I was here to work, not melt into a puddle because a man looked unfairly good in jeans.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, voice low, a bit rough around the edges. “You’re here for the Quinn wedding?”
“Yes—but please, call me Holly,” I said, offering a smile that had successfully soothed florists, caterers, and one truly unhinged mother of the bride. “We’re looking forward to working with you.”
Translation:please don’t make my life harder than it already is.
I nodded towards Cleo, who was already halfway to lying on the gravel to get a “natural” angle of the vines. “And this is Cleo Baxter, my assistant.”
Cleo popped back up and waved like we were on a game show. “Hi! Oh my God, this place is incredible. Like something from a dream.”
Noah’s gaze flicked briefly to her camera, then back to me, entirely unmoved. “Good to meet you both.” A beat. “I trust you’ve come prepared.”
Right. So that was the tone.
“Always,” I said evenly, already sliding into work mode. Tablet out, smile on, emotional defences locking into place. “I’ve mapped out the full timeline. Everything’s scheduled to keep the day running smoothly.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, with a small nod that somehow managed to sound like a challenge.
His expression shifted slightly. Less guarded. Or possibly just less actively annoyed.
“I’m more concerned about… everything else,” he added. “The groom is a close friend. Practically family.”
I blinked. “You know James?”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. We go back.”
Ah.
That explained the mood. This wasn’t just another booking to him. This was personal.
Which meant emotions.
Which meant… fun for me.
“I understand,” I said, softening a fraction. “That does add a bit of pressure. But that’s my job—I make sure it all runs properly so no one has to worry on the day.”
He didn’t respond straight away. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, scanning the vineyard.
Then his face lifted like he’d decided something.
“There are a couple of things we should be clear on.”
“Of course,” I said. “Go on.”
He stepped a little closer, but still kept a careful distance, like I might suddenly produce a floral arch and force him to approve it.
“The bride can have whatever she wants,” he said. “Flowers, styling, all of that. But this place—” he gestured out to the vines, the rows stretching out grand and proud “—this isn’t some backdrop for a spectacle.”
There it was.
“It’s my home,” he added. “My family’s. I don’t want it turned into… something it’s not.”
I nodded. I’d heard versions of this speech before. Usually delivered with less jaw tension, but still.
“I get it,” I said. “The vineyard is the hero. It always will be. We’re not here to compete with it—we’re here to work with it.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. Not much. But enough to count as progress.
