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 sortof 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.