santiago,” he says, voice velvet over iron, “when was the last time you drank wine without analyzing it to death?”

The question lands like a challenge. My spine stiffens. "When was the last time you appreciated a wine's technical achievement without reducing it to a mood board?"

His mouth quirks upward—not quite a smile, but close. "Coffee's ready. Unless you'd prefer to continue arguing about wine on an empty stomach."

I follow him to a spacious kitchen with rough-hewn wooden countertops and professional-grade appliances. Large windows showcase the snowbound landscape, now glittering under bright morning sun. Merlot lies on a plush dog bed near a woodstove, tail thumping against the floor when he sees me.

"Sleep well?" Dominic asks, sliding a mug of coffee across the island toward me.

"Yes, thank you." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, surprised by the gesture. "And thank you for letting me stay. I promise I'll be out of your hair as soon as the roads clear."

He looks pointedly out the window, where snow continues falling despite the sunshine. "Might be a while. Storm's supposed to last through tonight, at least."

My heart sinks. As much as I want to secure a business relationship with Silverleaf, being trapped here complicates things, especially with this unsettling awareness that crackles between us whenever he's near.

"I should call my office," I say. "Let them know I'll be delayed."

"Landline's in the living room. Like I said, cell service comes and goes even in good weather."

I nod my thanks and take my coffee with me, needing a moment away from his intensity. After a brief call to my assistant, who’s far too delighted by my predicament, I return to find Dominic slicing what looks like homemade bread.

"Hungry?" he asks without looking up.

"Starving." I slide onto a stool at the island. "Did you bake that?"

A short laugh escapes him. "No. Margie from town brings it up once a week."

"Margie?"

"Owns the bakery in Angel's Peak." He arranges bread and various toppings on a wooden board. "Her husband had a heart attack up here last year. I was one of many who helped stabilize him until the helicopter came."

"You saved his life?"

"Technically, Cole saved his life. He’s the town doc." Dominic shrugs, uncomfortable with the implied heroism. "Right place, right time. Now she makes sure I never go hungry."

I find myself smiling at this glimpse behind his gruff exterior. "So the reclusive winemaker has a fan club."

"One determined baker doesn't make a fan club." He slides the board between us. "Eat. Then I'll show you the vineyard since that's what you came for."

After breakfast, Dominic outfits me with proper snow gear—all several sizes too large but better than my city clothes. Outside, the cold takes my breath away despite the sunshine. The world is blindingly white, silent except for the occasional drop of melting snow from the pine trees.

Merlot bounds ahead, disappearing into drifts and emerging with a snow-covered snout. His joy is contagious, and I laugh as he rolls around like a puppy.

"How long have you had him?" I ask as we trudge through knee-deep snow.

"Three years. Found him abandoned near the property line. No collar, half-starved." Dominic's expression darkens. "Someone dumped him up here to die."

"That's horrible." The casual cruelty makes my stomach turn.

"People can be." His tone suggests he's not just talking about dog abandonment.

We reach the edge of the vineyard, and Dominic's demeanor transforms. He speaks with quiet authority about his vines—how he's adapting traditional techniques for this challenging climate, the specific clones he's chosen, the innovative trellis system that allows the vines to survive winter at this elevation.

"Everyone said it couldn't be done," he explains, brushing snow from a dormant vine with gentle fingers. "Grapes at this elevation, with these temperature swings? Impossible."

"But you proved them wrong."

"The first two years were a disaster." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Complete crop failure."

"What made you keep trying?" I ask, genuinely curious.

His gaze travels across the vineyard, something vulnerable flickering in his expression. "After Napa, I needed... something that was mine. Something I built from nothing."

I want to ask about Napa—about the rumors regarding his family's historic vineyard and the fire that destroyed it—but his closed expression warns me away from the topic.

"The isolation doesn't bother you?" I ask instead.

"It's intentional." He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I see past his walls to something raw and wounded. "Sometimes starting over requires burning everything to the ground."

Before I can respond, a mechanical rumble breaks the mountain silence. Dominic tenses, turning toward the sound as a snowmobile crests the ridge, heading toward us.

"Paul," he mutters, not sounding pleased.

The snowmobile stops nearby, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in professional-grade winter gear dismounts. He pushes back his goggles, revealing a handsome face with laugh lines around friendly blue eyes.