“On it,” Cleo said with a grin, tugging her clipboard tighter before heading off.
I turned towards Noah, who had leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed, watching the staff gather the luggage.
“Ready for the wedding whirlwind?” I asked, stepping up beside him.
He shrugged, his tone low and dry. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Something about the way he said it made me think he wasn’t only talking about the wedding.
It sounded like someone bracing for a storm.
As the guests began drifting inside, a slow parade of designer bags, polite smiles, and subtle one-upmanship, I stepped aside to let them pass, my tablet in hand, scanning every detail without being obvious. Composed. In control. Ready.
By the time the last suitcase disappeared inside, the morning sun had climbed higher, drenching Langston Estate in a glow that appeared to have been filtered for dramatic effect.
The air hummed with tension, old money, new nerves, and expensive shoes on centuries-old stone.
And as I glanced at Noah, still standing beside me, eyes fixed on the retreating guests, I couldn’t help thinking he was right.
This really did feel like the calm before the inevitable storm.
Chapter Three
I moved efficiently through the main dining room, making the final adjustments to the lunch table.
I straightened a vase, nudged a chair slightly, and checked that each napkin was perfectly folded, imagining Margaret inspecting every table with a ruler and a magnifying glass.
Sunlight streamed through the tall French doors, catching on the silverware and turning the imported Italian crystal water glasses (imported because “Australian glassware just doesn’t refract the same way”) into tiny works of art.
I ran a fingertip along the edge of the table, feeling that small flicker of satisfaction that came only when everything was in its place, or at least as close as humanly possible under my watch.
This was the first of many wedding week meals we were organising, a soft landing for the early arrivals, and a chance for them to settle in and shake off their travel weariness before the festivities.
By midday, the bridesmaids and groomsmen would start arriving, each with luggage, opinions, distinct personalities, and almost certainly at least one dietary requirement they’d forgotten to mention.
I could practically hear the staff group chat notifications gearing up already.
I stepped back for a final look, making sure the centrepiece didn’t overshadow the view, which was harder than it sounded, considering Caroline’s mother had insisted on a “subtle” floral installation that required a ladder, a pulley system, and three florists working overtime.
It hovered above the table like an art piece from a gallery that charged an entry fee.
Ridiculous and excessive? Absolutely.
Beautiful? Unfortunately, also yes.
Behind me, Cleo flitted around like a nervous bird, notebook clutched to her chest. “Holly, are we ready to go?”
“We weren’t,” I said, shifting a chair by a fraction.
“Now we are.”
She raised a brow. “You know no one else would’ve noticed that, right?”
“That’s why I’m in this business,” I replied.
Cleo chuckled. “Or because you can’t help yourself.”
“Also true,” I admitted, stepping back with quiet satisfaction. The room was nearly ready, and with thirty minutes until lunch, there was still time for the rest of the wedding party to arrive.
