The first couple weeks of my partnership with Tristan were marked by a constant push-and-pull between our contrasting writing styles and creative visions. Our initial brainstorming session quickly devolved into a battle of wills.

Honestly the man was infuriatingly, positively, impossible to work with.

"Absolutely not!" I objected. "We cannot open the novel with a gratuitous sex scene. That's just...crass."

Through the screen, I saw Tristan throwing his hands up. "Crass? It's provocative! Gets the blood pumping right from the start."

"This is supposed to be a romance novel, not adult literature," I insisted, feeling my cheeks flush. "We need to lay down the character foundations first, build the narrative tension slowly."

Tristan leaned closer to the camera, his shadowed features somehow conveying both amusement and intensity. "Slowly, you say? And here I thought you were the type to dive right in, given how passionately you argue your point."

I bristled at his comment, unsure if he was still talking about our writing or something more. "I'll have you know, Mr. Marshall, that I approach all aspects of my life with careful consideration."

"Is that so?" His voice dropped lower, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I wonder what it would take to make you lose that careful control."

The sudden shift in his tone caught me off guard. I reached for my tea, needing something to occupy my hands. "We're getting off track. The point is—"

"The point, my dear Lady, is that sometimes a little spontaneity can lead to the most exciting developments." As he spoke, I took a sip of my tea, only to find it had gone cold. I grimaced.

"Not a fan of cold tea?" Tristan chuckled. "You know, that expression you're wearing right now? That's exactly how I imagine Madeline looking when she first meets the Count. A mix of distaste and intrigue."

"I am not intrigued," I protested, perhaps a bit too quickly. In my agitation, I gestured a bit too wildly, knocking over my cup. "Oh, blast!"

I jumped up as the liquid spread across my blouse. "Ah, just perfect," I muttered, dabbing ineffectually at the rapidly growing stain.

"Everything alright over there, love?" Tristan's voice held a note of genuine concern beneath his usual teasing tone.

"Fine, just...clumsy me," I replied, grimacing as the cold tea seeped through to my skin. "I need to change. One moment."

Assuming I had turned the camera off, I swiftly stripped off my soiled clothes and reached for a fresh dress. A low whistle made me freeze.

"Have mercy!" Tristan's smooth voice purred through the speakers. "I think red is my new favorite color, m'lady,"

I whirled around, clutching the dress to my chest, my cheeks flaming. "You are an absolute lewd...cad! You were watching?"

"Hard not to when such a delightful view presents itself," he replied, his grin evident even through the shadows obscuring his face. "Though I must say, that lace is pretty enticing on you."

I opened and closed my mouth, rendered temporarily speechless by his audacity. Finally, I managed to find my voice, adopting my most scathing tone. "Keep your lascivious eyes to yourself, you peeping Tom!"

Tristan merely chuckled, entirely unperturbed by my indignation. "There's that delicious fire I was missing. For a moment there, I thought the tea might have doused your spirit entirely."

I sputtered, hastily pulling on the fresh dress and adjusting my hair and glasses. "You're insufferable, utterly insufferable!"

"Yet you're still here, aren't you?" His voice was low, almost a purr. "That has to say something about your tolerance for the...insufferable."

I opened my mouth for a biting retort, but at that moment, a soft knock sounded at my door.

"Abigail, dear? Is everything alright in there?"

It was Mrs. Perkins, my sweet elderly neighbor from down the hall.

"Just a spot of clumsiness, Mrs. Perkins!" I called back hastily as I slipped on the dress quickly, smoothing it down over my hips."Nothing to worry about!"

"Well, if you're sure, dear," her voice drifted back, laced with obvious concern. "I just heard some raised voices and wanted to check that you were alright. You know how I worry about you all alone in that big flat."

"I'm fine, truly!" I insisted, cringing inwardly at the thought of poor Mrs. Perkins overhearing my squabble with Tristan. "Just working on a new writing project."

"Oh, with Leon? That nice young man?"

From the speakers, I heard an unmistakable huff of breath. I shot a sharp look at the camera, mouthing, 'Don't you dare!'

But Tristan leaned in with obvious interest. "Leon, huh? And who might this chap be?"

I clenched my jaw, fighting back a flush. Ignoring Tristan, I called back to Mrs. Perkins, "No, not Leon. Just working with a new writing partner."

"Oh, I see," she replied, sounding slightly disappointed. "Well, if you need anything, dear, just let me know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Perkins. I appreciate it," I responded, relieved as I heard her shuffling away.

Once I was sure she was gone, I turned back to the camera, my eyes narrowed at Tristan. "Not. A. Word."

Tristan had the audacity to look entirely innocent, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, love. My lips are sealed."

But the glint in his shadowed eyes told me this was far from over. I drew in a deep, steadying breath, willing my heart rate to return to normal. I would not give Tristan the satisfaction of seeing me flustered – not again.

"We're getting sidetracked," I said briskly, smoothing my hands over my blouse. "We need to focus on outlining the character arcs and narrative through-line."

"If you insist," Tristan replied, his tone conveying he was entirely unconvinced by my brusque redirection. "Though I must admit, this 'Leon' fellow has piqued my curiosity."

I leveled him with a stern look. "He's a colleague, nothing more. Now, back to the protagonist—"

"A colleague?" Tristan cut me off, that insufferable Aussie lilt full of amusement coloring his words. "One you've known for quite some time, if the elderly neighbor's familiarity is any indication."

Damn him for being so persistently observant. "That's neither here nor there," I deflected. "What matters is—"

"Oh, I think it matters a great deal," he interrupted again, leaning in conspiratorially. "After all, if we're to craft a truly compelling romantic storyline, I ought to understand the competitors for my partner's affections."

I sputtered, feeling heat rush to my cheeks again. "C-Competitors? Don't be ridiculous! This is a professional collaboration, nothing more."

"If you say so, love." His tone clearly conveyed that he thought otherwise. "But a man can't help but wonder... Is this 'Leon' fellow dashing? Charming? The type who might have caught your eye at one point or another?"

"I...You..." I trailed off, at an uncharacteristic loss for words as images of Leon's warm smile and kind eyes flickered through my mind's eye.

We had been close, once upon a time. Inseparable partners bound together by a shared passion for literature and creative idealism. Plenty of our friends and family had assumed we would eventually become something more than 'just friends.'

But life had pulled us along separate paths, and the magic between us had slowly dissipated into the comfortable affection of two people who treasured their history.

At least, that's what I had told myself over the years. Isn't it?

Tristan's teasing laughter pulled me from my reverie. "Struck speechless, have I? That's a first from what I've witnessed of your quick tongue." His voice dropped to a lower register. "Perhaps I've struck a nerve?"

I bristled at his insinuation, the flicker of uncertainty within me sparking into defensive irritation. "Don't be preposterous! Leon is nothing more than a friend," I stated firmly, willing my voice not to waver. "We've known each other for years, but there has never been anything romantic between us."

That gave Tristan pause, I could sense his surprise even through the obscuring shadows. "Is that so?" There was a nouvelle curiously probing note in his tone. "You're telling me this, Leon, he's never been anything more than a simple 'old friend' to you?"

I lifted my chin a fraction. "That's precisely what I'm telling you. We're like family, Leon and I. The very idea of anything else is..." I trailed off, unwilling to outright declare the possibility as preposterous.

A small, traitorous part of me knew that wouldn't be fully honest.

Now, however, confronted with Tristan's surprisingly astute perceptiveness, I felt the first insidious tendrils of doubt snaking inwards. Was there more I had been avoiding, over the years? Depths to my feelings that I had purposefully ignored for my own peace of mind?

Tristan's voice, laced with intrigue, interrupted my spiraling thoughts. "You seem awfully defensive about this, m'lady. Surely if it were as simple as 'just friends,' the prospect wouldn't be ruffling those pretty feathers of yours."

I opened my mouth to protest, to insist he was reading far too much into an innocent situation. But something in his tone gave me pause, robbing the words of their conviction before they could fully form.

There was an edge to Tristan's questions, an undercurrent of something that extended beyond mere prurient curiosity. If I didn't know better, I could almost describe it as a possessive bristle, like a wolf staking its claim over a potential rival encroaching on its den.

But that was ridiculous...wasn't it? We were professional collaborators, nothing more. For him to be reacting with such territorialism over the idea of a friend in my life would be--

"Well?" His voice cut through my thoughts once more, that edge still razor-keen. "I'm waiting for that resolute denial, my sweet lady. Put this curiosity over dear Leon firmly to rest for me."

My mouth had gone curiously dry, my pulse given a treacherous flutter against the hollow of my throat. Slowly, carefully, I wet my lips before trusting myself to reply.

"There's nothing to deny or put to rest. Leon is...Leon has been...my best friend." The words stuck in my throat, suddenly heavy and insufficient to convey the tangled truth of the matter.

For the first time, I actively wondered if there could be something simmering that even I had been blind to all these years. Some unacknowledged current running parallel to the steadying constant of mine and Leon's friendship.

And if that tiny spark truly did exist within me...what, if anything, did that mean about these increasingly heated exchanges with the shadowy stranger I knew only as Tristan?

The weighted silence stretched between us, laden with unspoken questions and thoughts we dared not give full voice. Finally, Tristan spoke again, though his cocksure bravado had an undercurrent of something that bordered on disquiet.

"Well then, I do believe we've wandered down quite the garden path, you and I. Perhaps it's best we... redirect our focus back to the collaboration, hmm?"

I could have sworn I detected the faintest undercurrent of strain colouring his words, but perhaps I was merely projecting the tumult of my own thoughts onto his response.

"Yes," I managed in a small voice that sounded entirely unlike my usual self-assured tone. "You're quite right. We've become... distracted."

"Now, if you're quite done turning tomato red, perhaps we could return our attention to crafting 'our' sizzling romance story?"

I bristled, both stung and perversely relieved by his return to familiar irreverent banter. "I'll thank you to keep your inappropriate observations to yourself, you...you..."

"Rogue?" He supplied with a shameless chuckle. "Imp? Bounder?"

"Ugh, you're insufferable!" But I couldn't quite keep the grudging smirk from tugging at the corner of my lips.

"Yet you're still here," he countered, echoing his earlier words. "And if I'm not mistaken, there's a distinctly rosy hue dusting those cheeks of yours, my blushing American rose."

I opened my mouth, a suitably scathing retort poised on the tip of my tongue.

But then I paused, a strange and wholly unsettling realization taking root:

Tristan's words may have set my heart pounding and my composure fraying...but I couldn't recall the last time I had felt so delightfully, infuriatingly alive.

And that, more than anything else, was what truly had me feeling tongue-tied and flustered.

I spent the rest of the evening replaying our encounter, my emotions a whirlwind of confusion and excitement as I finally drifted off to a fitful sleep.

BONUS CONTENT:

Tristan's Mini POV

The video call ended, but the image of Abigail in that red lace lingerie burned behind my eyelids. I slumped back in my chair, heart pounding, mind reeling.

It started innocently enough with our usual banter, me pushing her buttons with provocative suggestions for our novel. Then chaos erupted on her end - a crash, a yelp, and suddenly...

"Oh, blast!"

She stood abruptly, steaming liquid spread across her blouse, clinging to her curves. My throat went dry.

"I need to change. One moment," she said, clearly assuming she'd turned off the camera.

But she hadn't. As she began to undress, I should have looked away, said something – anything. But I couldn't. I was paralyzed, drinking in every detail. Then... oh, sweet mercy.

The blouse slipped from her shoulders, revealing freckles scattered across her pale skin. They trailed down her arms, across her collarbones, disappearing teasingly beneath that damned red lace. I found myself wondering just how far those freckles went, imagining tracing them with my fingertips, my lips...

My eyes traced the delicate straps, the tempting swell, the soft curve. She bent to reach for a dress, and I nearly bit through my lip.

A low whistle escaped before I could stop it. "Have mercy! I think red is my new favorite color, m'lady."

She whirled around, green eyes wide with mortification, cheeks flushing a shade that nearly matched her lingerie. The blush spread down her neck, across her chest, and I found myself fascinated by its progress.

"You absolute cad!" she sputtered, clutching the dress to her chest.

She continued to berate me, alternating between anger and flustered embarrassment. But in that moment, her spirited defense only heightened my desire to reach through the screen and pull her close, to silence her adorable rambling with a kiss.

God help me, I wanted her. The realization hit me like a freight train, leaving me dizzy with want and terror.

Nothing would ever be the same again. All because of a spilled cup of tea and a glimpse of red lace.