The crested gates of the Seraphina Vineyard swung open to reveal a sprawling Tuscan-style villa that looked like it had been plucked from the Italian countryside and dropped into sun-drenched California.
It was, objectively, a perfect wedding venue. It was also, at present, my personal hell.
“The cypress trees are a bit… uniform, don’t you think?” Chloe Wexler said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her chin. “It feels a little… planned. ”
I bit back the retort that yes, a multi-million-dollar landscaped estate was, in fact, planned. “The uniformity creates a stunning visual corridor leading to the main villa, Chloe. It will look incredible in the photos. ”
“My photos will look incredible anywhere,” Rhys Callaghan drawled from beside me.
He’d swapped yesterday’s leather jacket for a lived-in grey t-shirt that stretched across a shockingly broad chest, but the air of deliberate disruption clung to him like the scent of expensive whiskey.
He wasn’t looking at the trees. He was looking at me, a lazy, challenging smirk playing on his lips.
“It’s about capturing the moment, not the shrubbery. ”
“And a well-planned event is composed of well-planned moments,” I shot back, my voice clipped. I refused to let him see how his gaze made the skin on my arms prickle. I gripped my binder—my beautiful, color-coded, meticulously organized binder—like a shield.
Marcus, ever the peacemaker, stepped between us. “It’s a gorgeous setting, honey. Ava’s right, the photos will be spectacular. ” He gave me a brief, apologetic smile that still, to my immense frustration, made a forgotten corner of my heart give a pathetic little flutter.
The venue manager, a crisp woman named Eleanor, led us through the grand ballroom.
I was in my element, firing off questions about power outlets, vendor access points, and acoustic viability. For every logistical detail I confirmed, Rhys had a counter-comment, a quiet murmur meant only for me, his new tactic a war of whispers.
“The string quartet will be placed on this dais,” I said, making a note on my schematic.
“String quartet?” he whispered, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath. “Nothing says ‘wild, passionate love’ like a good minuet. ”
I ignored him, turning to Eleanor. “And the five-course tasting menu. The kitchen’s capacity for two hundred plated guests is confirmed?”
“Five courses,” Rhys murmured, inspecting a light fixture. “That’s at least three hours. People will be asleep before the first dance. ”
“The lighting plan for the terrace is on page 4-B,” I told Eleanor, my jaw tightening.
He leaned in. “Or you could just let the sunset do its thing. It’s usually got a pretty good handle on lighting. ”
Each comment was a tiny, precise dart aimed at the heart of my professional identity. He wasn’t just questioning my choices; he was questioning my very nature.
He saw my competence as rigidity, my planning as a lack of soul. And the most infuriating part was the way his deep voice vibrated right through me, bypassing my brain and setting off a low hum of awareness deep in my belly.
I was trapped. I couldn’t call him out without looking unprofessional, but his “help” was actively, and intimately, undermining me.
“And this,” Eleanor announced, gesturing toward a heavy, oak-paneled door, “is our wine cellar. We often use it for intimate cocktail hours or private tastings. It’s fully climate-controlled, of course. ”
“Perfect,” I said, grateful for the change in subject, my mind already slotting it into the schedule. “This would be an excellent spot for the wedding party to gather for a private toast before being announced at the reception. ”
Rhys snorted softly. “Or a place to hide when the best man’s speech goes off the rails. ”
Chloe and Marcus laughed. My jaw was so tight it ached.
Needing a moment to escape his running commentary, I stepped past Eleanor into the cellar. The air grew instantly cool and damp, a stark contrast to the California heat, and the scent of earth, aging oak, and fermenting grapes filled my senses.
It was a relief.
“We’ll just be a moment,” Marcus said from the doorway, pulling Chloe back toward the main hall to discuss his latest brilliant idea for a groom’s cake.
Eleanor followed, leaving the heavy door to swing slowly shut.