Page 30 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"Elena." Catherine's voice is all business, no preamble. "I assume you've read my email?"

"Yes," I reply, keeping my voice low. "I appreciate the... clarity... regarding the situation."

"Then you understand why we need you back in San Francisco immediately. The ownership group is meeting Monday to finalize the reorganization."

The pressure lands like a physical weight. "I'm still in negotiations with Silverleaf. We're making progress, but?—"

"Is there a signed contract?" Catherine interrupts.

"Not yet, but?—"

"Get it and book a flight today. Your career can't afford another day of absence while Davis consolidates his position."

The stark assessment silences any further protest. Catherine has always been direct—it's one of the qualities I've admired in her as one of the few female executives in our male-dominated industry.

"I understand," I say finally. "I'll make arrangements."

"Good. And Elena? Bring something concrete from this vineyard, or don't bother coming to Monday's meeting at all."

The line goes dead, leaving me clutching my phone in the quiet kitchen, torn between professional duty and the life that's begun taking shape here in Angel's Peak. As I turn to head back upstairs, I find Dominic standing in the doorway, his expression carefully blank.

"Sounds like San Francisco is calling," he says, his voice neutral in a way that immediately raises my defenses.

"Just checking in," I reply, deliberately casual. "Catherine wants an update on the contract negotiations."

"And a flight booked today, from what I gathered." His tone remains even, betraying nothing, but his body language has shifted—shoulders squared, arms crossed, the physical manifestation of emotional withdrawal.

"Dominic—"

"It's fine." He moves past me to start the coffee, his back a barrier between us. "You have responsibilities. A career. I've always known that."

The reasonable words can't disguise the hurt beneath them. I reach for him, but he steps smoothly away, maintaining the distance he's suddenly created.

"We should talk about this," I try again.

"There's nothing to talk about." He hands me a mug of coffee without meeting my eyes. "You'll go back, as you always planned to. The timing's just moved up a bit."

His retreat behind emotional walls is so swift and complete that it leaves me breathless. After days of growing closeness, of shared vulnerability and deepening connection, he's suddenly as remote as when we first met.

"I haven't made any decisions yet," I say, frustration building at his assumption, at the way he's already pushing me away.

"Haven't you?" His gaze finally meets mine, penetrating in its quietness. "Your boss calls, and your first response is 'I understand' and 'I'll make arrangements.' Sounds like a decision to me."

Before I can formulate a response that isn't defensive or apologetic, Merlot barks at the door, signaling his morning needs. Dominic takes the opportunity to escape the conversation, whistling for the dog and disappearing outside.

By the time they return, I've showered and dressed, my professional armor in place. Dominic has similarly retreated behind a mask of polite detachment, discussing the day's plans as if we're casual acquaintances rather than people who've shared intimacies both physical and emotional.

"There's a fundraiser at Mabel's Guest House this afternoon," he mentions over a breakfast neither of us is really eating. "The town's gathered enough money for the renovations to begin, and they're celebrating with a community potluck."

"You're going?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. The Dominic I first met would have avoided such an event at all costs.

"I promised Ruth I'd make an appearance." His shrug is deliberately casual. "You're welcome to join, if you'd like a proper introduction to Angel's Peak before you leave."

The slight emphasis on "before you leave" doesn't escape me, but I choose not to challenge it. Instead, I nod, genuinely curious to see more of this community that's embraced Dominic despite his best efforts to remain isolated.

"I'd like that," I say softly.

Mabel's Guest House proves to be a Victorian architectural confection painted in faded blues and creams, its wraparound porch festooned with banners reading "Thank You Angel's Peak!" and "Renovation Celebration!"

The property buzzes with activity—locals carrying food to long tables, children racing across the lawn, musicians setting up in one corner of the wide porch.

"Dominic Mercer at a community gathering," Mabel exclaims, hurrying down the steps to greet us.

"Will wonders never cease?" She enfolds me in a warm hug before I can prepare for it.

"And you brought your lovely wine expert.

Perfect timing—we just opened some local vintages that desperately need professional assessment. "

The welcome is so genuine that it momentarily bridges the chasm between Dominic and me.

As we're swept into the celebration, I'm struck by how many people greet him with genuine affection—Martha and George Washington arguing good-naturedly about whether he's lost weight, Jason from The PickAxe introducing his fiancée, Hannah's son Liam racing over to give detailed updates on the proper care of dog ears.

Despite our tension, I find myself charmed by this glimpse of Dominic as a community member rather than a mountain recluse.

He moves through the crowd with a reserved warmth that suggests he's more comfortable here than he might admit, accepting teasing comments about his "California guest" with better grace than I expected.

The tension remains, though, evident in the careful space he maintains between us, in the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when introducing me to yet another curious local.

The townspeople notice—I catch knowing glances exchanged, concerned looks directed our way, whispered conversations that pause when we approach.

As the afternoon progresses, Mabel corners me by the dessert table, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. "Trouble in paradise?" she asks without preamble.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I deflect, selecting a cookie I have no intention of eating.

"Honey, I've been married three times. I know the look of a relationship hitting a crossroads." She pats my arm with grandmotherly affection. "You two were inseparable yesterday at Margie's, according to reliable sources. Today, you're orbiting each other like wary satellites."

I glance across the lawn where Dominic stands with Sheriff Donovan, his posture stiff, and his expression closed. "It's complicated."

"Love usually is," Mabel agrees, ignoring my startled look at the word "love." "Especially when it arrives unexpectedly and requires rearranging the life you've carefully built."

"We've known each other for a handful of days," I remind her and myself. "That's not a rational basis for life-changing decisions."

"Oh my dear." Mabel's laugh is gentle rather than mocking. "If you're looking for rationality in matters of the heart, you'll be disappointed every time. The question isn't whether it makes logical sense, but whether it’s worth the risk."

"And if it isn't?"

Her expression softens with something like compassion.

"Then you'll return to your carefully planned life and always wonder what might have been.

" She squeezes my hand. "But if it is—if that man and this place have touched something in you that your rational mind can't explain away—then the greater risk is walking away. "

Before I can respond to this unexpected wisdom, Martha Washington appears, commandeering Mabel's attention for some potluck-related crisis. I'm left alone with thoughts I've been avoiding since Catherine's call this morning.

As I wander through the crowd, I overhear Ruth Fletcher and Eleanor Morgan in heated conversation behind a large hydrangea bush, Dominic's name mentioned repeatedly. I shouldn't eavesdrop, but my feet slow of their own accord.

"He called Hunter for information about the ownership group, the business structure, even property values in her neighborhood."

"That doesn't sound like someone planning to let her walk away," Ruth replies.

"Unless he's looking for reasons why she should," Eleanor counters. "You know how he is—finds the obstacles before admitting the possibilities."

I step away, heart pounding. Dominic has been researching my life in San Francisco? The implication sends conflicting emotions racing through me—hope that he's considering solutions to our geographical dilemma and unease that he's done so without discussing it with me.

The celebration continues around me, but I'm suddenly desperate to speak with Dominic, to break through the distance he's imposed since this morning. I find him near the porch steps, deep in conversation with Lucas Reid from The Haven resort.

"There you are." I thread my arm through his in a deliberate breach of the invisible boundary he's established. "Would you mind if I stole him away for a moment?"

Lucas’s knowing grin suggests he's fully aware of the undercurrents.

"All yours," he says, with a meaningful emphasis that makes Dominic tense beside me.

I lead him away from the crowd, toward a quiet corner of the garden where ancient roses climb a weathered trellis. Before I can broach the subject of his research, his phone rings—the specific tone he's designated for vineyard alerts.

He glances at the screen, frowns, then silences the call. "It can wait."

The gesture—prioritizing our conversation over work—surprises me. I've rarely seen Dominic ignore anything related to the vineyard.

"You've been researching my life in San Francisco?" I decide directness is the only approach that will work with him. "Property values. Business structures. My company."

"I have." He doesn't flinch under my scrutiny.

"Were you going to tell me?"

"When I had something concrete to offer." His eyes meet mine directly, unapologetic. "Not just questions and hypotheticals."