Chapter Eight
“…and if we could just have you both under that gum tree for the golden hour shots, it’ll be pure magic,” the photographer declared, gesturing grandly towards the vineyard as if summoning sunlight itself.
Caroline smiled adoringly. “Of course Luca, but we’ll have to check the schedule.”
“Schedule, yes, yes, love schedules,” he interrupted, waving one hand dramatically while his camera dangled dangerously from the other. “But if the light is right, you drop the schedule. You seize it! You become the light.”
James seemed faintly alarmed. “Right. Become the light. Got it.”
I tried not to wince as the photographer crouched suddenly to frame a test shot of the table settings, muttering something about “angles of destiny.”
People whispered Luca Valentino’s name the way others whispered prayers.
And now he was lying flat on the terrace tiles, designer trousers and all, angling his camera upward through a water glass to “capture the emotional transparency of the tablescape.”
The servers were tiptoeing around him like he was an endangered species. James nodded with polite appreciation, the way someone does when they have no idea what’s happening but assume they should admire it.
Caroline, on the other hand, was practically glowing. She hovered near Luca with the reverence of a museum curator watching a priceless relic being restored.
“Brilliant,” she breathed. “Absolutely brilliant.”
Luca shushed her gently, as if sound itself might disrupt the artistic integrity of the reflection in the glass.
I, on the other hand, was mostly calculating whether it would be rude to suggest he stand up before someone tripped over him.
He let out a satisfied sigh, lowering his camera. “Yes,” he said softly. “The colours are cooperating. They understand me.”
Cleo, standing beside me, gave an overly loud laugh. “He’s so passionate, isn’t he? Passion’s great. Passion’s…” She knocked her elbow into a water jug, sending a cold tidal wave across the linen.
I lunged forward just in time to rescue the place cards. “Cleo.”
Ok, Cleo was losing it.
Her eyes were a little too wide, her smile a little too fixed, like someone trying to bluff their way through a high-stakes poker game using only panic and caffeine.
Luca, meanwhile, didn’t even flinch. “Ah!” he exclaimed, stepping back to admire the spreading puddle. “Water, reflection, chaos, life! Don’t move it.”
Cleo mouthed sorry, holding the empty jug like a murder weapon she didn’t mean to use.
Caroline’s brow creased ever so slightly, but she said nothing. James, ever the diplomat, helped mop up the spill and murmured something about “happy accidents.”
Once the water had been dealt with, I turned to the group smiling tightly. “Shall we continue?”
Luca had already moved on to rearranging centrepieces, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like The Circle of Life as he angled a vase three millimetres to the left, then stepped back as though he’d just performed a sacred ritual.
Caroline was absolutely delighted. Her eyes were bright, practically sparkling as she watched him work. Every dramatic gesture, every artistic sigh, she absorbed it like oxygen.
“This is incredible,” she whispered to James, though her gaze never left Luca. “He’s a genius.”
James leaned in, murmuring something that made her chuckle.
It should have been sweet. A happy couple watching their world come together. But instead, a knot tightened in my stomach.
I forced myself to focus on my planner, pretending to make notes while my thoughts flickered back over the past hour.
Cleo and I had spoken to a few of the estate staff, as casually as possible. A chat with housekeeping, no one had gone near the guest wing that morning.
A word with catering, they’d been setting up since dawn.
Even the gardener, who’d been pruning roses by the fountain, hadn’t seen a soul.
Every lead came up empty.
By the time we’d circled back to the terrace, Cleo’s composure was hanging by a thread.
“We’re officially cursed,” she whispered as we passed a group of guests admiring the view. “I’m telling you, this place has weird energy.”
“It’s not cursed,” I hissed back. “The brooch is… temporarily misplaced.”
“Temporarily misplaced?” she said, eyes wide. “Like your sanity you mean?”
Now, watching Caroline beam under the photographer’s direction, I felt the weight of the secret pressing down harder. She was so blissfully unaware, talking about table layouts and lighting and “that perfect vineyard backdrop.”
I forced my shoulders back. “All right,” I said under my breath to Cleo as Caroline and James turned towards the vines with the photographer. “Time to tell him.”
Her face drained of colour. “Tell him, him? As in Noah?”
“Who else?”
She pressed a hand to her chest like she was having palpitations. “Oh, great. Let’s add ‘missing priceless jewellery’ to the list of things to discuss with the man who already thinks we are going to trash his winery.”
I tried not to smile. “You mean me. You’re not coming.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re too jumpy. You nearly drowned the photographer. You’d start sweating and confess to crimes we haven’t even committed.”
She glared, though her voice came out faintly panicked. “Fine. I’ll stay here and… write my resignation letter. I’ll even use the nice paper.”
“Cleo.”
She exhaled hard, deflating. “Okay, okay. You’re right. Better he hears it from you than from the police.”
I switched off my tablet and tucked it under my arm, trying to summon the calm, capable version of myself I usually trotted out for media interviews and last-minute weather emergencies.
“Deep breaths,” Cleo said. “Channel your inner diplomat. Smile like everything’s fine. Maybe flirt a little if it helps.”
I stared at her in shock. “I’m not going to flirt with Noah Langston.”
She gave me a look like I was crazy. “Then good luck, boss. Godspeed.”
I shot her a look and started towards the vineyard, the late morning sun glinting off the rows of vines. My heels clicked against the flagstones, too loud, too deliberate, as I mentally rehearsed the opening line.
Noah, a quick word? It’s not urgent, but also possibly catastrophic.
Noah, something’s gone missing, but please don’t panic.
Noah, you know how you asked me to make sure everything went smoothly?
None of them sounded remotely good.
I straightened my shoulders. Professional. Poised.
Time to tell him before the entire vineyard learned about it through the grapevine.
Literally.
I spotted Noah near the open cellar doors, deep in conversation with Izzy Rhodes, Langston Estate’s award-winning head vintner and, judging by her expression, his favourite sparring partner. His arms were crossed, and he already looked annoyed.
“I’m telling you, Izzy, the soil pH shift is barely noticeable. You’re overreacting.”
Izzy straightened, wiping her hands on her apron with the kind of patience that came right before a storm. “Overreacting? Noah, if I left you in charge of the soil, the vines would be staging a full protest by next season.”
He gave her a look. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Not as ridiculous as ignoring the land,” she said, tugging at the cuff of her flannel sleeve like she was preparing for battle. “Either you want good wine, or you don’t.”
Noah groaned. “Not this again.”
I hovered a few metres away, clutching my tablet like a shield. Izzy was exactly as people had described, blunt, brilliant, and utterly uninterested in charm.
She’d been at Langston Estate for just over a year but already had a reputation for pushing boundaries and terrifying suppliers.
“Am I interrupting a turf war or a business meeting?” I asked, forcing myself into their conversation politely.
They both turned. Izzy’s eyes flicked over me, tailored shirt, comfortable heels, stress barely contained, and she grinned. “You must be the wedding whisperer I’ve heard so much about.”
“All good things, I hope,” I said. “I’m sorry to intrude. I need a word with Noah.”
“Uh-oh.” Izzy crossed her arms. “You’ve got your ‘don’t-panic-but-panic’ face on. I’m staying for this.”
“You’re not staying,” Noah said flatly.
“Please. If it’s about the guest list or a missing canapé, I want to watch.”
Noah shot her a look. “Izzy.”
She grinned. “Fine. I’ll go check on the fermentation tanks.”
She slung a towel over her shoulder and strode off across the courtyard, muttering something like “Rich people are exhausting.”
When she was out of earshot, Noah glanced at me. “Please tell me this isn’t a crisis.”
My throat tightened. “Depends on your definition of crisis.”
“Kitchen? Power? Don’t say it’s the generator.”
“It’s not the generator,” I said quickly. “It’s just… something’s gone missing. Something valuable. From my room.”
His brow furrowed. “How valuable?”
I hesitated, and lowered my voice, “Priceless.”
“That’s not a number.”
I felt my throat tighten. “The Harrington family heirloom. The brooch Mrs Harrington asked me to look after. The one I told you I needed a safe for?”
For a second, Noah didn’t react. Then the colour drained from his face. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
For a long second, he just stared at me. “You’re telling me a priceless family heirloom has gone missing? On my property?”
I nodded, keeping my tone steady. “I kept it in my drawer. And there’s no sign of forced entry on my bedroom door, which was definitely locked.”
Noah let out a low curse, low and rough, before pacing a short, tight line across the room. “You realise the press are parked outside the driveway like vultures? If this gets out…”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “You couldn’t have picked a worse week for this.”
As if I’d scheduled it between the band rehearsal and dessert plating?
My spine snapped straight. “I didn’t pick it,” I said, heat creeping into my voice. “And for the record, I didn’t lose it. Someone took it.”
He turned sharply. “You think someone here stole it? My staff don’t steal, Holly.”
“And I don’t lose things,” I shot back before I could stop myself.
The air between us went taut, silence stretching thin.
He sighed, lowering his voice. “All right. Let’s not make this about blame. We both want the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“To find it,” he said simply. “Before anyone else notices. Especially the Harringtons. Or the photographers. Or God forbid, the lifestyle bloggers.”
I crossed my arms. “You’ll help me?”
“I don’t have a choice,” he said, his tone grim. “If word gets out that there’s been a theft at Langston Estate, I can kiss my reputation, and half my bookings, goodbye.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Didn’t mean it to be.” He started towards the main path, motioning for me to follow. “We’ll have to do a search. Let’s start with your room.”
Despite everything, a small, unwilling smile tugged at my lips. “Okay.”
For all his gruffness, there was something grounding about Noah, even when frustrated. The kind of person who seemed like he’d rather just fix the problem than talk about it.
Still, when he met my nervous gaze again, his tone softened. “We’ll find it, Holly.”
I nodded, looking over at him. “We have to.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Because if Mrs Harrington or the press catch wind before we do, we’ll both need new jobs.”