Page 7 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

Dominic doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t turn around. Just peels off his damp shirt, tossing it into a nearby hamper as if he’s alone.

His muscles shift beneath sun-browned skin, shadows catching in the grooves of his spine. There’s another scar along his ribcage—thin, silvery, brutal. I don’t look away fast enough.

“Shower’s there, if you want one,” he says without facing me. “Towels in the cabinet. Take your time.”

His voice is quiet. Controlled. But something about it curls low and tight in my stomach.

“Thanks,” I manage, backing out of the room with more haste than grace. I barely make it to the hallway before I exhale.

One bed.

And several hours to kill before I’m expected to climb into it… with him.

The shower helps .

A little.

The hot water doesn’t last long—mountain plumbing—but it’s enough to scrub away the scent of damp linen and nerves.

I towel off quickly, slipping into another oversized gray T-shirt that Dominic set out for me.

It falls nearly to my knees. Smells faintly of cedar and smoke and something else—him, again.

Of course.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

Hair damp and curling around my face. Bare legs. Bare feet.

My heart beating way too fast for someone just waiting out a storm.

Back in the kitchen, he’s made tea. Or coffee. Or something warm that smells like citrus peel and spice.

He’s sitting at the island now, barefoot, his forearms braced on the wood, flipping through a worn copy of The World Atlas of Wine. I half expect him to ignore me, but the moment I cross into the room, his eyes lift.

Slowly. Deliberately.

They don’t flick back down.

They stay.

“I didn’t peg you for a tea drinker,” I say, forcing casual as I cross to the stove.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Not usually. But I figured you might need something to do with your hands.”

I glance down. He’s right. Mine are fidgeting, restless.

Dominic pours a second cup without asking. Pushes it across the island toward me.

I sit.

The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s just there. Heavy and waiting.

The wind picks up outside again. The fire crackles faintly in the living room.

Every tick of the clock on the wall is another second closer to the thing neither of us is talking about.

One bed.

He doesn’t mention it again. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t gloat. Just acts like it’s settled.

I offer to help with dinner, mostly because I need something to do, something other than spiral about sleeping arrangements.

He hands me a cutting board and a chef’s knife without protest. Wordless, but not unkind. Just… watching me again.

Always watching.

We fall into a rhythm, slicing vegetables in the expansive, open kitchen with its butcherblock counters and antique copper pans. He moves with the kind of efficiency that only comes from doing everything yourself. I chop. He sears venison in a cast iron skillet, the scent rich and mouthwatering.

“How do you have a freezer full of gourmet ingredients up here but no cell reception?”

“Priorities.” His mouth twitches as he glances at me. “Wine, food, peace, and quiet.”

I raise a brow. “And random stranded sommeliers?”

“That part wasn’t planned.” He doesn’t take the bait. Just flips the steak.

We eat in front of the fire.

The plates are mismatched. The food is flawless. Venison, roasted root vegetables, and a red wine reduction. I’m ninety percent sure he improvised on the spot.

I make a few vague comments about terroir and food pairings to fill the silence, but Dominic doesn’t say much in return.

Not verbally, at least.

His gaze says plenty. Every time I reach for my glass, every time I lick sauce from the corner of my mouth, every time my knee brushes his under the low coffee table, we both go still. Not tense. Not uncomfortable.

But waiting.

The fire snaps behind us, casting his face in flickering gold. Shadows catch in the hollow of his throat, the slope of his cheekbone, the sharp cut of his jaw. There’s too much beauty in this room. Too much heat. And not enough distance.

“I’m small,” I say after the silence stretches too long. “I can fit on the couch.”

He doesn’t look up. Just finishes his wine, sets the glass down carefully, and levels his gaze at me like a challenge.

“No.”

“I’m just saying?—”

“I heard you.” His voice is low. Final. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“No,” he says again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t. But you’re still not doing it.”

“You know, some people would feel awkward about this.” I cross my arms, ignoring the flutter deep in my stomach.

“I’m not some people.” His eyes meet mine, dark and steady. “The bed is big enough. End of discussion.”

End of discussion.

The words land in my chest like a stone dropped in deep water.

I look away, suddenly interested in the last piece of roasted carrot on my plate.

Dominic stands, taking both our dishes without a word. He moves to the sink, the scrape of silverware the only sound in the room now. I stare into the fire and pretend I’m not aware of every step he takes, every dish he rinses, every flicker of movement in my periphery.

When he finally returns to the hearth, he sits on the arm of the leather chair instead of the cushion. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Watching the fire like it might crack open and spill secrets.

I set down my wine.

He speaks before I can get up.

“I don’t bite.”

That voice again. Rough silk and rust. It slides under my skin.

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Wouldn’t dream of reassuring you.” His smile is slow. Dangerous.

I stand, suddenly needing space. Air. Distance that doesn’t exist in this house.

“I think I should sleep on the couch,” I say.

“No.”

My eyes snap to his. “Excuse me?”

He pushes off the arm of the chair and stands. Slowly. Purposefully. All lean muscle and quiet authority.

“We’re done discussing this. You’re not sleeping on that couch. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

Heat coils low in my belly.

“Dominic—”

"I'll be a gentleman." He steps closer, closing the last sliver of space between us, his voice low enough to rattle in my chest. "I can keep my hands to myself for one night."

My mouth parts, but words fail me as his gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes with unmistakable intent.

"You're not exactly making it easy," I finally manage, barely more than a breath.

"Neither are you." His smile is wicked, lazy. Possessive. "I'm the one who has to sleep next to you all night and not touch you. But you don't see me complaining."

Heat blooms across my skin, my pulse thudding in my ears as every nerve ending prickles with awareness of him, of the narrow space between us.

"Come. It's late." He lifts his hand, palm up, expectant. Not a demand. Not quite. But his eyes don't suggest no for an answer. "Time for bed."

I hesitate. "I'm just supposed to trust a man I barely know?"

His eyes glitter. "I told you, tonight I'll be the perfect gentleman. You'll be safe with me."

"For how long?" I tilt my chin.

"For tonight," he promises, his voice a low rumble. "You have my word."

"And tomorrow?"

Something dangerous flickers across his face. The smile that follows is slow and sharp.

"Tomorrow is another day."

I draw in a breath that shakes at the edges. His eyes track the movement, darkening.

"But, I should warn you," he says, voice dropping to something intimate, private. "Even gentlemen have thoughts that are far from gentlemanly."

"Like what?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

He draws back slightly, surprise flashing across his features. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, caught off guard by my interest.

"I’ll tell you," he says, his voice rougher now, "but it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because it will take everything I have to keep my word tonight." His gaze drops to my lips. His gaze is steady, unapologetic. "But thoughts aren't actions. You're still safe with me."

Heat pools low in my belly, an ache building that I try to ignore.

He doesn't smile. Just studies me. Quiet and still. Heat simmering under the surface.

"Now, come." He takes my hand.

Big. Warm. Steady.

He doesn't tug. Doesn't force. Just stands there.

Waiting.

My fingers curl into his. My feet move.

And I follow him. Upstairs. Into the dark.

Straight into the storm we haven't started yet.

Upstairs, the hall is quiet, the wood creaking softly beneath our steps. He leads me past the guest room I was meant to use—now waterlogged and dark—to the last door at the end of the hallway.

His room.

He pushes it open, releasing a wave of warmth. The air smells like cedar and something deeper—him, sharp and clean. The bed dominates the space: a low, wide frame made from dark wood, layered in charcoal gray sheets and a thick quilt.

There’s no clutter. No mess. Just simplicity and silence, broken only by the storm outside.

Dominic releases my hand and crosses the room, flipping the corner of the quilt back on one side without looking at me. “The sheets are clean, and you already know where the bathroom is.”

“Thanks.” I nod, throat tight.

He heads into the bathroom without another word. The door clicks softly behind him.

I stand frozen in the center of his bedroom, suddenly unsure what to do with my body. I breathe in, breathe out, toes curling in the plush rug, heart thumping like it hasn’t figured out he said safe. That he promised to be a gentleman. That he hasn’t touched me—won’t touch me—unless I ask.

And I’m not asking. Not tonight.

When the door opens again, he’s stripped down to a pair of low-slung navy sweatpants and nothing else. My mouth goes dry. Muscles carved in quiet strength. Scar near his shoulder. The kind of body that doesn’t come from vanity—it’s forged from work. Restraint. Control.

He lifts a brow. “Something wrong?”

“No.” I move quickly into the bathroom before I combust.

Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Try not to stare at the clean stack of towels, the bar of soap that smells like pine and citrus and rain. When I return, the lights are off, save for a warm amber glow from the fireplace tucked into the wall across from the bed.

Dominic’s already under the covers. On his side. Facing away.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t turn.

I slip beneath the sheets as quietly as possible. The mattress is soft, the warmth immediate. But it’s the space beside me—filled with heat and tension and too much silence—that makes it hard to breathe.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer.

Eventually, his breath evens out. The slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

I lie there, eyes open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. My body is tired, but my mind won’t stop spinning. Not with the weight of the day. The storm. Him.

I shift slightly. The sheet slides over my hip.

And then I feel it.

His arm snakes around my waist in one slow, unconscious motion. Not urgent. Not possessive. Just solid. Heavy. Warm.

He curls behind me without waking, the weight of him pressing into my back, anchoring me. His chest brushes my spine, breath stirring the hair at my neck.

I hold still, every nerve sparking .

And then—slowly, slowly—I exhale.

I don’t pull away.

I let myself lean back, just enough to feel him more fully. The heat. The safety. The question I’m not ready to ask and the answer I feel anyway.

And with his arm draped across my waist, his body curled protectively around mine, I finally drift into sleep.