This wedding was going to run smoothly. It had to. I hadn’t spent weeks crafting colour palettes and floral installations only to have Noah Langston’s attitude undo it all.
If he wanted to make things difficult, that was his problem. I’d sleep just fine.
Well… unless I lay awake thinking about another of the family’s “last minute” additions.
Because on top of the swans, we now had aerial champagne pourers booked.
Not to mention the “tasteful” fireworks display shaped like the couple’s initials.
Probably best not to mention any of that to Noah yet.
He could find out naturally.
Chapter Two
“Do you think if I pretend to be a grapevine I can live here rent-free?” Cleo asked with a mischievous grin, sliding up beside me on the terrace.
I smirked, tilting my head. “You’d need to be quieter.”
“Ha-ha,” Cleo pouted, leaning on the railing and sighing dramatically. “Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about that dinner last night. That wattle seed barramundi? I’d marry it. You can plan the wedding.”
I laughed cheerfully. “Itwasgood. And the Chardonnay they paired it with? Amazing.”
For a moment, we both stood silently, soaking up the stillness like it was a rare luxury. The morning sun was beginning to climb higher, washing the vineyard in a pale golden haze. The rows of vines glowed with a mix of green and amber, each leaf seeming to shimmer as the light touched it. A thin mist still clung to the lower hills, curling through the eucalypt trees before slowly giving way to the day.
This was day one of wedding week, the lead-up to the main event. A full week of both families staying on the estate, overseeing every detail and spending time together, all building towards the wedding at the end, which always sounds far more peaceful than it ever is.
Usually, at this point, my mind would be running through every detail, checking and double-checking that nothing had been missed.
But my thoughts drifted to Noah. He seemed like the grumpiest, most impossible man I’d ever come across. Honestly, I’d half expected him to bolt the gates and refuse to let anyone into his precious estate.
It was almost amusing that someone who looked like he’d rather wrestle a bull than make small talk over coffee could be responsible for a place this beautiful.
The crunch of gravel on the drive shattered the peaceful morning. My attention snapped to the long, winding path that led to the estate house.
Cleo put one hand to her earpiece and then straightened beside me, eyes sharp with anticipation. “Bride and Groom incoming.”
Down the driveway rolled a procession of sleek black SUVs, polished to a mirror shine and driven by security who obviously took their job very seriously.
The second vehicle stopped precisely in front of the grand entrance, and a bodyguard stepped out, scanning the grounds with the alertness of someone protecting a dignitary.
He opened the back door, and Caroline Harrington stepped out in her Louboutin’s with all the grace of someone very used to being the centre of attention. She wore an elegant cream trench coat that was distinctly designer, the kind of fabric that didn’t dare wrinkle and probably cost more than my car. A thin belt cinched at her waist, showcasing a sophisticated posture she’d obviously mastered long before Pilates became fashionable.
Her platinum blonde hair was swept into a smooth, no-nonsense updo, not a strand daring to rebel.
A pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, Chanel, if I wasn’t mistaken, rested atop her head like a small crown. And the handbag on her arm? A soft, buttery-leather Hermès that probably should have its very own security detail.
She didn’t say a word at first, just stood there with an unreadable expression that made it impossible to tell whether she was impressed… or mentally planning an expensive renovation.
James Quinn, her fiancé, emerged next. Casual but undeniably striking, he wore dark jeans and a silky grey cashmere sweater,the kind of understated luxury that saidyes, I’m wealthy, but I’m trying very hard for you not to notice.Somehow, the simplicity made him look more approachable, especially compared to the convoy of high-end cars he’d just stepped out of.
His easy smile and calm demeanour stood in complete contrast to the stiff formality swirling around him. There was something grounding about him, something that didn’t quite match the image of the wunderkind who’d built SnapLink, the app that half the world used to share files, photos, calendars, you name it.
He had casually revolutionised digital connectivity before turning thirty, and yet here he was, looking more like someone’s laid-back childhood friend than a global tech figure.
As if drawn by the noise, Noah Langston appeared from a side path, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Noah!” James called, his face lighting up with genuine warmth as he spotted his old friend.
