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

When I round the corner at the top of the stairs, I find Dominic in the guest bathroom, water spraying wildly from a burst pipe near the ceiling right onto the bed.

"Shut-off valve," he shouts over the noise, pointing beneath the sink in the adjoining bathroom.

I drop to my knees, locate the valve, and twist it closed while Dominic attempts to control the spray with a towel. Even with the water off, significant damage has already been done—the guest room carpet is soaked.

The bed is a disaster.

“Damn it.” Dominic’s curse slices through the air, low and sharp, as he kicks aside a soaked throw rug. Water pools across the floor, glinting in the broken light. He rakes a hand through his wet hair, eyes narrowing as he surveys the damage.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, useless and breathless.

His head snaps up. He gives me a look—half exasperation, half that amused challenge he wears like a second skin.

“Why are you apologizing for physics?”

The words hit harder than they should. I force a laugh, thin and shaky .

“Reflex.”

Because that’s what Davis taught me.

Apologize.

Soften.

Absorb the blame before it can land any harder, even when it’s not mine to carry.

He stole my promotion and told me I wasn’t ready for it. Said my instincts were too raw. That my palate wasn’t refined enough to trust.

Which was laughable, really—coming from a man with the nose of a half-frozen bloodhound.

As for my nose?

Mine is one of the best in the country. Sharp enough to tear a wine apart down to the soil it grew in. Sharp enough to know when I’m being fed a lie.

Never strong enough to… leave .

Dominic doesn’t press. He just watches me, quiet and steady, like he sees more than I’m saying. Like he’s weighing whether or not to push.

The silence hums between us—hot, taut, and full of things neither of us is ready to name.

He bends to unplug a lamp from the wall, the motion pulling his Henley tight across the breadth of his shoulders. Controlled frustration hums through his body, visible in the set of his jaw, the flex of his fingers—but every movement is calm.

Deliberate.

Like everything with him.

“I guess I’m on the couch tonight.” I step carefully over the puddle spreading toward the dresser.

Dominic straightens.

Turns.

His gaze finds mine and pins it there.

“No.”

One word. Flat. Absolute.

I blink. “No?”

“My room has a king bed.” His voice is casual, but there’s an undercurrent to it. Flinty. Implacable. “Plenty of space. You’ll sleep with me.”

He says it like it’s already decided. Like there was never another option.

“In your bed,” I repeat, dumbly.

“Yes.” No hesitation. Not even a flicker.

“And where exactly will you be sleeping, Mr. Mercer? The couch downstairs isn’t nearly big enough for you.”

“I will also be sleeping in my bed.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. He watches me.

Steady.

Waiting for the fight he knows I’ll give him—and already certain he’ll win.

“You mean… both of us?” I try for lightness, but the words catch, a breathless hitch I can’t hide.

His eyes flicker. Not with doubt. With something hotter.

Hungrier.

“It’s a bed, Elena,” he says, voice low and maddeningly even. “You won’t be the first woman who’s ever shared one.”

The implication hits hard—like a dropped match in dry grass.

I feel it. The heat. The sharp, electric awareness curling tight behind my ribs.

“I’m not exactly dressed for a sleepover.” I cross my arms, defensive, battling the flush crawling up the back of my neck.

“I’ve got clean shirts.” His voice drops an octave, dark and lazy. “Pick one.”

“You’re not even going to pretend to offer the couch?”

“No.”

Blunt. Final. Not cruel—just fact. A line drawn in stone.

I stare at him .

He stares back.

The tension stretches between us, sharp and alive, a cord pulled too tight to last.

He’s not joking.

He’s not asking.

He’s already decided.

And some reckless, aching part of me doesn’t want him to back down.

Doesn’t want space.

Just wants to know how it feels when he finally stops pretending distance is the right choice.

“I’ll sleep on the very edge,” I murmur, the words barely scraping out.

“Suit yourself.” His mouth curves, slow and lethal. “Just don’t expect me to sleep on the floor to protect your modesty.”

The way he says it—it’s not crass. Not even seductive.

It’s just true.

An unmovable fact, like gravity.

"Relax." He steps closer, a deliberate invasion of space that leaves me rooted in place. His fingers brush my wrist lightly—barely a touch, just enough to brand me. “I told you before, sweetheart.” His voice is all smoke and steel. “When I decide to take you…” His mouth skims close to my ear. “It won’t be in a goddamn bed. Consider the bed a safe place.”

I swallow hard. The room spins around the molten center he creates.

“And you should be grateful,” he adds, that wicked glint sparking to life behind his eyes.

"Why?"

“If I were that caveman, you’d already be stripped bare, stretched out in front of that fire downstairs, and I wouldn’t be asking you what you wanted.”

He steps back then.

Slow. Controlled.

The master of the moment—and of me.

“Get changed, Elena.” His voice roughens, scraping low in his throat. “You’re soaking wet.”

The words land hard, the double meaning slicing clean through the cold and the chaos.

My body flashes hot.

Soaking wet.

From the burst pipe.

From him.

Heat licks up my spine, igniting my cheeks, my throat. I shift where I stand, the heavy cling of my drenched jeans against my skin suddenly unbearable, suffocating.

He watches me.

Still. Silent.

That faint, knowing gleam in his eyes says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.

I clear my throat, reaching blindly for my suitcase—only to find it half-submerged in a spreading puddle.

Of course.

Just perfect.

Dominic moves first. He crosses the room in two strides, crouching to inspect the dripping bag. His palm tests the fabric, fingers pressing into the soaked canvas.

“You’re not wearing anything out of there.”

I open my mouth to argue—what, exactly, I don’t know—but he’s already rising to his full, intimidating height.

“I’ll grab you a shirt. And some sweats,” he says, voice low and final. “They’ll be big on you. But they’ll be dry.”

I nod, throat too tight to form words, wrapping my arms around myself in a flimsy shield against the biting cold—and against him.

His gaze drags down over me, slow, deliberate, lingering where the soaked cotton clings too tightly to my curves .

Heat blazes under my skin, a pulse throbbing low and dangerous.

He steps closer, close enough that I catch the scent of him—woodsmoke and pine and pure male heat—and tips his head down so his voice brushes against the shell of my ear.

"I’ll get these in the wash."

Then he’s gone, boots heavy as he strides from the room, leaving me alone.

Soaked to the bone.

Burning from the inside out.

I clutch my arms tighter around myself, the ruined room blurring at the edges of my vision. Not from cold.

From him.

From the dangerous knowledge blooming like wildfire inside me. There’s nowhere left to run.

I’m still wondering how I’m going to survive a night beside a man who hasn’t even decided if he wants me, but already owns my body’s every goddamn reaction.

Dominic disappears down the hall, giving no further explanation. No apology. A few minutes later, he stops to toss me one of his shirts and a pair of gray sweatpants. He carries a laundry basket, filled with all my clothes.

We spend the next hour containing the damage. Towels. Buckets. Stripping the bed down to soaked foam and twisted sheets.

He works in silence, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight. I trail behind him, barefoot, and try not to shiver, wringing out towels and refusing to think about the fact that every minute brings us closer to bedtime.

By the time we’ve shut the door on the now-abandoned guest room, my hair’s damp at the temples, and my chest aches from holding in whatever this pressure is building between us.

The landline rings.

Dominic grabs it without hesitation, water still dripping from his arm.

“Mercer.” His voice is rough, but steady.

He listens for a moment, nodding once.

“She’s fine. She’s staying in my room.”

There’s a flick of his gaze to mine.

Like he knows I can hear him. Like he wants me to.

Another pause.

Then, flatly: “Goodnight.”

He hangs up.

Doesn’t explain.

Doesn’t ask if I’m okay with it.

He just walks past me into his room, leaving the door open behind him. An invitation. Or a command. Maybe both.

I step in after him, my legs shaking, caught in a storm that has nothing to do with the weather anymore.

"Who was that?"

He turns to me, his face unreadable. "Sheriff Donovan. The pass is completely closed. Avalanche danger is too high for even emergency vehicles."

"For how long?" My stomach drops.

"Three days, minimum."

Three days trapped in this house with Dominic Mercer. Three days of this unsettling awareness that hums between us like a live wire. Three days to either secure the business deal of my career, or ruin it completely.

"I hope you have more wine," I say, aiming for lightness. "We're going to need it."