Page 8 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The first thing I feel is heat, low and slow, sinking deep into the mattress and radiating against my side, as if someone had just been there.

The second is absence.

I blink awake to the soft glow of morning filtering through heavy curtains. The king-sized bed stretches wide around me, too big, too empty. One side of the quilt is rumpled. The pillow still carries the faint indentation of his head.

But Dominic is gone.

I lie there for a beat, my mind fogged with sleep and the memory of the night before—Dominic’s voice against the firelight, his body barely a breath away, the heavy weight of his arm curling around my waist like something he couldn’t stop even in sleep. My skin still hums from the contact.

I roll toward the warm side of the bed, fingers grazing the cooled sheets, the ache of something unspoken blooming low and slow in my chest.

Then it hits me.

Clang .

A sharp metallic rattle echoes through the silence of the house, followed by a muttered curse.

I sit, pulse kicking. Not alarmed—just curious. The kind of curiosity that drags me out of the warmth and into movement before I can think better of it.

Dominic’s sweatshirt lies draped over a nearby chair. I pull it over my sleep shirt, the soft cotton sliding against my bare skin. The sleeves swallow my hands, the hem brushes my thighs. It smells like cedar and cold air and him.

I slip quietly down the hall, the hardwood cool under my feet, following the sound of metal clashing and low, frustrated grumbling.

I find the source of the noise in a small utility room off the kitchen.

Dominic kneels before an exposed section of pipe, tools scattered around him.

He's shirtless, wearing only low-slung jeans, his back a landscape of muscle and unexpected scars.

A thin white line tracks from his left shoulder blade to his spine.

Another puckered and angry curve along his ribs.

My breath catches, not just at the evidence of past injuries, but at the raw physicality of him. Droplets of water glisten on his shoulders, sliding down the contours of his back as he works. His skin is flushed with exertion, a startling contrast to the dark hair curling at his nape.

"You're staring," he says without turning around, his voice morning-rough.

Heat floods my face. "Do you need help?"

"Unless you're hiding plumbing expertise under that sommelier certification, not really." He twists something with a wrench, cursing when water sprays in response.

I step closer, spotting another pipe with frost forming along its length. "That one's freezing too."

Dominic follows my gaze and mutters something that sounds like a prayer for patience. " Hand me that heat tape."

I pass him the electrical tape and find myself drafted into emergency plumbing service.

For the next hour, Dominic makes repairs while I hold tools, shine flashlights into dark corners, and occasionally mop up water. The close quarters force us into constant proximity, my arm brushing his bare shoulder, his hand guiding mine to hold something steady.

Each accidental touch sends a rush of awareness through me that has nothing to do with the actual work we're doing. I find myself simultaneously hoping for and dreading these brief contacts, my body responding with a mind of its own.

"That should hold," Dominic finally says, sitting back on his heels. A sheen of sweat covers his chest despite the chill, highlighting the definition of muscles earned through physical labor rather than a gym. "But we'll need to keep the faucets dripping. The temperature's still dropping."

Only then does he seem to register his state of undress, as if suddenly remembering I'm not Paul or some other mountain buddy accustomed to emergency repairs. Something shifts in his expression—awareness, maybe even a flicker of self-consciousness.

"I'll get cleaned up," he says, rising in a fluid motion that reminds me his physical power isn't just for show.

While Dominic showers, I wander through his home, studying the bookshelves with professional and personal interest. Between viticulture texts and reference books sits a binder labeled simply "Reviews." Curiosity gets the better of me.

Inside, I find a meticulously organized collection of wine reviews—not just of his wines but various Colorado vineyards over the years.

And tucked within those pages, a separate section containing my published work: columns from Wine Spectator, features I'd written for industry publications, even my controversial piece on emerging wine regions that earned both praise and condemnation .

I'm still paging through it when Dominic returns, fully dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, hair damp from his shower.

"Research?" I ask, holding up the binder.

"Know your critics." He takes the binder from my hands, his fingers brushing mine as he closes it. “Your piece on Eleanor Morgan's vineyard was particularly memorable.”

My stomach drops.

Eleanor Morgan—the name clicks sharply into place. A small producer I reviewed early in my career. A vineyard that tried to compete with the bigger estates but didn’t have the polish to match.

“You know her?” I ask cautiously.

“Everyone in Colorado wine country knows Eleanor.” His voice carries an edge, low and cutting. “She’s stubborn. Believed in this place before it was fashionable. Your review nearly crushed her.”

The memory of that article floods back—an unflinching critique I’d written when I was still clawing my way up, determined to prove I couldn’t be bought by sentiment or nostalgia.

“I stand by my technical assessment,” I say carefully. “The wine had flaws. Major ones.”

“The wine had heart,” Dominic says, shelving the binder. “It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it mattered. It was honest. And you reduced it to a couple of clever insults and a forgettable rating.”

The criticism lands harder than it should, maybe because he isn’t wrong. I hadn’t yet learned that honesty and cruelty can be two very different things.

“If this is going to be an issue for our business relationship—” I start.

“Eleanor sold the vineyard six months after your article.” Dominic’s voice cuts across mine, flat and final. “Some say it was health. Others know better.”

Guilt twists in my chest, sharp and sickening.

I remember the pride on Eleanor's weathered face when she walked me through those rows of struggling vines.

I remember crushing it under my boot, thinking I was doing my job.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “If my words contributed to that decision…I never meant to destroy someone’s life. But I can’t apologize for being honest.”

Dominic studies me across the small kitchen, eyes dark and unreadable.

For a breathless moment, the silence stretches taut between us, full of things neither of us is ready to say.

"I suppose that’s fair." He turns away, effectively ending the conversation. "Breakfast is ready if you're hungry."

The day stretches before us, and we are trapped together as the storm intensifies. Wind howls around the eaves, and snow piles against the windows until the world outside becomes a featureless white void.

We maintain a careful distance after our morning clash, retreating to neutral topics as we share the space.

By afternoon, the temperature inside the house has dropped noticeably despite the woodstove's efforts. Dominic builds a fire in the main fireplace while I wrap myself in a borrowed blanket, watching his methodical movements as he arranges logs.

"How long have you lived here?" I ask, breaking a silence that has stretched too long.

"Seven years. Bought the land after..." He hesitates. "After Napa."

I wait, not pushing, sensing he might continue if given space .

"The first two years were just planning and preparation. Soil tests, microclimate studies, finding the right rootstock." The fire catches, and he sits back, watching the flames grow. "Most people thought I was crazy. A vanity project doomed to fail."

"But you proved them wrong."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Not everyone doubted.

Ruth Fletcher from The PickAxe in town—she offered to feature my first vintage exclusively when it was ready, no matter how it turned out.

" His expression softens with the memory.

"Said she'd rather serve interesting failures than boring successes. "

"Sounds like someone I'd like."

"You would." He glances at me, the firelight catching golden highlights in his eyes. "She'd like you, too. She appreciates people who know what they're talking about, even when she disagrees with them."

It feels like a peace offering, this small acknowledgment. I accept it with a nod, relaxing slightly into the blanket.

"Why wine?" he asks unexpectedly. "With your palate and analytical skills, you could have gone into perfume development or food science, fields with regular hours and stable paychecks."

The question catches me off guard—it’s personal in a way our previous conversations haven’t been. "My grandfather was from northern Spain," I find myself explaining. He brought his love of wine to California and planted a small vineyard behind their house. Nothing commercial, just for family."

The memory warms me more than the fire. "He taught me how to taste—really taste—when I was a little girl. We'd sit on his porch, me with grape juice, him with wine, and he'd have me identify all the flavors I could find."

"So it's in your blood."

"In a way. But also..." I hesitate, uncertain why I'm sharing this with someone who was a stranger two days ago. "Wine connects people. It has this magical ability to transform a meal, a moment, a conversation. I loved that alchemy."

Dominic nods, understanding in his eyes. "It's alive. Always evolving, never the same experience twice."

"Exactly." Our gazes meet across the room, an unexpected connection forming through shared passion. "What about you? Was it always wine?"

A shadow crosses his face. "No. It was supposed to be law. The responsible choice to help run the family business."