I left her there and stepped back into the courtyard, the hum of conversation and the kitchen sounds greeting me again.
I eventually found Noah by the cellar door, leaning against a wine barrel. He was wearing a snug t-shirt today, one that seemed particularly committed to highlighting his arm muscles.
Right.
Absolutely not engaging with that.
“Do you have a moment?” I asked, keeping my tone brisk.
“Sure thing,” he said, humourless. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” I said, though my voice had that clipped edge it always did when I was one logistical hiccup away from losing patience. “I need somewhere secure to store something valuable. May we use your safe?”
He paused, studying me like he was trying to decide whether I was serious. Then he shook his head slowly. “There is no safe. Never needed one. This place is as secure as it gets. We lock the gates at night, and the staff are like family.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “No safe? In the entire estate?”
“Not unless you count the locked wine cellar,” Noah said with a hint of amusement. “But most people guard these barrels with their lives.”
I exhaled slowly, the kind of breath usually reserved for runaway bridesmaids and missing florists. “That’s lovely in theory,” I said evenly, “but I’m responsible for something worth more than a small suburb.”
He folded his arms, casual as ever. “Relax, Sinclair. Nothing goes missing around here. You could leave a diamond ring on the veranda, and it’d still be there in the morning.”
“That’s not comforting,” I said bristling at the new nickname. “That’s the kind of thing people say right before somethingdoesgo missing.”
He laughed. “You need to trust that I know what I’m talking about.”
“I trust people,” I said. “But I also trust locks.”
“You’re overthinking it. This is Margaret River, not a heist movie.”
My lips pressed together. “Fine. If you don’t have a safe, I’ll take care of it myself.”
Back in the lounge room with Cleo, I picked up the box, feeling its faint but significant weight settle in my hands. Then I carried it down the still corridor, my footsteps feeling loud against the polished floor.
I let Cleo into my room and closed the door before setting the box carefully on the bedside table. The lamplight made the navy velvet gleam faintly against the pale wood. Cleo’s curiosity was practically radiating off her.
“So, what did Noah say?” she asked.
“That there’s no safe. And that I’m overreacting,” I muttered.
Cleo blinked. “Heactuallysaid that?”
“Pretty much.”
She pulled a face. “That’s comforting. Should we hang it from the ceiling while we’re at it? Maybe tie it up with fairy lights to draw attention?”
“Not funny,” I said, though I couldn’t stop a reluctant smile.
Cleo perched on the edge of the bed. “So, where are you going to put it?”
I scanned the room. The wardrobe felt too obvious. The minibar too risky. The bathroom too humid. My gaze landed on the bedside drawer. Inside were a few personal things, lavender hand cream, my organiser, a packet of emergency mints.
I slid the box in carefully, then shut the drawer and gave it a firm tug to make sure it stayed closed. “There,” I said. “Safe and hidden.”
Cleo nodded approvingly. “You want me to stay here while you finish up?”
I shook my head. “No, go and get some dinner. I’ll check on things once more before clocking off.”
