“Fiercely,” Noah replied. “You couldn’t pry things out of him with a crowbar.”
I nodded, letting the silence settle between us. “Your dad must’ve been proud of you for keeping the Langston legacy going.”
A faint smile crossed his face, there and gone again. “Maybe. I don’t know. He died when I was ten, car accident. My grandfather taught me everything after that, the vines, the soil, when to panic and when to just pour another glass and wait it out.”
I chuckled and for a moment, neither of us said anything. Leaves rustled softly outside, the wind moving through them like it had secrets.
I set my glass down and smiled. “Thanks for sharing that. I can see why this place means so much to you.”
He gave a small shrug, his mouth quirking into something halfway between pride and self-doubt. “Yeah, well. My family built it to last. Guess I’m just trying not to mess it up.”
There was a vulnerability in his voice I hadn’t heard before, a small crack in the gruff vineyard-owner act. For a second, I didn’t know what to say. The air between us felt like the pause after a song ends and no one wants to move.
So I did what I always do when things get too sincere. I filled the silence. “Don’t worry,” I said, taking the last sip of my wine. “I’m sure I’ll keep you too busy this week to ruin anything.”
He let out a snort, one that sounded like it surprised even him. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”
I stood, setting my glass on the side table. “Thanks for the wine. And the history lesson.”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Anytime.”
I was halfway to the doorway when he said, almost absently, “Edward used to say the vines hold a kind of magic. Maybe that’s why they behave for me.”
I turned, one hand on the doorframe. “That sounds oddly sentimental.”
He smiled, small and wry. “He had his moments. I’m just quoting for effect.”
I grinned. “Well, tell the vines they’ve got a busy week ahead, minimal drama, maximum charm.”
He lifted his glass in a lazy salute. “I’ll pass it on.”
Chapter Six
I stretched, sat up, and ran through the day in my head like a one-woman production meeting.
Eight o’clock: breakfast on the terrace, the full spread, of course. Fresh pastries from a very well-known French patisserie in the city, fruit platters arranged like art installations, and Caroline’s special-order Bircher muesli that apparently could only be made with Normandy apples.
Nine o’clock: meeting with the photographer. Not just any photographer. The internationally acclaimed, award-winning, slightly insufferable one flown in from Melbourne.
Ten o’clock: hair and makeup trials for Caroline and the bridesmaids in the north suite, now temporarily transformed into a small salon, complete with ring lights, rolling makeup cases the size of carry-on luggage, and a team of stylists who charged by the whisper.
Eleven o’clock: wine tasting on the lawn for the guests who were not allergic to fun. Noah himself would be performing the usual tasting monologue, the one that involved words likevelvety,cassis,anda flirtation of oak.
Twelve thirty: a quick lap through the dining room to sign off on the “casual” lunch setup, checking the glassware, linen napkins, and native arrangements of banksia, gum leaves, and wattle were all exactly where they should be.
Three o’clock: prep for the welcome party later in the week, food tastings, band and DJ logistics, the lighting designer having a mild breakdown over “ambience,” and the A-list chef insisting each canapé had a strict two-minute window before it lost its “integrity,” like they were tiny celebrities who could turn on you at any moment.
If all went well, I might even have time to eat something that wasn’t half a granola bar.
Maybe.
I showered and changed into something more polished, the kind of outfit that made me look far more put together than I felt. I pulled on a crisp white blouse with a neat collar, tucked into tailored cream trousers that held their shape no matter what pre-wedding madness the day threw at me.
A slim belt, simple gold studs, and a pair of nude heels that added just enough height to make me feel in control.
My usual wedding-planner armour.
I smoothed my hair into a low twist that was meant to look intentional rather than survival driven.
