Sebastian’s POV
After reading the first three chapters of Artemis’ book, ‘How I Survived,’ I was floored. This woman workedhardafter learning the depths of the betrayal by her family and fiancé. Self-help books, yoga, pottery classes, cooking classes, hiking, she did everything. I honestly didn’t know how she still had such a zest for life. It was similar to the famous book that made its rounds a few years ago, but this one was more of a ‘this is what I did to keep myself going while on a budget, because everything is more expensive.’ Which I loved.
Most of my readers were average, everyday people who needed to know that while things could be hard, you didn’t have to travel the world to find beauty in life and things to help you discover your true self. I couldn’t wait for Wednesday’s meeting. I was complying with a list of questions about the book, how long it was, how many different things she planned to try along her journey, or if there’d be a part two, and what we could expect fromthat.
Part of me wished I’d thought to do something like this after losing my fiancé in the accident, but a part of me was so consumed by guilt and grief that I couldn’t find my way out. Not until I came across her plans for this publishing house. She wanted to help lesser-known authors get recognition, but also in a way that could help the readers of the books published. When she died, she’d left everything to me. We were due to be married a week before the accident. Instead of our wedding, it became her funeral. I buried her in her wedding dress. I read her plans when I was going through her desk a year later, and decided that was what I was going to use the money she left to me to fulfillher dream. It was how she’d live on, through the story of this publishing house, ReadItAndWeep.
Wednesday came, and I was so excited to meet this woman, to talk about her book, and hopefully get it published through us, and out for distribution within the next few months. I walked in, contracts and laptop in my bag. I glanced around the coffee shop, not seeing who I was looking for. She said she’d be wearing all black, dressed casually. I dressed as casually as I could as the senior editor and owner of the publishing house. I wore trousers, loafers, and a long-sleeved button-up.
I ordered a coffee, black, and found a table with two comfortable chairs. I set the paperwork out on the table, rolling my sleeves up before leaning over it again, to make sure that there were no changes that needed to be made. Every time the bell rang above the door when someone walked in, I would look up to see if it was Artemis.
At five till eleven, the bell rang, and when I looked up, the world seemed to slow down, like that cheesy moment in the romcoms when the main guy meets his main girl, their meet-cute. I was trapped in one of those movies as the woman walked into the little coffee shop. I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t even like this with Amelia, my late fiancé. Time never slowed down with her, but this woman…
She was stunning with her jet black hair, bright deep green eyes, and a slim figure. She was wearing a black V-neck shirt with black jeans, ripped in the knees, and black boots with cream colored, thick socks pulled over the tops. She had an olive-colored, army-style jacket over top. She looked like a goddess storming in to take over, over throwing the ownership of the shop or my heart because it was beating funny. I stood up, wiping my hands down my pants, then swiping my hair back, hoping I was not making a fool of myself. She looked around thecafé and saw me standing, staring at her. She walked over to me, cautiously.
“Mr. Stone?” She asked, and her voice was so soft, it sounded like a melody to a song I’d never heard but could easily become my favorite. It was soft like a baby’s freshly washed and sun-dried blanket. I didn’t know how someone this perfect could exist, but holy hell, did I want to work with her. I’d do whatever was needed to get this publication.
“Yes,” I said, swiping my hair back again, “Artemis Jones?”
She giggled. That was an even more beautiful sound than her speaking.
“Artemis Jones is my pen name. My real name is Stormi Buchcannan.”
“Buchcannan? Any relation to the president?” She laughed again.
“No. His last name is spelled differently. My family came from France in my great-great-grandparents' generation. They were on my dad’s side of the family. But, mygrand-mère passed when I was in college a few years ago.”
“How old are you?” I was just being nosy now.
“I’ll be twenty-three next month. I graduated from NYU last May, but this is my first self-help book that I’m looking to publish.” I just stared at her for a few moments. This woman wasamazing.
“Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Something to munch on? Have you published other books before? What did you get a degree in?”
“I was just about to order an iced coffee and lemon pound cake. It’s my weakness,” she blushed slightly as if she was telling a secret that wasn’t meant to be shared, “They have the best desserts in the area.” She raved, slipping her coat off her delicate shoulders, allowing me to see the rest of her body without the bulky coat covering her. She had on a fitted t-shirt that revealed a half-sleeve on her left arm of what looked like book spines, and different styles of pens throughout the years. It was beautiful, dark, and colorful all at the same time. Watching her as she moved across the front of the counter, graceful like a ballerina, my eyes couldn’t help but follow her every move.
She was captivating.
The rest of the conversation flowed as naturally as the Mississippi River between us. I filled her in on everything we could offer her here at ReadItAndWeep Publishing. She signed the contract for this book and the next one, part two, she was hoping would be able to after she was healed, and where life was going from that point. We talked with my lawyer, who assured us that since their legal names were not used, and the situations were vague, and we didn’t specify a certain location where this happened, we could get away with talking about it, and how she was recovering and growing. Plus, with the pen name, no one would know it was Stormi unless we wanted it to be known.
Then, we’d have to discuss the legality of it all.
“I’ll be your editor for this book and the next. I’m hoping to have it completed and out within the next three to four months if that works for you.” She nodded, swallowing a sip of her cinnamon coffee.
“Great. How far along in it are you?” I asked, putting the paperwork in all of the correct folders, stuffing them back in my briefcase once I was done.
“Done.” I looked at her, confused. She was done? With the whole thing?
“Really?” I asked, partly impressed, partly still unbelieving that the whole thing was done.
“Yeah. If you’d like to come over, you can see it for yourself. I have it saved on my laptop in my home office.”
“I can’t today. I’m swamped at the office, but how does” I pulled out my phone to check my calendar, “Next Friday at five sound? I can bring takeout?”
“Chinese?” She suggested, eyebrows raised, looking so hopeful.
“Sure. Any favorites?” I gave a small smile, trying to stop the excitement building inside of me at the thought of spending more time with her.
“Anything, just not too spicy, and at least two egg rolls.” She said, holding two fingers up, and a blush and a smile graced her face. I smiled.A woman after my own heart. I nodded as we packed everything up, getting ready to leave the café with signed contracts and a planned meet-up for next Friday. I couldn’t wait, and the fluttering in my chest was just the excitement at having Chinese for dinner.
