Chapter Thirty-Two
Noah headed outside without a word. His stride was just short of a march, which meant I had to hurry to keep up without making it look like I was chasing him.
I followed him through the estate, my thoughts ricocheting in every direction. Everything we’d just heard had turned the entire week on its head, and my brain was still stubbornly trying to file it underThings That Surely Can’t Be True.
My chest ached for him. For the shock of it. For the way his entire family history had changed in the space of a morning.
Noah had always been composed, almost frustratingly so at times. Calm. Measured. The sort of man who kept everything locked down tight. Seeing him this unsettled felt strangely intimate, like witnessing something I wasn’t entirely sure I was meant to see.
We crossed the gravel path behind the estate as the ocean wind swept up from the cliffs. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t look back.
And then I realised where he was heading.
The Ridge.
Noah had pointed it out to me one of the first few days I was at the Estate. A cluster of weathered limestone rocks perched above the coastline where his grandfather used to sit with a coffee and an old radio whenever he wanted to “think,” which Noah had explained was Langston family code for avoiding people.
The narrow track curved along the edge of the estate, coastal scrub brushing against our legs as the ocean slowly opened in front of us.
Below, the water stretched endlessly blue beneath the late afternoon sun, waves rolling in consistent white lines towardsthe shore. The cliffs were rugged and wind-beaten, dotted with stubborn tufts of saltbush and twisted coastal trees that somehow survived the relentless sea air year after year.
Farther down the coastline, surfers drifted beyond the break like tiny dark commas against the glittering water, rising and falling with the swell in a way that looked strangely peaceful from up here. The wind whipped around the cliffs hard enough to sting my cheeks, carrying the sharp scent of salt and crushed coastal scrub.
Everything about the landscape was unmistakably Margaret River. Rugged limestone cliffs dropping into restless ocean, twisted trees clinging stubbornly to the edges, the sea stretching endlessly towards the horizon. It was beautiful, dramatic, and just a little bit feral.
The kind of place that made people fall in love with it before they fully realised what they were signing up for.
Noah finally stopped near the peak, one hand resting against the rough stone beside him. The breeze pushed through his hair and carried the sharp scent of salt and sun-warmed rock up from the ocean below.
I slowed behind him.
“Noah,” I said quietly.
For a second, he didn’t answer.
Then he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t know anything,” he said roughly. “Not a damn thing.”
I stepped a little closer. Carefully.
The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of the ocean below.
He stared out towards the horizon for a long moment before speaking again.
“I spent my whole life thinking I understood him.” He gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
Another wave crashed against the rocks beneath us.
“I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this.”
He turned.
And suddenly we were far too close.
I should have stepped back.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
