Page 9 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"What changed?"

"Everything." He stands abruptly, moving to the kitchen. "We should think about dinner. Options are limited with the power fluctuating."

I recognize the deflection, but don’t push. Instead, I join him in the kitchen, where we cobble together a meal from available ingredients. The simple act of cooking side by side eases the tension between us, establishing a surprisingly comfortable rhythm.

Over dinner, the conversation flows more naturally, aided by a bottle of his Syrah. The wine is exceptional—complex and balanced, with unexpected notes of black pepper and dark chocolate. It loosens something in both of us, the earlier friction giving way to genuine exchange.

"So San Francisco," Dominic says, refilling our glasses. "Competitive scene."

"Cutthroat," I agree, the wine emboldening me to share more than I might otherwise. "Especially for women. We have to be twice as good to be considered half as qualified."

"Yet you've made a name for yourself."

"I've tried." The memory of Davis stealing credit for my wine program surfaces unexpectedly. "Though not everyone appreciates the work behind the reputation."

"There's a story there." Dominic tilts his head, studying me .

Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the isolation, or maybe it's simply the way he looks at me—really looks—but the words spill out before I can stop them.

"My ex-boyfriend received the promotion that should have been mine," I admit, staring into my glass. "Three years building an award-winning wine program, and he swooped in at the last minute, presented my work as a collaboration, and charmed the ownership into making him partner instead."

The admission leaves me feeling exposed. In San Francisco, I've maintained a careful facade of professional detachment, never letting anyone see how deeply the betrayal cut.

"What a dick," Dominic says with such matter-of-fact conviction that a startled laugh escapes me.

"Yeah. He is."

"So this deal with Silverleaf..."

"Would help prove my value," I finish for him. "Show them what they missed. Pathetic, right?"

"Human," he corrects, his voice gentler than I've heard it. "We all want recognition for what we've built."

Something in his tone tells me he understands this motivation personally. Before I can ask, the lights flicker once, twice, and then plunge us into darkness.

"Perfect timing," Dominic mutters. His chair scrapes as he stands. "Stay put. I'll get the lanterns."

I remain at the table, eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness, broken only by the glow from the fireplace in the adjacent room. Within minutes, Dominic returns with battery-powered lanterns that cast long shadows across the walls.

"Power outages are common up here," he explains, setting a lantern between us. "The generator should kick in for essential systems, but we'll need to conserve heat. Stick close to the fireplace."

We migrate to the living room, bringing our wine and the remains of dinner with us.

Without electricity, the temperature drops rapidly, and the storm’s fury is more noticeable in the unnatural silence of a house without ambient noise.

Wind rattles the windows, and I curl closer to the fire, grateful for its warmth.

Dominic adds another log, stoking the flames higher. When he settles beside me on the hearth rug, I'm aware of every inch between us, of the way the firelight sculpts his features into planes of gold and shadow.

"You're shivering," he observes, reaching for a throw blanket draped over a nearby chair. Instead of handing it to me, he wraps it around both of us, his arm brushing my shoulder as he adjusts the fabric.

Accidental?

Not a chance.

“Thanks,” I murmur, barely managing the word through the sudden dryness in my throat.

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t give me a whisper of space.

His body is a wall of heat at my side, the blanket trapping it between us.

I’m acutely, painfully aware of every breath he draws. Every shift of muscle under the soft cotton of his Henley.

“So tell me,” he murmurs, his mouth close enough that I can feel the whisper of his words against my cheek, “what would you do differently? With my wines, I mean.”

Grasping for professionalism like a drowning woman clutches a rope, I steady myself.

“Nothing fundamental.” My voice is tighter than I want it to be. “They’re exceptional as they are, but I’d adjust your brand narrative. Emphasize the pioneering aspects. The authenticity.”

He hums low in his throat, a rough sound of acknowledgment—or maybe amusement .

The sound vibrates straight through the blanket, straight into me.

"More marketing, less substance," he challenges, but there's no real bite to his words.

“The substance is already there,” I counter, finding my footing, slipping back into the one space where I know how to lead. “Great wine should tell a story. Your current approach—limited distribution, minimal information—makes it harder for people to connect with what you’ve created.”

“Maybe I don’t want them to connect with it,” he says, his gaze sharpening.

I turn toward him fully under the blanket, our knees bumping, then pressing together.

Neither of us moves away.

The contact is subtle, a shared, silent dare.

“Then why make it at all?” My voice is softer now. More raw. "Wine exists to be experienced. To be shared. Keeping it hidden away is like…"

I search for the right comparison, floundering for the words with his body pressed so closely to mine.

"Like what?" he prompts, voice a slow drag of velvet.

"Like painting a masterpiece and hanging it in a dark room where no one can see it."

For a long moment, he says nothing.

Just watches me.

The fire crackles beside us, throwing shadows across the planes of his face, sharpening the hard edge of his jaw.

“Some experiences,” he finally says, his voice low and deliberate, “are meant to be private.”

“And some are meant to be shared,” I whisper, my body locked tight against the tension singing between us. “The right audience changes everything.”

“The right audience,” he repeats, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

Lingering.

Heavy.

“And how do you identify the right audience, Ms. Santiago?”

My breath catches. My fingers curl into the blanket.

“Instinct,” I manage. “Chemistry.”

He leans in, slow and inexorable, until there’s nothing but heat and breath between us.

His hand lifts—steady, certain—and his knuckles skim up my bare forearm, a featherlight touch that raises goosebumps on my skin.

"Is that your professional assessment?" His voice has roughened. His face is now inches from mine, thick as molasses, dragging me deeper under his spell.

“No.” The truth slips out, raw and naked between us. “That’s just me.”

The moment stretches taut between us, every beat of my heart pulling him closer.

Dominic lifts his hand and slides his fingers into my hair, cupping the side of my face.

Not a brush.

Not an accident.

Possession.

His thumb strokes along my cheekbone, slow and claiming, and my body locks into stillness, caught, held by him without force—only will.

He doesn’t give me time to second-guess.

He doesn’t ask permission.

Dominic leans in and takes my mouth with his.