Page 32 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

What was once an impenetrable barrier stranding me at Silverleaf is gone. The roads are clear, easily navigable, and nothing prevents my departure for the airport three hours away.

I gather the professional materials that represent the ostensible reason for my visit.

The Silverleaf contract sits on top, signed this morning after Dominic returned from The Haven.

A business success by any measure—exclusive distribution rights, favorable terms, and a prestigious addition to our portfolio. It should feel like victory.

Instead, it feels like a loss.

Merlot watches from the doorway, his soulful eyes tracking my every movement. When I zip my suitcase closed, he whines, pressing his body against my legs as if physical weight could anchor me to this place.

"I know, buddy," I murmur, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. "I'll miss you too."

I tell myself a lot of things as I carry my luggage to the rental car. That I'm making the mature choice. The professional choice. That what developed between us was intense but ultimately unsustainable, a vacation romance best left behind before reality complicates its memory.

I'm getting quite good at lying to myself.

Merlot follows me outside, his usual boisterous energy replaced by subdued watchfulness. When I open the car trunk, he plants himself firmly between me and the vehicle, a canine protest against my departure.

"You can't come with me," I tell him, trying for a lightness I don't feel. "Your dad needs you here." I load my luggage and close the trunk with a decisive thud. "Be good, Merlot," I manage, voice thick with emotions I refuse to name. "Take care of him."

As I slide into the driver's seat, a flash of movement catches my eye—several figures hurrying up the driveway from a car I hadn't noticed parked near the entrance.

I recognize Ruth Fletcher's commanding stride, followed by Margie from the bakery and, astonishingly, Martha Washington supporting herself on her husband George's arm.

"Elena!" Ruth calls, waving with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Thank goodness we caught you."

I step out of the car, puzzled by this unexpected delegation. "Ruth? Is everything okay?"

"Absolutely!" Margie interjects, slightly breathless from her rapid ascent. "We just realized we never properly welcomed you to Angel's Peak, what with the snowstorm and everything."

"And since you're leaving," Martha adds, leaning heavily on her husband in a way that seems somewhat performative, "we simply had to say a proper goodbye."

The transparent nature of their mission would be comical if it weren't so touching. "That's very kind, but my flight?—"

"Won't leave without you," Ruth interrupts, taking my arm and guiding me firmly away from the car. "Besides, Margie has brought her famous departure cookies. It's a town tradition."

"I've never heard of departure cookies," I say skeptically.

"Brand new tradition," George mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Martha. "Ouch! I mean, very important tradition. Can't leave without them."

Despite myself, warmth spreads through my chest at their clumsy but sincere efforts. These people, who barely know me, have conspired to delay my departure for reasons I can only guess.

"Ten minutes," I concede, allowing myself to be led back toward the house. "Then I need to get on the road."

"Of course, dear," Martha pats my hand. "Oh look, George, aren't those new grape trellises simply fascinating? We should take a closer look."

With surprising speed for a woman who appeared barely able to walk moments before, Martha drags her husband toward the vineyard, leaving me with Ruth and Margie, who exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication.

"Coffee?" Margie suggests brightly, producing a thermos from her oversized bag. "And my cranberry orange scones—your favorite, if I remember correctly?"

Before I can answer, the sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. A familiar Jeep appears around the curve of the driveway, Dominic at the wheel. My heart performs an acrobatic maneuver that would impress Olympic judges, equal parts hope and dread tumbling through me.

"Would you look at that," Ruth says with patently false surprise. "Dominic's back from The Haven. Heard they worked all night saving the wine."

Margie makes a show of checking her watch. "And exactly on time, too. How extraordinary."

"You called him," I realize, equal parts amused and appalled by their meddling .

"We most certainly did not," Ruth declares, affronted. Then, with a wink: "He called us."

Dominic parks and approaches slowly, one hand behind his back, his expression a complex mixture of determination and vulnerability. He's dressed in the same deep blue shirt he wore the first night we shared wine by the fireplace.

"You're leaving," he says, stopping a few feet away.

"My flight's at three." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the riot of emotions his presence evokes.

Ruth clears her throat dramatically. "Margie, didn't you want to show me that... thing... over there?"

"Oh! Yes, that very important thing. Far away from here." Margie squeezes my arm. "Remember what I said about cookies, dear. Never leave without them."

I have no idea what cryptic message she's trying to convey, but I nod anyway, watching as she and Ruth make a tactical retreat, dragging a protesting Merlot with them.

Alone with Dominic, I find all my carefully prepared parting words have deserted me. We stand in silence, the space between us filled with everything we've failed to communicate.

"I have something for you," he finally says, bringing his hand forward to reveal a wine bottle unlike any I've seen from Silverleaf.

The label is hand-designed, elegant in its simplicity: "First Snowfall.

" The vintage date matches the day of my arrival.

In place of standard technical information, handwritten text encircles the label: Some collisions are meant to happen.

Some storms change landscapes forever. Some risks are worth taking.

"It's from the experimental vineyard," Dominic explains, his voice low and intent. "It won't be ready for years, but..." He exhales slowly. "I wanted you to have it. To remember."

I accept the bottle with hands that aren't entirely steady, the weight of it representing far more than wine.

"Dominic, I can't?—"

"I'm going to the Denver Wine Festival," he interrupts, the words rushing out as if he fears losing courage. "Hunter's been after me for years, and I finally said yes. Eleanor thinks I'm ready. I think... I hope she's right."

The revelation stuns me. "That's a huge step for you."

"One of several I've been considering." His eyes meet mine, direct and honest in a way that steals my breath. "I've been talking with Hunter about a collaborative project—Silverleaf wines featured at his restaurants, with regular events in both Denver and San Francisco."

My heart stutters at "San Francisco," at the implication contained in those two words.

"You'd travel to California?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"If there was sufficient reason." His gaze holds mine. "Professional and personal."

Before I can process this, he continues, words emerging with increasing momentum.

"I've researched satellite vineyard operations, consulting arrangements with flexible residency requirements.

There are models that work, Elena. Ways to bridge locations without either of us having to completely surrender what we've built. "

"You've been planning this," I realize, remembering Eleanor and Ruth's overheard conversation. "Researching options."

"Considering possibilities," he corrects gently. "Looking for solutions rather than obstacles. It's... not my natural approach. But for this—for you—I'm trying to see pathways instead of barriers."

Hope flutters against my ribcage, fragile but persistent. "Why didn't you tell me any of this yesterday, when I was making my decision?"

"Because I wasn't ready." His honesty cuts through any defensiveness I might have felt.

"I needed to be certain I could actually do it—step back into the public eye, consider a life that isn't completely contained on this mountain.

I couldn't ask you to bet on possibilities I wasn't sure I could deliver. "

This admission’s vulnerability touches me deeply. Dominic, who meticulously plans every detail of his vineyard, wouldn’t make half-formed promises. He needed certainty before offering options.

"I submitted Silverleaf for the Rising Star award at the Wine Association," I blurt out, needing to match his honesty with mine.

"Last week, before I left San Francisco. That’s why I was so determined to meet you and secure the exclusivity agreement.

I'd already nominated your wines for one of the industry's most prestigious recognitions for emerging vineyards. "

Surprise flashes across his face. "You believed in Silverleaf before you tasted it?"

"I researched your methods, tracked down people who sampled early vintages. Everything pointed to something extraordinary happening here." I step closer, clutching the bottle between us like a talisman. "I believed in your work before I met you. Now I believe in you."

For a moment, he seems speechless, processing this revelation. "We've both been taking steps toward each other," he says finally. "Without actually communicating about it."

"It appears we have a communication problem," I acknowledge, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the gravity of the moment.

"Among other compatible flaws." His answering smile holds equal parts warmth and sadness. "I'm not asking you to stay. Not right now. But I want my future to have you in it."

The clarification sends a chill through me.

"I'm asking you to consider a real partnership," he continues. "Professional and personal. Not a hasty decision made in the heat of emotion, but a deliberately considered path forward that honors both our ambitions."