Sounds drifted from the terrace where the wine tasting was in full swing, the clink of glasses, the hum of polite compliments, and, unmistakably, Emma’s polished PR voice cutting through it all as she declared, “This one tastes like a long weekend in Capri, definitely marketable.”
Izzy’s firm, no-nonsense voice cut through every so often, reining in the guests like a teacher wrangling overexcited students.
It was the perfect distraction. Everyone important was occupied.
I slipped down the side path towards the cellar, tablet tucked to my chest. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of oak, earth, and fermenting grapes. My pulse quickened, though I told myself it was just the brisk walk.
Noah was already there, leaning against a stack of crates, arms folded, eyes sharp beneath that perpetual half-frown. “You’re late,” he said.
“I had to make sure the bridesmaids didn’t follow me,” I replied. “They’ve hit the tasting flight, and Sophie’s threatening to start a conga line. I’m not taking chances.”
He grinned slightly, then gestured to a crate beside him. “So, what’ve you got?”
I sat, lowering my voice. “Someone was moving around the guest wing early this morning. Around six. One of the maintenance crew saw someone while fixing a table.”
That wiped the grin clean off his face. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. He thought it was a stylist, but the vans hadn’t arrived yet. So unless one of your vines learned to walk…”
He frowned, running a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s early. Whoever it was knew the timing, before staff started setting up, before deliveries. Too specific to be random.”
“Exactly,” I said, feeling a flash of vindication.
He hesitated, then pulled a small notepad from his pocket, an old-school gesture that somehow suited him. “You’re not the only one with a clue. I checked through the property logs. Deliveries all clear, but one of the maintenance keys was signed out yesterday by someone named Benson C.”
I stared at him. “Benson. C? No last name?”
“Nope. But there’s a problem,” he said, flipping the notebook closed. “We don’t have a Benson. Never did. I double-checked payroll, rosters, everything.”
“So either someone forged the signature…”
“Or someone’s on the property who shouldn’t be.”
The silence stretched, heavy and still.
From outside, the tasting crowd erupted in laughter again. Izzy’s voice followed sharply: “That is not a spittoon game, Miss Harrington!”
I glanced towards the terrace, then back at Noah.
“So we’ve got an impostor and an early morning break-in. Lovely. Add a candlestick in the drawing room, and we’ve got ourselves an Agatha Christie weekend.”
He cracked the faintest smile. “You’re handling this well.”
“Barely,” I said, clutching my tablet like it was a flotation device and I’d just been tossed overboard. The worry was practically oozing out of me at this point.
He shifted closer, leaning against the wall beside me, his voice dropping low. “We should just… keep this under wraps for now,all right? The last thing I need is the Harringtons accusing my vineyard of theft.”
I gave him a look. “Trust me, the last thingIneed is the Harringtons accusinganyoneof theft.”
His eyes flicked down to me, kinder than before. “Then we’re on the same team.”
I met his gaze, steadying myself. “Agreed. But we can’t sit on it for long. If word gets out…”
“It won’t,” he said, firm but calm. “I’ll keep looking at the security tapes. But we can’t discount the wedding party. Talk to them. Quietly.”
“Quietly how?” I asked. “You mean, what… casually interrogate the bridal party over starters?”
He shrugged, completely unfazed. “You seem good at it. Make it sound natural, ask a few harmless questions, see what slips.”
