The room went feral.
Cleo shrieked. Emma cheered. Izzy muttered something about insurance liability. And I stood there, feeling the party escalate like a shift in atmospheric pressure.
This was going to be iconic.
The hens spilled out into the courtyard like a glitter bomb going off in slow motion.
Feather boas flapped in the night breeze, silk robes shimmered under the festoon lights, and someone (okay, Cleo) loudly announced, “WE’VE ARRIVED!” as if we were storming a castle.
The London girls fanned out instantly, assessing the scene, the whiskey, the men, like a highly organised glittery task force.
The bucks, James, Noah, Lucas, and even a few staff members who’d clearly been coerced into the festivities, stared at us like we were some kind of sparkly mirage.
It was obvious they’d been having their own brand of expensive revelry.
The courtyard in front of the barn was scattered with empty whiskey tumblers and a half-finished flight of single malt tastings.
A mix of James’s old mates and suited-up colleagues lingered around the barrel table, the kind of men who appeared like they closed deals by day and made questionable decisions by night.
Someone had dragged out a premium leather armchair from inside, abandoning it beside a crate of imported craft beer like a throne lost in battle.
Lady Beaumont’s driver stood frozen mid-sip, clutching a glass of what looked suspiciously like top-shelf bourbon he definitely wasn’t supposed to have access to.
The security guards blinked like they were witnessing a rare celestial event.
Noah, meanwhile, stood near the barrel table, hands in his pockets, watching it all with an amused expression.
I’d never really seen him dressed up before. It suited him. More than I was prepared for.
And then there was Lucas, arms wide, shirt untucked, whiskey in hand, a walking embodiment of expensive recklessness. He looked like a man who had consumed just enough $300-a-bottle scotch to believe he was immortal.
James was bright-cheeked, grinning, the happiest man in the southern hemisphere.
And all of them stared at us, glittering, shouting, unhinged hens, like we’d burst through the night air on a confetti-covered chariot.
Noah’s eyes found mine almost immediately, like he’d been looking for me.
He gave me this small, shy smile, surprised, a little crooked, and I felt it fizz somewhere low in my stomach. I smiled back before I could stop myself.
James, meanwhile, let out a delighted shout when he spotted Caroline. He scooped her straight off her feet, spinning her in a circle like they were starring in the world’s drunkest romance movie trailer.
Lucas, of course, saw our entrance as his cue to perform.
He vaulted onto a hay bale like it was a stage and threw his arms wide. “THIS PARTY HAS OFFICIALLY LEVELLED UP!”
A couple of the guys cheered him on immediately, clearly delighted to outsource the responsibility of being the loud one.
On his way back down, he clapped Lady Beaumont’s driver on the back with the unrestrained enthusiasm of someone who assumed everyone enjoyed being manhandled.
“Come on, Cooper, lighten up!” Lucas boomed.
Cooper stiffened a tiny bit before giving a polite, pained nod. The kind of expression that said he was accustomed to this level of rich-people chaos but was mentally elsewhere.
Cleo was instantly inspired.
She marched towards the equipment laden DJ table by the courtyard wall, climbed onto an overturned wine crate, and yelled, “Group karaoke in ten seconds!”
One of the bartenders whispered, “Dear God, not again.”