Tea And Tensions

The night ended with music, laughter, and quiet questions Scarlett couldn't answer. And so did her first real encounter with Brian Wexler.

She didn't sleep much afterward.

The way he looked at her. The way his voice carved through the night air like it knew her already. It stayed with her far longer than it should have. But when the morning light broke through Sadie's apartment window, Scarlett shook it off and pushed it back into the corner of her mind.

She wasn't here for distractions. She was here to work.

This was her first major project—and maybe the only shot she'd get to build something real.

The studio became her world again. Day after day, she threw herself into Camille's wedding dress—pinning, stitching, sketching and revising until her fingers ached.

She and Camille worked together hand in hand. Sometimes in the studio, sometimes over tea in quiet cafés. They debated fabric textures, lace trims, and silhouette shapes. Camille wanted romance with a backbone. Something bold, elegant, not easily forgotten. And Scarlett was determined to deliver that and more.

Camille often stayed after their fittings, sometimes lingering with a glass of wine or a warm mug in hand.

"You're a lot more than I expected," she said one afternoon, sipping slowly. "You listen."

"I try," Scarlett said, adjusting the hem of the test gown.

"Brian said the same thing," Camille added with a light laugh. "He said you listen with your hands."

Scarlett didn't answer. Her pulse ticked in her wrist.

The invitation came casually.

Too casually.

Camille strolled into the studio with her sunglasses still perched on her head, her energy bright and playful. "You and Sadie are coming with me this weekend."

Scarlett looked up from her sketches. "Where?"

"The Wexler estate. I need a change of scenery. We'll have space, quiet, coffee, and time to perfect the final details. It'll be relaxing. I'll bring wine."

Scarlett hesitated. "Does Brian know?"

Camille waved her off. "He'll survive."

Scarlett glanced at Sadie, who just grinned. "You need a weekend away, Scar."

So she agreed.

And by the end of the week, they were driving through iron gates and winding roads to a place that looked like it belonged in a dream.

The Wexler estate was enormous.

Vast green fields spilled into the horizon. The house itself was all stone, ivy, and elegance, with wide porches and the kind of windows that caught golden light at just the right angle. There were horses in the distance, trees stretching tall and still, and air that tasted like space.

Scarlett tried to stay grounded. She was here to work.

They were shown to the guest house—modern, luxurious, and far too pristine to feel lived in. Still, she unpacked her sketchbook and hung her fabrics like they were holy.

The next morning, she wandered into the main house's kitchen for tea—barefoot, quiet, trying not to disturb the hush of the estate.

But she wasn't alone.

Brian stood at the marble island, coffee in hand. Dressed in a T-shirt and joggers. Still sharp, still composed—but different somehow.

His eyes met hers.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

His tone wasn't rude. Just… genuinely confused.

Scarlett froze. "I... I thought Camille told you... I mean, she invited us."

She murmured the words more to herself than to him, searching for the right thing to say—but none of them landed.

Brian raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting.

Scarlett's heart stumbled.

And then Camille breezed in, barefoot and glowing. "Oh, come on, Bri. Don't look so surprised."

She wrapped her arm around Scarlett's shoulder. "I brought the girls. Creative getaway. You'll hardly notice us."

Brian didn't reply right away.

But his eyes lingered on Scarlett a moment longer before he turned back to his coffee.

The day passed in the comfort of routine.

Scarlett, Camille, and Sadie settled in with their design boards and tulle. Tea brewed, music played low, and ideas flowed freely.

Camille was relaxed. Funny. Focused. She trusted Scarlett with every layer of the dress now, asking for adjustments, trusting her hands, watching her with the kind of faith that built confidence.

By sunset, the dress looked less like fabric—and more like art.

Scarlett should have slept soundly.

But she didn't.

That night, the encounter with Brian replayed in her mind like a song she couldn't stop humming.

She tossed. Turned. Counted the flowers in the wallpaper. Nothing helped.

So she got up.

The guesthouse was still. Outside, the land stretched out like a silver ocean under the moonlight. She saw lights glowing faintly from the stables. Curious, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked barefoot through the cool grass.

She didn't know what she was looking for.

Peace, maybe.

But what she found wasn't stillness—it was him.

Brian stood in the stable, brushing the mane of a chestnut mare.

The light was soft and warm. He looked almost gentle in it.

Scarlett paused in the doorway, unsure if she should go in.

But he saw her.

He didn't speak right away.

Then: "Couldn't sleep?"

She nodded, stepping in slowly. "The quiet is... different."

He gave a small, knowing smile. "Takes a while to get used to."

The mare nudged his hand. He stroked its neck without looking up.

"You like horses?" he asked.

"I've always admired them," she said softly, watching his hands.

"They're honest," Brian said. "They don't posture. They don't lie."

Scarlett leaned against a beam, arms crossed. "I guess that's rare."

"It is."

They stood like that for a while, not talking. Just... being.

And in that still, moonlit silence, something passed between them.

Not a spark.

Not a promise.

Just a quiet understanding neither of them had expected.

And Scarlett realized she wasn't sure who she was more afraid of in that moment—

Brian Wexler.

Or herself.