I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. “Naturally.”
They were good together, relaxed, glowing, in that newly engaged way that made the world around them tilt slightly brighter. Sophie brushed a curl behind her ear as she spoke; Lucas lowered his sunglasses to admire her like he’d never seen sunlight before.
The announcement had gone out weeks ago, in tasteful bronze lettering, with a single stylised sketch Sophie had done of their hands intertwined. Their date was set for next spring.
And yes, I was already deep in the planning stages.
“Think they’ll stick with the open-air ceremony by the fig trees?” Noah asked.
“Only if Lucas’s request for a live harpist ‘floating above the guests’ gets vetoed,” I said.
Noah winced. “Dear God.”
“Don’t worry,” I added. “I’ve already steered him towards something achievable. Like a raised platform. With safety rails.”
He chuckled.
Their wedding would be extravagant, emotional, probably chaotic, and honestly? Lovely.
A perfect reflection of the two of them.
James and Caroline visited every couple of months, stepping off their helicopter (because of course they had a helicopter now) with the breezy glow of two people so in love they made the furniture blush.
Caroline had transformed in the best ways, shedding old expectations like petals. James had learned how to relax and was already working on a new app idea formulated around work life balance.
They still flirted like teenagers, still kissed like they had an audience, still insisted their honeymoon “technically hadn’t ended yet.”
Meanwhile, the success of the Langston wedding had done more for my business than any marketing campaign ever could. We were booked almost a year in advance, the team had doubled in size, and Cleo was now running the Perth office.
We still video chatted every week.
“You’re too calm,” she accused during almost every call.
“I’m stable,” I corrected.
“You’re smug.”
And maybe I was. Just a little.
Because I’d moved.
Really moved.
All the way to Margaret River.
I had an office overlooking the vines at Langston Estate, a wedding waiting list that stretched almost a year, and a life that felt fuller than anything I’d dared imagine.
And Noah, he was woven into all of it. As solid as the land he loved. Composed in quiet ways that made my chest ache. Occasionally still broody, but in that kissable way where I’d tug his shirt and he’d lean down with that half-smile that said he knew exactly what I was doing.
He still kissed me with the same devastating intensity, capable hands, sure mouth, the kind of passion that curled low and familiar, but now it wasn’t just wild or frantic.
It was something honest.
The undeniable shape of love.
“Want to go for that walk?” he asked, nudging my shoulder the way he does when he’s pretending to be casual but absolutely not casual. “We keep saying we will.”
I slid my hand into his, already grinning into my coffee. “Sure. Let me grab my shoes.” I glanced down at myself and snorted. “And, you know… some actual pants.”
