Page 4 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"Thought you might need checking on." He approaches with an easy gait. "Cell towers are down, and the pass is completely snowed in." His gaze shifts to me with obvious interest. "Hello there."

"Paul, this is Elena Santiago," Dominic introduces me with obvious reluctance. "She's a wine director from San Francisco. Got caught in the storm yesterday."

"Lucky storm." Paul grins, extending a gloved hand. "Paul Ramsey. Maintenance manager at The Haven resort. Former Olympic snowboarder, current mountain rescue volunteer, and the guy who keeps this grumpy winemaker connected to civilization."

I shake his hand, returning his smile. "Nice to meet you. I appreciate the rescue check."

"My pleasure." His charm is effortless and warm—a stark contrast to Dominic's brooding intensity. "Any friend of Dom's is a friend of mine, especially one who appreciates good wine."

"Ms. Santiago isn't a friend," Dominic clarifies, his voice cooling. "She's here on business."

"Don't mind him. He's nicer after you open a bottle or two." Paul gives me a conspiratorial wink. I laugh despite myself, earning a dark look from Dominic .

Dominic’s head snaps up from where he’s inspecting the vines, his gaze locking onto me with a look that could strip paint. My laughter dies mid-breath.

Paul either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.

"Hunter wanted me to remind you about his offer," Paul says, turning to Dominic. "He's still interested in featuring Silverleaf exclusively at The Haven's restaurant."

Dominic’s jaw flexes once. Hard.

“And my answer hasn’t changed. Silverleaf isn’t ready for that kind of exposure.”

"Hunter?" I ask, frowning. "As in Hunter Morgan?"

“That’s him.” Paul nods, grinning.

“The man won a James Beard Award,” I say, incredulous. “His endorsement would put you on the map.”

Dominic straightens to his full height, slow and deliberate, his hands settling low on his hips. The tension rolling off him is a physical thing. He stares down at me, eyes dark beneath the brim of his cap.

“I don’t want to be on the map,” he says flatly.

Paul sighs, shooting me an apologetic look.

"See what I have to work with? Hunter Morgan is the most celebrated chef in the state, and this guy turns him down flat. And now that Lucas and his wife have established The Haven as the premier wedding venue in the state, it’s a lot of exposure and free advertising.

Hunter’s been chasing Silverleaf for two years now. ”

The realization hits harder than I expect. If Hunter Morgan—the king of local sourcing—wants Silverleaf, these wines aren’t just good. They’re extraordinary.

“Enough, Paul.” Dominic’s voice slices clean through the air, sharp as the wind whipping down off the ridge. No bluster. No raised volume. Just quiet command, coiled tight and edged in steel.

Paul goes still. Hands lift in mock surrender.

“Just the messenger,” he says, voice still warm, but his eyes flick to Dominic now with more calculation than charm. Then he looks at me. “But if the mountain gets too cold, sweetheart, my sled’s warm and waiting.”

He throws the line like a joke, but there’s something behind it—a dare.

Before I can respond, Dominic steps in.

Not fast.

Not loud.

Just there—his body angling between us like a wall. A shield. A line drawn in the snow.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. The heat radiating off him is enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms.

“She’s fine here.” His voice is low and final. “I’ll bring her down when the roads clear.”

The wind howls. The tension howls louder.

Paul holds his smile, but it’s brittle now. Faintly cracked at the edges. He eyes Dominic like he’s seeing something he hadn’t before—like this isn’t just Dominic being the town’s reclusive winemaker.

It’s Dominic claiming.

“Alright then,” Paul says after a beat. He mounts the snowmobile, pausing just long enough to flick his gaze to me. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

The engine snarls, kicking up powder as he speeds off, leaving a wake of silence behind him.

I turn slowly, crossing my arms, not for defense. To keep my hands from shaking.

“What the hell was that?”

Dominic doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just gives me that look—intense, unreadable, like he’s deciding whether to answer me honestly or not .

“Paul has a habit,” he says at last, “of trying to rescue things that don’t need rescuing.”

“Things like me?” I arch a brow, heat prickling across my chest.

His eyes don’t leave mine. “Exactly like you.”

I’m not letting him off that easily.

“So was that your way of… what? Pissing in a circle around me?”

His mouth twitches. Just barely.

“If you’re going to act like a caveman and stake a claim, at least buy me dinner first. Or use actual words instead of… testosterone.”

“You’d rather I used words?”

“Depends,” I shoot back. “Are they going to be full sentences or just more of that primal grunting?”

Something dark flashes in his eyes. Something possessive. Wicked.

He steps in again, closer than close now, his voice low enough to chase chills down my spine.

“If I wanted to claim you, Elena…” His fingers brush a strand of hair off my cheek, feather-light. “…you wouldn’t be confused about it.”

My breath catches.

Because he’s not posturing now.

He’s promising.

And god help me—I want to dare him to follow through.

I try to sound flippant. Try to act like his neanderthal routine doesn’t short-circuit my entire nervous system.

I fail. Spectacularly.

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, untamed. A warning. A promise.

He steps closer, slow and unrelenting, boots grinding into the snow. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t lunge. Just invades, inch by inch, until there’s nothing left between us but heat and breath.

I square my shoulders, spine locked straight, like that’ll stop my body from betraying me.

“What if I’m with someone?” The words come out steady, but I hate how breathless they sound. “What if I’m not available to be… claimed ?”

His eyes flare, pupils darkening until there’s almost no color left.

Not angry. Not surprised.

Just possessive.

“If you were with someone, sweetheart…” His gaze drops to my mouth. “…you wouldn’t be standing here staring at me like you’re starving.”

The words hit low and deep. My knees damn near buckle.

“And even if you were with someone…” His voice drops an octave, raw and ragged, “…it wouldn’t matter.”

“Why not?” My breath stutters.

A beat.

His stare pins me—molten and merciless.

“Because, if I decide I want you…” He takes another step, slow and deliberate, “…I’ll take you.”

No apology. No hesitation. Just pure, devastating certainty.

I’ll take you.

My thighs clench, heat licking up my spine. I sway, helpless against the gravity of him, the dangerous pull of something ancient and undeniable.

He watches me like I’m already his. That slow, ruthless smile curves his mouth again—wolfish and knowing.

“But,” he says, voice softer now, silk over steel, “I haven’t decided if I want you, yet.” His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there. “We’ve only just met.”

Every syllable hits like a match to dry kindling. It shouldn’t affect me like this. Shouldn’t light me up from the inside out.

But it does.

The air feels too thin. My lungs drag in cold that doesn’t reach the wildfire under my skin. The storm rages around us, snow swirling in frantic gusts, but I barely feel it.

There’s only him.

Only this.

The space between us crackles—volatile, electric. Like if he touches me now, I’ll combust.

“For what it’s worth, if I were a caveman, sweetheart,” He leans in, breath brushing my ear, rough and warm and wicked, “I wouldn’t bother with buying you dinner.

We wouldn’t be having this conversation.

” His mouth hovers a whisper away, heat radiating through the layers between us, igniting something deep and reckless inside me.

“You’d already be stripped bare…” His breath slides along my jaw, and I can’t stop the shiver. “…marked and claimed so thoroughly, there’d never be a doubt who you belong to.”

My heart slams. My body betrays me completely.

But then, he pulls back. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t press the advantage.

He straightens, turns, and walks away like he didn’t just light me up and walk through the wreckage without blinking. His boots crunch across the porch, each step deliberate. He leaves the door open behind him.

A dare.

A test.

Like a leash made of silence and smoke.

And I stand there, stunned and breathless, the wind needling my skin, my thoughts scattered like ash. Wondering how the hell I’m supposed to survive another night trapped with a man like him.

Silence stretches. The trees groan in the wind.

Still, I don’t move.

Can’t.

My breath fogs the air in front of me, sharp and uneven. My pulse is a thunder drum in my ears.

One step. Just one step, and I’d be inside with him.

Alone.

I swallow hard, but the heat he left behind still simmers low, deep, coiled tight like a fuse waiting to burn.