‘Till Theft do us Part

Chapter One

I stepped out of my car and the fresh air wrapped around me like a hug. Magpies warbled somewhere in the trees, their lazy late-afternoon song drifting over rows of vines that shimmered in the golden light. The breeze stirred the leaves, making them flicker like they were gossiping.

Rolling hills dotted with old gums stretched beyond the estate, lavender and rosemary softening the edges.

I breathed in the scent of grapes, salt air, and warm soil. Honestly, if a place could flirt, then Margaret River absolutely was.

I paused, taking it all in.

Beautiful. Serene. Wedding-ready.

Cleo was already out of the car, bouncing around like a child let loose in a candy store. She raised her camera, snapping pictures of the estate, her eyes wide as the last of the sunlight spilled across the land, making everything look almost unreal.

“I’ve found my new happy place. Seriously, this place looks like a postcard come to life.”

I smiled, she wasn’t wrong. But I gave her a look. “It’s gorgeous, but let’s not forget why we’re here, okay? We’ve got the biggest, most lavish wedding of the year to pull off, Cleo. The bride and groom and their families will be here tomorrow, and we need everything ready to go.”

“Right, right, of course,” Cleo said, still eyeing the view like it held the secret to eternal happiness.

She took a few more photos, one of an archway, another of a sunbeam filtering through the branches of a nearby tree and then hurried to catch up with me.

The vineyard’s main building stretched out in front of us, all rustic elegance and understated confidence, like it had been standing there for generations and had no interest in changing for anyone’s wedding.

Honey-coloured stone caught the late afternoon sun, framed by thick jarrah beams that anchored the whole place.

It ran wide along the edge of the vines, following the natural curve of the land instead of trying to straighten it out, the way so much of Margaret River seemed to resist being hurried or reshaped.

A broad veranda wrapped around most of the building, threaded with climbing greenery and bordered by gum trees shifting in the breeze. The faint mix of salt air and sweet grapes clung to everything out here.

It felt lived-in. Earned. Like it had grown slowly over the years through harvests, long lunches, family dinners, and the kind of celebrations people actually remembered afterwards.

As we moved closer, the scale of it changed.

The slate roof stretched further than I’d first realised, broken up by tall windows and wide double doors opening onto terraces overlooking the vineyard, the last of the afternoon sun flashing across the glass.

Everything about it invited you outside, to look out, to stay longer than you meant to.

Several wings branched off from the main building, hinting at dining rooms, lounges, and more guest rooms than I was mentally prepared to coordinate.

A set of stone steps curved away along one side, disappearing out of sight—almost certainly leading down to the cellar, and almost certainly somewhere I’d end up before this wedding was over.

I gave a small, satisfied nod.

It was perfect.

The kind of place that didn’t need dressing up to impress—but would, inevitably, be dressed up anyway. And exactly the sort of setting that would meet even the highest of expectations… which, given the bride’s family, was a good thing.

As we approached the entrance, a man stepped out from around the corner of the main hall, pulling off a pair of work gloves and tucking them into his back pocket.

He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he stood and expected everyone else to fall into line with it.

Tousled brown hair fell across his forehead, sun catching in it, and a faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, like shaving simply hadn’t made the priority list. His sleeves were rolled, revealing tanned muscular forearms dusted with vineyard grit.

He wore flannel, worn jeans, and boots that had actually seen soil.

He stopped when he saw us, assessing us in a way that felt less welcoming and more… measuring.

This must be Noah Langston. The owner of Langston Estate Vineyards. The one I’d been warned about.

I hadn’t anticipated the way he looked. I’d pictured someone older, maybe a touch posh, the sort of person who ironed his shirts and had strong opinions about cheese boards.

Instead I got… this.

This tall, broad, sun-kissed man with forearms that really should’ve come with a warning label.

A ridiculous little flutter went off in my stomach, like my hormones had woken suddenly from a nap and gone, Oh hello, yes, that one please.

I shoved it down so fast I nearly sprained something.

I was here to work, not melt into a puddle because a man looked unfairly good in jeans.

“Miss Sinclair,” he said, voice low, a bit rough around the edges. “You’re here for the Quinn wedding?”

“Yes—but please, call me Holly,” I said, offering a smile that had successfully soothed florists, caterers, and one truly unhinged mother of the bride. “We’re looking forward to working with you.”

Translation: please don’t make my life harder than it already is.

I nodded towards Cleo, who was already halfway to lying on the gravel to get a “natural” angle of the vines. “And this is Cleo Baxter, my assistant.”

Cleo popped back up and waved like we were on a game show. “Hi! Oh my God, this place is incredible. Like something from a dream.”

Noah’s gaze flicked briefly to her camera, then back to me, entirely unmoved. “Good to meet you both.” A beat. “I trust you’ve come prepared.”

Right. So that was the tone.

“Always,” I said evenly, already sliding into work mode. Tablet out, smile on, emotional defences locking into place. “I’ve mapped out the full timeline. Everything’s scheduled to keep the day running smoothly.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, with a small nod that somehow managed to sound like a challenge.

His expression shifted slightly. Less guarded. Or possibly just less actively annoyed.

“I’m more concerned about… everything else,” he added. “The groom is a close friend. Practically family.”

I blinked. “You know James?”

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. We go back.”

Ah.

That explained the mood. This wasn’t just another booking to him. This was personal.

Which meant emotions.

Which meant… fun for me.

“I understand,” I said, softening a fraction. “That does add a bit of pressure. But that’s my job—I make sure it all runs properly so no one has to worry on the day.”

He didn’t respond straight away. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, scanning the vineyard.

Then his face lifted like he’d decided something.

“There are a couple of things we should be clear on.”

“Of course,” I said. “Go on.”

He stepped a little closer, but still kept a careful distance, like I might suddenly produce a floral arch and force him to approve it.

“The bride can have whatever she wants,” he said. “Flowers, styling, all of that. But this place—” he gestured out to the vines, the rows stretching out grand and proud “—this isn’t some backdrop for a spectacle.”

There it was.

“It’s my home,” he added. “My family’s. I don’t want it turned into… something it’s not.”

I nodded. I’d heard versions of this speech before. Usually delivered with less jaw tension, but still.

“I get it,” I said. “The vineyard is the hero. It always will be. We’re not here to compete with it—we’re here to work with it.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. Not much. But enough to count as progress.

“That said,” I continued, because honesty is important and also unavoidable in my line of work, “this is a big wedding. The guest list alone is… substantial. There’ll be media interest.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. Subtle, but telling.

“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem. Press, photographers, people turning up who weren’t invited… it’s going to be chaos. This place wasn’t built for that.”

“It doesn’t have to be chaos,” I said calmly. “We’ve handled high-profile weddings before. We put systems in place, manage access, control movement. It’s all very… contained.”

I held his gaze, just enough to let him know I wasn’t bluffing.

“You focus on the vineyard,” I added. “I’ll handle everything else.”

Because I’d handled bigger media storms than this. Repeatedly. Successfully. Often while wearing heels on grass, which should frankly qualify as a professional skill.

I didn’t need Noah Langston assuming that I didn’t know how to manage it.

“We’ve already arranged extra security, and I’ll make sure uninvited guests are all kept off the property. The focus will stay on the wedding, not the photographers.”

Noah watched me for a moment, expression unreadable. “I hope so,” he said at last. “Because the last thing I need is this place being trampled by journalists looking for a story.”

My patience thinned, but I kept my tone sturdy. “It’s not going to be a problem,” I said.

There was a touch more edge in my voice than I’d planned, but honestly? He’d earned it.

I opened my mouth to explain the details, then shut it again before something unhelpful escaped, like the tiny, inconvenient truth that I wasn’t planning on telling him about the bride’s latest “vision.”

Because before we arrived, Caroline Harrington had called and asked whether we’d sourced a pair of white swans like she’d seen at “an event in Monaco.”

Swans.

Actual swans.

On a vineyard.

“It’s all taken care of.” I smiled politely, the kind that said I’m fine, everything’s fine, please don’t ask follow-up questions, and made a mental note not to mention any of the more bizarre details unless I wanted to watch a grown man spontaneously combust.

Honestly, he had no idea how much nonsense I was already shielding him from.

Cleo stood off to the side watching us like it was centre court at Wimbledon, her head shifting subtly between us. I could practically hear her placing bets.

Noah studied me for a second, then gave a small nod. Not agreement. More… acknowledgment.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “But if anything goes wrong, you’ll hear about it.”

Oh, how generous of him.

I closed my tablet with a snap. “As I said, everything’s on track. I’ll run through final details with the family tomorrow.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be around.”

He turned and walked off, all broad shoulders and storm-cloud energy.

The spark of attraction from earlier?

Gone. Extinguished. Like a match tossed into a puddle and then reversed over by a tractor.

I looked over at Cleo and rolled my eyes. She caught it instantly and smirked. “Well,” she said jokingly, “he seems… friendly.”

I let out a breath.

This wedding was going to run smoothly. It had to. I hadn’t spent weeks crafting colour palettes and floral installations only to have Noah Langston’s attitude undo it all.

If he wanted to make things difficult, that was his problem. I’d sleep just fine.

Well… unless I lay awake thinking about another of the family’s “last minute” additions.

Because on top of the swans, we now had aerial champagne pourers booked.

Not to mention the “tasteful” fireworks display shaped like the couple’s initials.

Probably best not to mention any of that to Noah yet.

He could find out naturally.