Page 5 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

I’m left standing outside, the wind clawing at my jacket, every nerve ending still buzzing from Dominic’s words.

The door swings in the breeze behind him, wide open, daring me to step inside.

When I finally cross the threshold, the heat from the fire hits first. The scent of cedar and something darker—earth, smoke, him—wraps around me like a net.

Dominic is in the kitchen, sleeves shoved up, stacking slices of bread. He doesn’t look up right away. Doesn’t even acknowledge me.

For one breathless second, I think he might pretend nothing happened.

But then?—

His eyes lift.

And when they meet mine, the heat banked behind them is unmistakable.

There’s no apology in his gaze. No retreat.

Just a silent question:

Are you going to run, Ms. Santiago? Or are you going to stand your ground?

I square my shoulders.

I didn’t climb a mountain in a blizzard to fall apart because a man looked at me like he was ready to devour me.

Without a word, I cross to the counter and grab a knife, helping him slice. Our hands brush once, briefly, electric—and we both pretend not to notice.

The silence between us hums, not tense exactly…but volatile.

Like a wire pulled too tight.

When we finally sit down—simple sandwiches, mugs of steaming tea—Dominic leans back in his chair, studying me.

Waiting.

Testing.

I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the charged silence.

“Thanks,” I say, a little too brightly. “For showing me the vineyard. Even buried under snow, it’s…impressive.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile. But he says nothing.

“And for what it’s worth,” I add, wrapping my hands around the warm mug to ground myself, “Hunter Morgan doesn’t chase mediocre wines. The fact that he’s interested says a lot.”

Still nothing. Just that steady, unblinking stare that makes my heart skitter.

Fine.

Two can play the cool, detached game.

I sit a little straighter, forcing my voice into something brisk and professional.

“Exclusive distribution through some of the most respected restaurants in California,” I continue smoothly, as if we’re just two professionals talking shop, not two live wires crackling across a dangerously short distance. “It’s an opportunity to enter the market with immediate prestige.”

Dominic swirls the water in his glass slowly, watching it the way most people watch a dangerous animal—calm, but never careless.

“Why Silverleaf?” he asks finally. His voice is quiet, but it sinks beneath my skin. “There are bigger vineyards. Flashier names. Larger production capacity.”

I lean in slightly, feeling the hum in the air between us. Letting my passion, not my nerves, guide me.

“Because you’re doing something different. Something real.” My voice softens, deepens. “You’re not trying to make California wines in Colorado. You’re letting this place—this specific soil, this mountain—speak for itself.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s seeing me more clearly than he did a moment ago.

“Most California buyers want wines that taste like home,” he says.

“I’m not most buyers.” I meet his gaze head-on. “I’m looking for wines with a story. With a soul. Wines that don’t just fill a glass but leave a mark.”

For a long beat, he says nothing.

Just watches me.

The space between us vibrates—part challenge, part something darker and hotter, thrumming underneath.

Then something shifts in his expression, so subtle I almost miss it.

“We should taste,” he says, voice gruff, as if the words cost him something. He pushes back from the table, standing. “If you’re going to represent Silverleaf…” A pause. A slow burn in his eyes. “You should know what you’re selling.”

The professional part of me sparks with victory.

The woman inside me feels something else entirely and catches fire.

He disappears into the wine room, the door swinging shut behind him with a faint click.

I press a hand to my chest, trying to will my heartbeat back to something normal. It doesn’t work.

When Dominic returns, his arms are full—three bottles tucked against his chest, a fourth dangling from his long fingers.

The sight should be professional. Practical.

But the way he moves—the raw strength, the casual command of the space—sends a new rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with wine.

Without a word, he sets the bottles down on the rustic island and reaches for two glasses.

“First rule,” he says, voice a low rumble, “no talking until you’ve taken a sip.”

My brows lift. “You’re banning me from talking?”

He leans in slightly—close enough that I catch the faint scent of oak and cedar on his skin. His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You can moan if you want.”

The heat that flares in my cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. It’s molten.

Dangerous.

He pours the first glass, then holds it out, not setting it down. Waiting for me to take it from his hand.

The distance between us shrinks to nothing as I reach out. His fingers brush mine, deliberate and slow, lingering a beat longer than necessary.

A current arcs between us, hot enough to make my stomach clench.

He doesn’t release the glass immediately. His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, featherlight. Testing.

I feel the rasp of his calloused fingers as he passes me the glass, the roughness dragging across my skin like a match strike. My breath stutters, my pulse flaring in places I’d rather not acknowledge.

He doesn’t step back.

Just stands there—quiet, immovable—watching.

I bring the glass to eye level, turning it slowly in my hand. The wine clings to the crystal, viscous and rich, painting long, languid legs down the bowl. The color is deep garnet, almost inky, with flecks of ruby catching the light.

I tilt it. Swirl once.

The aroma rises, heady and complex. I lower my nose and inhale slowly.

Dark cherries crushed under the heel. Blackcurrant soaked in smoke. A hint of violet. Wet stone. And beneath it all, something wilder—feral, almost. Like damp forest moss after lightning strikes bark.

God.

I breathe deeper, and it’s him. It’s him in a glass.

I part my lips and taste.

Just the tip of my tongue first—testing. The acidity sparks, bright and flirtatious, before it deepens, blooming across my palate in waves.

Velvet tannins. Lush fruit. A savory undertone, almost like tobacco leaf or worn leather warmed by skin.

It slides down slowly, curling heat through my chest.

I close my eyes. Not because I intend to. Because I have to. The flavors seduce. The structure lingers. It wraps around my senses like a whisper and a grip, soft and firm all at once.

A low sound slips from my throat before I can stop it.

A moan. Quiet. Raw.

The stem trembles in my fingers. I blink hard, trying to pull myself back into my body, and find Dominic watching me with that wolf-still stare.

“Good?” he asks, voice thick with grit and something darker.

I meet his gaze—and nearly drop the glass .

Because he looks like he wants to taste the moan I just made. Like he already is.

Heat banked. Restraint stretched razor-thin.

"Yes. Better than good."

He pours his own glass and mirrors my movement, swirling the wine lazily, his gaze never leaving mine.

What follows is the most unconventional tasting of my career.

There’s no technical jargon. No scoring sheets. No clinical breakdown of tannins or acid balance.

Just Dominic. Still and commanding, the flicker of firelight dancing across his face as he holds out the first glass.

“Don’t analyze,” he says, his tone firm but quiet. “Not yet.”

I hesitate.

He doesn’t.

“Forget everything they taught you. Just taste.”

The glass is cool against my fingers, but his heat presses into me, close without touching. I bring it to my nose out of habit, but he stops me with a single word.

“No.”

I freeze.

His voice is lower now, deliberate.

“Not like that. Not the textbook ritual. Let it in first. Let it speak.”

Something in me resists. My training, my pride. But he just watches, unblinking, until resistance feels ridiculous. Childish.

I swirl. Slowly. Let the wine coat the bowl. It stains the glass with a deep ruby sheen, clinging like a secret. When I lift it, I catch the scent—dark fruit and wet earth, a hint of something smoky underneath. Primitive. Wild.

Still, I don’t speak. Not yet. He said to taste.

I let the wine touch the tip of my tongue—just a whisper—then pull it deeper, letting it unfurl across my palate.

It blooms. Not like a flower. Like heat. Like silk turning to flame.

Black cherry. Crushed herbs. Smoke and shadow and the memory of sunlight.

I close my eyes.

A low sound escapes before I can catch it. Not a word. Not a note. Just breath laced with pleasure.

When I open them again, Dominic is closer. Not quite touching, but the air between us buzzes like an electric current.

“No notes?” he murmurs, amused. “No critiques?”

I shake my head. Swallow hard.

“Good. That one was meant to be felt first. Then understood.”

The next sip is richer, more structured. My brain itches to dissect it—cabernet franc, maybe?—But Dominic’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Don’t name it yet. Let it take you.”

Every word he speaks becomes part of the wine—velvet and iron, slow and inescapable. Each taste unwinds another part of me, loosening the bindings of discipline and precision until all that’s left is sensation and heat.

By the fourth sip, the space between us is molten.

I lift the glass to the firelight, watching the garnet liquid shimmer.

“There’s tension here,” I say softly. “Structure, yes, but… something beneath it. Something it’s fighting to contain.”

Dominic steps in.

His glass finds mine, their rims brushing with a soft, aching chime.

“That vineyard’s on the edge of a south-facing slope,” he says. “Sun all morning. But the soil’s lean. Rocky. The vines fight for everything.”

His fingers graze mine as he takes the stem of my glass, holding it steady between us.

“And that fight,” he adds, eyes locked on mine, “pulls something out of them they wouldn’t give up otherwise. Something raw. Unpredictable. But unforgettable.”

His thumb lingers at the base of my fingers—just a touch. Just enough.

“Struggle breeds intensity,” he says. “If you know how to guide it. Shape it.” He leans in slightly, his breath stirring the loose hair near my cheek. “If you know how to master it.”

The word lands heavily between us.

I don’t breathe.

He steps back, slow as a drawl. Swirls his glass again with that same quiet command.

“Some things need taming,” he says, voice like sin over silk. “Others…” A pause. A glance that drags over me. “You taste once—and let them ruin you.”

I shiver—and it’s not from the cold.

I try to focus, to act unaffected, but the scent of him—oak and smoke and mountain air—wraps around me, thick and heady.

“It’s beautiful,” I admit, my voice softer now, reverent, unable to disguise my admiration. “You could sell this for three times your current price point.”

He gives a rough huff of breath, almost a laugh, almost a growl.

“It’s not about the price.”

I tip my head toward him, a little teasing, trying to cut through the thick gravity between us.

“It’s always about the price,” I counter, my voice light but sure. “Sustainability requires profitability. Even tortured vines can’t live on poetry alone.”

A shadow cuts across his face, slicing through the simmering heat. His mouth tightens, like he’s weighing several arguments—none of them easy.

Before he can respond, a loud crack echoes through the house—sharp, violent—and a moment later, a rush of water follows.

Inside the house.

Dominic curses, the sound low and visceral, his whole body going taut.

He’s moving before I can process it, already sprinting toward the stairs.

I set my glass down on the heavy wooden counter and chase after him, the charged air between us snapping like a live wire.