Summer dressed casually in a white tee and blue denim, hailed a cab, and directed the driver to take her to Café Libro. The ride through the bustling streets of Paris was a welcome distraction, but her mind was still occupied with thoughts of Tristan and how Max orchestrated their meet up. She shook her head slightly, focusing on the task at hand: meeting Mitchell, her long-time publisher and friend.
As she entered the café, her eyes immediately found Mitchell sitting by the window. He was a tall, fair man with striking Italian features—sharp cheekbones, wavy dark hair, and eyes that sparkled with genuine warmth. He gave her a tender smile, and as she approached, he found himself lost in a flashback of how they first met.
Flashback: Three Years Ago
Mitchell had just started his publishing house, Blue Angels Ink, at the age of 25. He was determined to give opportunities to new artists, writers, and poets. One evening, as he was sifting through various online portals in search of talent, he stumbled upon the work of a poet writing under the pen name Alma Bendita. The poem that caught his eye was titled "Butterfly Transformed into Vulture."
The raw emotion and vivid imagery in her words captivated him. He could sense the poet was mysterious, strong, resilient, yet delicate. Compelled to reach out, he messaged her online:
**Mitchell:** "Hi Alma Bendita, I'm Mitchell, a publisher. Your poem 'Butterfly Transformed into Vulture' is extraordinary. Have you ever considered publishing your work professionally? I believe you have immense potential."
Summer, using her pen name, replied curtly.
**Alma Bendita:** "Thank you, but I write as a hobby. No interest in publishing professionally."
Mitchell, undeterred, persisted.
**Mitchell:** "Your talent deserves to be shared with the world. I can help you reach a larger audience."
For a month, Mitchell sent her daily messages, trying to persuade her. Each time, her response was the same: a polite but firm refusal. Frustrated but not ready to give up, Mitchell decided to appeal to her empathy.
**Mitchell:** "Alma, I know we don't know each other, but I'm asking for your help. My publishing house is struggling, and I need a big hit to keep it afloat. I truly believe your work could be that success."
Finally, after a long pause, she responded.
**Alma Bendita:**"Alright, Mitchell. I'll sign a contract, but I have a condition: I want to remain anonymous. My identity stays a secret, and I continue writing under my pen name."
**Mitchell:**"Deal. Thank you, Alma. You won't regret this."
Three months later, they met in person for the first time to celebrate the success of her first published poetry collection, which had become an instant hit. Mitchell was mesmerized not only by her art but also by her beauty. Summer, cordial and kind, had unknowingly captured his heart.
Present Day
Snapping back to the present, Mitchell stood up as Summer approached, his smile growing wider. "Summer! It's so good to see you," he said, pulling her into a warm hug. He looked at her arm with concern. "What happened to your arm? Are you okay?"
Summer offered him a polite smile, not wanting to delve into the details. "I'm fine, Mitch. Just a minor incident. How have you been?" "By the way, it's good to see you too, Mitch," Summer replied, her own smile bright and genuine.
They shared pleasantries before sitting down, with Mitchell subtly adjusting his chair to ensure she was comfortable. They sat down, ordering their meals and quickly slipping into an easy, familiar conversation. The bond between them was evident, a mix of professional respect and genuine friendship. Mitchell subtly took care of her during the meal, offering to cut her food and pour her water, his actions reminiscent of Tristan's care during the flight. Summer's thoughts drifted to Tristan, comparing the two men's gestures of kindness. She found herself missing Tristan's presence which shocked her. Shaking away her thoughts, she tried to concentrate on Mitchell sitting in front of her.
"So, how's the new manuscript coming along?" Mitchell asked, leaning forward with interest.
Summer laughed lightly. "You never stop working, do you? It's going well. I've been inspired lately."
Mitchell's eyes twinkled. "I'm glad to hear that. Your work always brings something new and profound."
They continued to catch up, discussing her poetry, his publishing ventures, and their shared experiences in the literary world. The ease of their conversation highlighted their long-standing friendship.
Summer and Mitchell continued their lunch, sharing stories and laughter. Mitchell admired her resilience and strength, qualities that had initially drawn him to her work.
"Remember when you first agreed to publish with me?" Mitchell asked, a playful glint in his eye.
Summer chuckled. "How could I forget? You practically begged me."
Mitchell laughed, shaking his head. "I was desperate, and you saved my publishing house. I'll always be grateful for that."
Their conversation turned to more personal topics, and Mitchell found himself mesmerized by her presence. He had always admired her, but seeing her again after three years stirred old feelings.
"You look beautiful, Summer," he said sincerely. "Paris suits you."
Summer blushed slightly. "Thank you, Mitch. It's good to see you too. I've missed our talks."
They finished their lunch, and as they walked out of the café, Mitchell couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness knowing that despite their closeness, Summer had always kept a part of herself hidden.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Tristan found himself in a restless state. He had tried to distract himself by exploring Paris, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Summer and the mysterious friend she was meeting. Unable to shake off the unease, he returned to his suite, poured himself a glass of wine, and settled into the plush armchair in the living room.
His suite at the Morlow Hotel was luxurious, with a spacious living area, elegant furnishings, and a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower. But the opulence did little to soothe his mind. He sipped his wine, trying to suppress the growing curiosity—and jealousy—about Summer's lunch companion.
He picked up his phone and stared at the screen, contemplating calling Max for some insight. But he knew Max would just tease him mercilessly. Instead, he tried to distract himself with work, but the thought of Summer with another man gnawed at him.
"Who is this friend?" he muttered to himself. "And why does it bother me so much?"