I didn’t want to appear like someone who’d been up half the night with seating charts and contingency plans.
I wanted to look capable. Organised. Like I actually had this under control.
My reflection winked back at me like, ‘Sure, Jan’, but we both pretended it was true.
I grabbed my planner and wandered towards the door, still rehearsing the day’s to-do list in my head, when a soft shuffle drifted through the hallway.
I stopped.
It wasn’t a dramatic thump. Just a tiny… something. A brush of fabric? A careful footstep?
I frowned for a second.
It was early. Very early. Too early for most guests. And I hadn’t heard any of the usual housekeeping sounds, no trolley wheels or rustling linens.
Still, this was a massive old estate. People were always floating around doing mysterious, efficient things.
“Probably staff,” I murmured, though a tiny part of me wondered why they’d be so subtle.
I shrugged it off. I had bigger things to think about.
I straightened my shirt and opened the door, stepping into the corridor with my mind already on the day ahead.
The hallway seemed perfectly empty.
But I found myself glancing left, then right… just once.
The terrace was bathed in morning light when I arrived, the kind of light that made everything look crisp and flawless.
Cleo, amazingly, was already in the kitchen, two cups of coffee deep, nibbling on a croissant like a woman who’d survived a long night. She looked up as I approached and narrowed her eyes.
“Well, don’t you look suspiciously perky,” she said. “What’s your secret? Meditation? Magic? Or did someone finally install a mute button for the bridal party group chat?”
“Sleep,” I said, sitting down opposite her. “A full six hours. Unheard of.”
Cleo eyebrows lifted immediately. “You’re lying. You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m hiding something juicy’ face.”
I poured myself a coffee, trying for casual. “There’s no gossip. I just… ended up having a glass of wine last night. With Noah.”
Her mouth fell open. “I’m sorry,what? As in Noah Langston?”
I sighed. “Yes, that Noah.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “The sexy grumpy one?”
I rolled my eyes. “He showed up in the lounge. We talked. About the vineyard. That’s it.”
Cleo rested her chin in her hand, already miles away in her imagination. “Please tell me he has a tragic backstory. Something involving unrequited love among the wine barrels. Or a heartbreak that turned his smile to stone.”
“His family history, actually,” I said, grabbing toast. “His great-grandfather, Henry Langston, bought this place after thewar. But Noah’s grandfather, Edward, started the vineyard. His grandmother was a nurse who moved out here to marry him. She painted the first wine labels herself.”
Cleo’s eyes widened. “Ohhh that’s exactly like a Hallmark movie. A little rustic love story. I bet he told it with that low, gravelly voice of his.”
“He doesnothave a gravelly voice.”
