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 like velvety, cassis, and a 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.
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 the war. 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 does not have a gravelly voice.”
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 the bench 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.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Oh god. What about Margaret?”
“Not up yet. She was still in her room on the phone until late last night,” Cleo said, lowering her voice with the precision of someone relishing a juicy detail.
“I overheard her talking about a last-minute delivery from Perth. Something ‘exclusive’ for the welcome party. Her maid sounded like she was about to cry.”
I groaned. “That poor woman.”
“Truly,” Cleo said. “She kept saying, ‘But ma’am, the schedule,’ and Margaret kept replying with, ‘Make it happen, darling, it’s essential.’ Essential was said with capital letters.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead. “I bet it’s something outrageous. Gold-plated menus or a cake flown in on its own private jet.”
Cleo snorted. “Honestly? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’m terrified to find out what she calls ‘exclusive.’”
“I know, right?” Cleo said. “Oh, and Emma asked if she could bring her dog to breakfast tomorrow.”
“She has a dog here?”
“No. But apparently there’s a local breeder down here she’s ‘in talks with.’” Cleo made air quotes. “Her words.”
I shook my head. “Why do I feel like we’re one mimosa away from disaster?”
“Because we are,” Cleo said cheerfully, stealing my toast. “But you love it. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Unfortunately, she knew me too well.
As much as I liked to complain, there was something intoxicating about the balance of beauty and stress, of pulling together perfection from pure mayhem.
The morning hummed around us as the estate started to wake: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of guests drifting in, the faint buzz of bees in the vines.
Margaret’s voice carried from the far end of the dining room, clipped and commanding even from a distance.
Caroline appeared a moment later, elegantly polished in a Zimmermann linen dress, the kind of expensive piece you recognised even if you’d only ever seen it in airport magazines.
She paused to greet her parents, the sunlight catching on the thin band of her Cartier necklace, before making her way over to where I stood.
“Everything looks beautiful, Holly,” she said cheerfully, scanning the terrace. “Exactly as I pictured it.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved she seemed genuinely pleased. “The photographer will be here after breakfast for the setup shots, the hair and makeup trials after that, and I’ve scheduled the tasting at eleven.”
“Wonderful,” she said with a nod, already slipping back into that cool, efficient lawyer mode that made her both impressive and mildly terrifying.
Across the terrace, Sophie giggled too loudly at something Lucas said, while Elaine was chatting kindly with one of the waitstaff.
Everything was rolling exactly as it should.
I leaned back, sipping my coffee, feeling the rare, fleeting sense that the day might actually stay on track.
Cleo glanced up from her notes. “So, what’s next for you?”
“Quick check-in with the hair and makeup team to make sure they’re sorted, then I’ll make sure the security team are aware of the photographer’s arrival,” I said, gathering my notes.
“But first, I just need to grab my charger from my room.”