She gave me a look. “He absolutely does.”
“Fine. Maybe a little,” I admitted. “But it was nice. I’m starting to think he’s only half grumpy.”
Cleo raised her eyebrows. “Half grumpy? What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen the way you react to good-looking men with bad attitudes,” she said, pointing her spoon at me.
“You make it sound like I have a type.”
“You do,” she said. “And his name is Noah Langston.”
I tossed a grape at her. “You’re unbearable.”
“But correct,” she said, catching it.
I shook my head, but I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
To my relief, she switched topics, flipping open her notebook.
“So! This morning: Caroline and the bridesmaids will be taking over the north suite. I’ve seen more hair products in that room than a Mecca store. Emma was talking about trying to turn it into a TikTok live until I told her I would confiscate her ring light.”
“Also,” Cleo continued, flipping her notes with the dramatic flair of someone about to deliver bad but undeniably juicy news, “Lucas has been up since dawn… charming everyone within a five-metre radius.”
I groaned. “Define charming.”
“Well,” she began, “he started by ‘offering assistance’ to the kitchen staff. In Lucas-speak, that means leaning against thebench like a catalogue model and telling the pastry chef she has ‘the hands of a goddess.’”
I winced. “Oh no.”
“She told him her hands were currently holding a knife,” Cleo said. “Didn’t stop him. He asked if she wanted to meet up later to ‘help relax the creative muscles.’”
I covered my face. “Ew. Of course he did.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” Cleo said, delighted. “He’s already flirted with two of the breakfast staff, gave the florist an uncomfortably long hug, and told the gardener he should ‘ditch the overalls’ because he has the bone structure for television.”
I blinked. “The gardener is sixty.”
“Yes,” she said cheerfully. “Lucas called him ‘distinguished.’”
I snorted. “He’s a menace.”
“A wealthy menace,” Cleo corrected, ticking bullet points on her notes. “He tried to slip the barista his phone number early this morning.”
“It’s only six thirty!” I exclaimed. “Who flirts at six thirty?”
“A man who thinks the world is his dating app,” Cleo said. “And now, this is my favourite part, he’s decided we need a pre-wedding ‘Champagne Social’ to help everyone bond.”
“That… doesn’t sound too bad?”
“It does,” Cleo said. “Because in Lucas’s head that means oysters, a saxophone player, and everyone wearing all white so he can ‘spot the naturally elegant people.’”
I stared at her. “What does that even mean?”
“No one knows,” she laughed.
I groaned. “It’s too early for this.”
“It’s too early for him to be unsupervised,” Cleo said. “But here we are.”
