Page 6 of Mitch

I figured it couldn’t hurt to reach out, right?

CHAPTER 4

Mitch

I sat backin my editing chair, watching as the loading page did its thing, taking forever for my post to actually post.

While it would take me a while to really cull through and edit the wedding of the century, I needed to at least post a couple candids or favorites to keep both my clients and my followers clicking.

After getting home so early, I had more than enough time to hand edit a few shots of the details to keep everyone satisfied while I workedon the main attraction, the bride and groom.

So, I’d opted to showcase the Paradise in all its matrimonial glory, from the sparkling chandelier to the spectacular cake, the overflowing charcuterie board and towers of champagne.

Finally, the post went through.

I looked at the clock on my computer, which read nine thirty. I debated if I should keep going as I swiveled back and forth in my chair.

Staying up late editing photos wasn’t my favorite way to spend a Saturday night, but it wasn’t like I had anything else going on.

Which was pretty pathetic, if you asked me.

God is this like the pre-thirty jitters or something?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Just as I moved to close out my browser, I saw the familiar little red notification letting me know I had a message.

I groaned, wondering for a moment if I should ignore the message and get back to whoever it was in the morning, but I couldn’t help myself, and checkedit out.

When I saw the photograph in the icon, next to the name Penn Baker, I sat up straighter. I clicked the photo, viewing his profile instantly.

Despite it being set to private, I could see enough photographs to confirm my sudden shock.

Pretty Boy had a name, and apparently the star Baker was a... baker?

How on point can you get when your last name is your profession?

Then again, I had no room to talk because my family literally ownedM’s Place,the local watering hole, and had named the bar after all three of us. My brother Miguel, myself, and my younger sister, Max, and not to mention, my photography business was a play on my last name, DeVille.

I couldn’t help myself as I scrolled through the available information, which showed Pretty Boy’s most recent profile picture of him standing outside Penn’s Bakery on Charleston Street.

I’d been to the place a dozen times, mostly when I needed to grab something to bring to a potluck or a holidaygathering, but still.

The photograph showed him dressed in blue jeans and red and white converse that matched his red and white striped shirt. A bright, wide smile that reached his eyes gazed back at me, his toasted marshmallow colored hair blowing in the breeze like he was doing a photoshoot for the Disney Channel or something.

God, he was fuckingadorable.

I smirked as I came back to my inbox, glancing over his message, the light of the computer bathing me in artificial anonymity.

I read over his message, asking about using the images of the cake for the bakery’s social media page, followed by aninquiryabout working together. It wouldn’t be the first time someone asked to partner up with me for my services, but it was definitely the first time I wanted to sayyes,without even a second thought.

Even if it’s only because the little cinnamon roll looks positively delicious.

I typed back with a smirk on my face.

All right, Penn, I’ll bite. I could use a little sugar in my portfolio. Let’s meet up and discuss our... partnership over coffee.Say tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free?

I hit send, leaning back in my chair, grinning like a little kid.

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