I folded my arms. “Right. So I play undercover detective to the people signing my paycheck, and you… what? Supervise from a safe distance?”
“I’ll be talking to staff. Listening. People say things when they think it doesn’t matter.”
He hesitated, then added with a faint grin, “You take the champagne crowd. I’ll take the people who actually work here.”
I sighed. “Great.”
“It’ll be easy,” he said, though the corner of his mouth already had that traitorous twitch that suggested he fully expected drama and was just bracing for it.
“And if we find something?” I asked.
He smiled, slow, certain, annoyingly confident. “Then we meet up and compare notes.”
“Fine,” I said, pushing myself to my feet and smoothing down my shirt like that might somehow make me more prepared.
He straightened too, giving me one of those brief looks that felt unreasonably grounding.
For half a second, it really did feel like we were partners.
Then I remembered who we were, what we were doing, and exactly how fast this could all go wrong.
As I stepped out towards the guests, I could hear Sophie’s unmistakable voice: “This wine tastes like a bad decision waiting to happen!”
I closed my eyes. “If the brooch thief doesn’t kill me,” I muttered, “this wedding might.”
Behind me, Noah let out a low chuckle. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to help save the day.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Let’s just find the brooch, hero.”
Chapter Eleven
Sunlight filtered through the trellised vines overhead, dappling the long table in shifting beams that danced across polished silverware, and half-eaten platters of grilled scallops.
Servers moved around the table like a well-choreographed dance, a far cry from the slightly nervous bunch I’d inherited at the start of the week. Crisp white shirts, polished shoes, hair neatly pinned. Everything exactly as it should be for another flawless vineyard lunch.
One refilling glasses with chilled Sauvignon; another gliding in to clear plates with the kind of silent grace that only comes from years of service and mild terror of disappointing me.
From where I stood, the whole lunch service looked serene, almost idyllic, a perfectly timed waltz in the afternoon sun.
Which, in fairness, it was.
Because I’d choreographed it myself. Every pour, every plate, every polite pause in conversation covered by the clink of cutlery or pop of a cork.
It should have been a proud moment.
Except that I was currently trying to work out which of these beautiful, well-groomed guests had stolen a priceless piece of jewellery before breakfast.
I moved between them discreetly, projecting serenity with a calm, competent smile.
My professional mask was flawless. My thoughts, however, were sprinting laps around the estate.
Across the table, Lucas was absolutely in his element. Charming, golden, and far too pleased with himself.
His white shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up fashionably just so, a large Rolex watch on display like he’d been personally hired to model it at the lunch.
He caught my eye, lifted his glass, and in that booming voice designed specifically to draw attention, announced, “Ah, the most beautiful woman in the southern hemisphere! Holly, tell me, do you ever relax enough to have fun with the guests?”
I stopped beside him, tablet held in front of me like a tiny, rectangular shield. “If I relaxed, Lucas, this entire lunch would be held in yoga leggings and served off paper plates.”
