Page 34 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The Denver Wine Festival hums with energy around me, hundreds of industry professionals navigating the elegant ballroom of the Brown Palace Hotel.

Crystal glasses clink, and passionate debates about terroir and vintage conditions fill the air.

Everywhere, the subtle dance of business relationships forms and evolves amid the controlled chaos.

Less than a month ago, I left Angel's Peak with a bottle of impossibly young wine and a flash drive full of possibilities. Now I stand in this crowded festival as someone whose professional standing has both diminished and expanded in ways I couldn't have predicted.

My confrontation with Catherine Halsey about Davis's plagiarism went better than expected.

Armed with Dominic's strategic advice and meticulous documentation of my work, I presented my case not as a personal grievance but as a matter of intellectual property protection for the company.

Catherine, ever the pragmatist, recognized both the legal implications and the talent management problem at hand.

Davis remains Partner—the ownership group too invested in their decision to reverse course completely—but I now hold the newly created position of Director of Wine Innovation, reporting directly to Catherine rather than through Davis.

My role focuses on discovering emerging vineyards and developing educational programs across the restaurant group, with greater autonomy than I had before.

On paper, it's a win. In practice, something still feels incomplete.

I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes. The judging panel for the Rising Star award convenes in thirty minutes, and Dominic still hasn't arrived. We've exchanged brief texts confirming he's en route, but nothing since he entered the mountains, where service becomes unreliable.

His last message, sent yesterday: Making final preparations. See you tomorrow. Still on board?

My reply had been simple: Absolutely.

I adjust the display of Silverleaf materials at the small presentation table I've been allotted.

Unlike the elaborate booths of established wineries, this modest space reflects Silverleaf's selective approach—quality over quantity, substance over spectacle.

I've arranged the bottles to tell a story, from Dominic's first commercial vintage to the small sample vials of his experimental varietals that I've been authorized to share with the judging panel.

"Elena…" Davis materializes beside me, his slimy smile oozing across his face. "Quite the modest display. I expected more from your... personal connection."

The emphasis he places on "personal" makes his insinuation clear. In the three weeks since my return, Davis has subtly worked to undermine my professional credibility by suggesting my interest in Silverleaf stems from romantic entanglement rather than business acumen.

"Quality speaks for itself," I reply coolly. "Silverleaf doesn't need elaborate marketing to impress those who understand what they're tasting."

He examines one of the bottles, his expertise genuine despite his personal failings. "Interesting structure. Almost reminds me of that small producer in Mendocino I discovered last year."

"You mean the one I included in my Northern California survey?" I maintain my pleasant expression. "I'm glad my research made an impression."

Color rises in his cheeks—our new arrangement might prevent him from claiming my work, but it doesn't stop me from reminding him of past appropriations. Before he can respond, Catherine approaches, her assessing gaze taking in our tense tableau.

"Elena, the Rising Star judging panel is gathering early.

They're particularly interested in hearing about Silverleaf's experimental high-altitude hybrids.

" She nods curtly to Davis. "The Rhone Valley representatives are looking for you on the main tasting floor.

Something about inconsistencies in the Syrah selection. "

Davis retreats with poor grace, leaving Catherine and me alone.

"Any sign of your reclusive winemaker?" She asks, scans the room.

"Not yet." I try to keep the worry out of my voice. "But he'll be here."

Catherine studies me with the penetrating gaze that's made her formidable in our male-dominated industry. "When you first pitched this exclusive partnership, I assumed it was just business strategy. Now I'm not so sure."

"It's an exceptional opportunity for the restaurant group." I keep my professional mask firmly in place.

"Undoubtedly." Her shrewd eyes miss nothing. "And the fact that you've been distracted, checking your phone, and looking at the entrance every thirty seconds has nothing to do with personal considerations? "

Heat rises to my cheeks. "I'm simply concerned about presenting to the judging panel without the winemaker present."

"Of course." Her tone makes clear she doesn't believe me for a second. "Just remember, successful women in this business don't have the luxury of blurring professional and personal boundaries."

The warning is delivered without malice, but it lands heavily nonetheless. Catherine speaks from experience, having navigated these waters longer than I have.

"I understand." The clear divisions between personal and professional that once seemed essential to my career now feel like lines drawn in the sand rather than stone.

Catherine glances at her watch. "Judges' room in twenty minutes. With or without your winemaker."

As she walks away, I scan the entrance again, anxiety building. Dominic's absence wouldn't just be professionally awkward—it would mean something has gone wrong with the careful plan we've constructed over the past three weeks through late-night calls and detailed emails.

I'm considering texting him again when a ripple of interest moves through the crowd near the entrance. Conversations pause, heads turn, and a pathway clears organically as several figures enter the festival floor.

Dominic walks at the center of an unexpected entourage, Merlot trotting obediently at his heel, wearing a service dog vest that must have been arranged specially for this event.

Ruth Fletcher flanks him on one side, elegant in a tailored dress that transforms her from small-town bar owner to sophisticated wine professional.

On his other side, Eleanor Morgan walks with remarkable vigor for her age, her silver hair styled impeccably, her cane seemingly more accessory than necessity today.

Behind them comes Hunter Morgan, whose James Beard Award and celebrity chef status cause their own stir, and to my surprise, Sheriff Donovan in dress uniform rather than his usual khaki.

But it's Dominic who captures and holds my attention.

Gone is the isolated vineyard owner in workwear and stubble.

In his place stands a commanding presence in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, neatly styled dark hair, and clean-shaven jaw highlighting the strong lines of his face.

He looks exactly like what he is—wine royalty temporarily in exile, now making a calculated return.

Whispers follow their progress through the room: "Is that Dominic Mercer? From the Napa fire?" "I heard he'd gone completely off-grid." "That's Eleanor Morgan with him—didn't she sell her vineyard years ago?" "The dog is actually allowed in here?"

Dominic's eyes find mine across the crowded space, and everything else fades to background noise.

In that moment of connection, three weeks of separation collapse into nothing.

He moves purposefully in my direction, his entourage creating a protective buffer against the curious onlookers and former colleagues who clearly want to approach.

"You came," I say when he reaches me. The inadequate words are all I can manage past the emotion tightening my throat.

"I said I would." His voice is steady, but tension bunches in the muscles of his shoulders.

"With reinforcements," I observe, nodding toward his companions.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "They insisted. Something about not trusting me to follow through without supervision."

"He needed moral support," Ruth interjects, giving me a quick hug. "And we weren't about to miss his triumphant return to civilization. "

"Or the chance to meet the woman who accomplished what the rest of us couldn't," Eleanor adds with her characteristic directness. "Getting this stubborn man to rejoin the world of the living."

Before I can respond, a festival coordinator approaches, nervously eyeing Merlot. "Mr. Mercer? The Rising Star judging panel is convening. Ms. Santiago is scheduled to present your wines, but they've requested your presence."

Dominic tenses visibly, with an impulse to refuse flashing across his face. His hand drops to Merlot's head, seeking the comfort of connection as he faces this first major test of his resolve.

"We'll be right there," I answer for both of us, my hand finding his in a gesture of solidarity. To my relief, his fingers intertwine with mine, accepting the support.

Ruth winks at me as they move toward the judges' room, Hunter Morgan falling into step beside us.

"I've been singing your praises to anyone who'll listen," Hunter tells Dominic. "The vertical tasting you sent me was extraordinary—especially that experimental varietal. Completely transforms my understanding of what's possible at high altitude."

The praise seems to ground Dominic, shifting his focus from social anxiety to the work that has always been his refuge. By the time we enter the judges' room, some of his tension has eased, replaced by the quiet confidence he displays when discussing his vineyard.