Chapter Thirty-Seven
Eight months later.
Salt wind moved through the vines, carrying the faint sweetness of summer roses and the ocean beyond the cliffs.
I stood on the veranda outside the new events office, barefoot, holding a mug of coffee and watching the rows of vines sway in the breeze like they were stretching after a long nap.
The wedding season was in full swing, flowers blooming, barrels humming, tourists drifting through the estate with cameras and oversized hats, and somehow my life had fallen naturally into step with it.
Behind me, the screen door creaked open.
“You’ve stolen my jumper again.” Noah’s voice slid out, low and amused.
I glanced down at myself. His grey wool jumper hung halfway to my knees and smelled faintly of oak barrel and cedar soap. Cozy, sinful perfection.
“It was on the chair,” I protested. “Unattended.”
“You mean folded,” he said, walking past me to kiss my temple. “On top of my laundry basket.”
I sipped my coffee. “So, essentially free range.”
He shook his head, amused, and leaned against the railing beside me. He seemed deeply content.
The truth was, we’d fallen into a rhythm so natural that sometimes I forgot there had ever been a life before this.
I ran the weddings; he ran the grapes. I organised; he brooded attractively in corners until I kissed him out of it. He fixed things around the estate with a level of concentration that really had no business being that attractive. I stole every jumper he owned.
We wandered the Margaret River Farmers’ Market most Saturday mornings, always leaving with twice as much as we’d planned and at least one pastry we definitely didn’t need.
We’d grab coffee in town, argue over whose turn it was to cook dinner, sneak down to the beach for a quick swim after work, and somehow never get tired of watching the sun disappear over the ocean.
Nothing dramatic. Just a life, a real one, in Margaret River together.
I stared out at the little art studio by the fig trees, a once-forgotten storage space that now housed Sophie’s paints, canvases, and the faint scent of eucalyptus oil she dabbed behind her ears when stressed.
She wasn’t stressed much these days.
Through the veranda rails, I spotted Lucas leaning against his cherry-red sports car, sunglasses on even though the sun was practically behind us. The engine idled at a low, indulgent purr, apparently the car “didn’t like to cool down too fast.”
Across from him, Sophie stood outside cottage, flipping through her sketchbook while Lucas listened with the hyper-focused intensity of a man being briefed on national security rather than colour palettes.
“Is he… consulting on her art studio again?” I asked.
Noah followed my gaze. “He’s offered to install custom gallery lighting.”
“Oh dear.”
“And a misting system. For ambience.”
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. “Naturally.”
They were good together, relaxed, glowing, in that newly engaged way that made the world around them tilt slightly brighter. Sophie brushed a curl behind her ear as she spoke; Lucas lowered his sunglasses to admire her like he’d never seen sunlight before.
The announcement had gone out weeks ago, in tasteful bronze lettering, with a single stylised sketch Sophie had done of their hands intertwined. Their date was set for next spring.
And yes, I was already deep in the planning stages.
“Think they’ll stick with the open-air ceremony by the fig trees?” Noah asked.
“Only if Lucas’s request for a live harpist ‘floating above the guests’ gets vetoed,” I said.
Noah winced. “Dear God.”
“Don’t worry,” I added. “I’ve already steered him towards something achievable. Like a raised platform. With safety rails.”
He chuckled.
Their wedding would be extravagant, emotional, probably chaotic, and honestly? Lovely.
A perfect reflection of the two of them.
James and Caroline visited every couple of months, stepping off their helicopter (because of course they had a helicopter now) with the breezy glow of two people so in love they made the furniture blush.
Caroline had transformed in the best ways, shedding old expectations like petals. James had learned how to relax and was already working on a new app idea formulated around work life balance.
They still flirted like teenagers, still kissed like they had an audience, still insisted their honeymoon “technically hadn’t ended yet.”
Meanwhile, the success of the Langston wedding had done more for my business than any marketing campaign ever could. We were booked almost a year in advance, the team had doubled in size, and Cleo was now running the Perth office.
We still video chatted every week.
“You’re too calm,” she accused during almost every call.
“I’m stable,” I corrected.
“You’re smug.”
And maybe I was. Just a little.
Because I’d moved.
Really moved.
All the way to Margaret River.
I had an office overlooking the vines at Langston Estate, a wedding waiting list that stretched almost a year, and a life that felt fuller than anything I’d dared imagine.
And Noah, he was woven into all of it. As solid as the land he loved. Composed in quiet ways that made my chest ache. Occasionally still broody, but in that kissable way where I’d tug his shirt and he’d lean down with that half-smile that said he knew exactly what I was doing.
He still kissed me with the same devastating intensity, capable hands, sure mouth, the kind of passion that curled low and familiar, but now it wasn’t just wild or frantic.
It was something honest.
The undeniable shape of love.
“Want to go for that walk?” he asked, nudging my shoulder the way he does when he’s pretending to be casual but absolutely not casual. “We keep saying we will.”
I slid my hand into his, already grinning into my coffee. “Sure. Let me grab my shoes.” I glanced down at myself and snorted. “And, you know… some actual pants.”
The air had mellowed into that honeyed late-afternoon glow that only Margaret River seemed capable of. The vines shimmered in rows of deep and light greens, leaves rustling with the sea breeze drifting inland from the coast.
A kookaburra cackled somewhere in the distance, mocking, supportive, who could tell?
Noah’s gaze swept over the rows, his whole posture relaxing into something I’d learned to recognise as deep contentment. “Vines are happy this year,” he said. “Best growth we’ve had in a decade.”
“Must be because of the excellent management,” I teased.
He tilted his head. “Funny. Izzy said the same thing. Except she phrased it as, ‘Maybe they’re finally responding to you not being a total grump for once.’”
I smiled. “Accurate.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side,” I said, looping my arm casually through his. “I just also enjoy teasing you.”
He let out a resigned laugh, and the sound warmed something deep inside me.
We kept walking, the hum of the estate fading into the distance, the distant chatter from the cellar door, the faint whir of a drone that a tourist was almost certainly not licensed to fly over farmland.
Everything felt alive. Abundant, and thriving.
Just like the estate itself.
“It’s wild,” I murmured to him, glancing out over the rows. “Six months ago, everything was so different. Now look at it. New bookings every day. Private tastings. That magazine feature.”
“And a waiting list for your weddings,” Noah reminded me.
“Well, yes,” I said with as much humility as I could muster, which admittedly wasn’t much. “But your wines are the reason people come. Sophie’s labels are everywhere now. It’s like the brand has its own heartbeat.”
He looked proud, though he’d never have called attention to it. Something about that made my chest ache in the nicest possible way.
We drifted farther than usual, down where the land started to dip into a shallow bowl of eucalyptus trees and rocks. The sun hit at just the right angle, painting everything in amber.
Noah slowed, his brow furrowed. “Haven’t been down here in a while.”
I followed his gaze. “Is this the area you said your grandfather used to disappear to?”
“Yeah,” he said. “For hours. He’d tell everyone he was doing ‘field adjustments,’ which absolutely meant nothing.”
“Maybe he buried treasure,” I said jokingly.
“Well,” he said instantly, deadpan. “Then we’d be the poorest treasure hunters in Western Australia.”
“True,” I admitted. “Sophie would design a beautiful treasure map, though.”
“She would,” he said proudly. “She’s good here.”
We stood together for a bit, watching the breeze ripple through the gum leaves overhead, the sunlight filtering down in soft shifting patches across the grass.
Noah stepped closer almost absentmindedly, like his body had made the decision before the rest of him caught up. His arm slid around my back, drawing me gently into his side.
We wandered a little farther, our hands lightly linked, swinging between us.
“That crest there,” Noah said, nodding towards a cluster of rocks, “he used to sit on it like it was his personal throne. Wouldn’t let us kids climb it when he was up there.”
“Maybe he was hiding something.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Although knowing him, it was probably a hip flask.”
We rounded the edge of the shale, and the wind changed direction, carrying the earthy scent of gum leaves and stone. I was about to make some joke about secret cubby houses and grumpy grandfathers when something caught the light, a faint glint, half-buried beneath a slab of old, cracked shale.
I stopped mid-step.
“Noah,” I said, tapping his arm gently. “What’s that?”
He followed my gaze, squinting in the sunlight.
There, nestled in the dirt, something metallic gleamed.
I made my way over and crouched beside it, brushing aside leaves. “It’s metal,” I murmured. “Old metal.”
Noah dropped beside me, jeans brushing my calf. “Careful. This rock is sharp.”
Together we cleared the dirt, revealing a small, weathered tin box, edges rusted, lid warped with age. It seemed like it had been here for a long time.
We worked our fingers beneath it and gently eased it free, lifting it from its earthy cradle.
Noah settled back on his heels, dusting the dirt from the lid.
He turned the box over slowly, reverently, like it might whisper back if handled too roughly. His thumb traced the faded lid again. Once. Twice. His brows pulled tight.
A light breeze slipped through the gum leaves above us, stirring dust and the ends of my hair. Honestly, it felt like the trees were leaning in to eavesdrop, which was rude but very on-brand for this place.
“What do you think’s inside?” I whispered.
Noah made a face. “Absolutely no idea.”
A little fizz of something, excitement or nerves, ran down my spine.
We pushed ourselves upright, brushing dirt off our knees.
Without even thinking, we started walking back towards the main house, falling into step the way we always did.
Our hands found each other automatically, like they’d negotiated that agreement behind our backs.
“Feels like your family isn’t quite finished with us,” I said, aiming for calm but probably coming off more like delighted.
Noah let out a tired little breath. “Please, not another mystery.”
He sounded like someone who’d reached their lifetime quota of surprises and would like a refund.
But he kept glancing down at the tin in his hand, like it might start humming or glowing.
Noah slipped his free hand around my waist. “Well, whatever’s in there,” he said, “we’ll face it together.”
Which was a very lovely, reassuring thing to say.
Unfortunately, it was also exactly the sort of thing people say right before everything goes completely off the rails.
As we walked, I could feel it.
The creeping suspicion that, however ridiculous it sounded, another story had somehow found us.
I let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
But this time, weirdly, it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.
Not with Noah beside me. I glanced up at him, then back at the tin in his hand.
I mean…how bad could it be?