Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
It was annoying as fuck that I’d taken twenty minutes getting camera-ready, and he’d managed to roll out of bed looking like a lumberjack thirst trap.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“I’m assessing,” I corrected, looking away. “You’ll be behind the camera, but you’re also my local guide. Your style will reflect on the project.”
He snorted. “My ‘style’ is functional and warm. Which yours should be, too, by the way.” He gestured to my outfit with his fork. “That fancy parka might look good, but it won’t cut it if we’re shooting outdoors all day.”
“It’s a Nordique Alpine Explorer,” I replied defensively. “Designed for extreme winter conditions.”
“Uh-huh. And those boots?”
I glanced down at my footwear—sleek, designer, and admittedly more suited to Milan Fashion Week than Montana wilderness. “They’re… transitional.”
Maddox rolled his eyes. “We’ll stop by the hardware store after breakfast. Get you some real boots.”
“I have plenty of—”
“Real. Boots.” He fixed me with a stare that brooked no argument. “I’m not dragging you out of a snowdrift when those glorified dress shoes fail you.”
“Fine.” I took another bite of waffle to hide my irritation. “But anything I wear needs to feature Nordique prominently. That’s literally the point of this campaign.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit Nordique didn’t sell winter boots. I’d even tried to order the ones they used in their catalog shots but couldn’t find them on the boot brand’s website.
“Hence why I said we’d stop by the store. We sell fancy boots, but practical ones.” At my surprised look, he added, “Small town, remember? Sullivan Hardware has evolved. We carry everything from nails to high-end outdoor gear.”
He must have caught me staring at a man who’d just walked in wearing faded jeans, worn cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat because he grumbled, “And cowboy hats like that, if it’s what has you drooling.”
I blinked back at Maddox. “I was drooling over the pancakes, thank you very much. Just not sure I’ve seen an actual cowboy hat worn unironically before. That guy seems legit.”
He nodded. “Lennon Marian, cattle rancher. Owns a couple thousand acres outside of town. He’s Alex’s cousin. Stay for any amount of time in Legacy these days, and you’ll trip over a Marian.”
“So,” I said, forking another bite of pancake. “Tell me about Alex. What should I know before our date?”
Maddox’s expression shifted subtly, becoming more detached and professional. “Alexander Marian. Moved here from California wine country a few years ago after his family started investing in Legacy. He runs Timber, which he renovated into a wine bar and gourmet pizza place a few years ago. He’s smart, friendly, loves the outdoors, makes the best wine pairings you’d never think of, and has an annoying habit of quoting obscure poetry when he drinks.”
“Perfect,” I said, jotting notes. “Any topics to avoid?”
Maddox’s professional facade cracked, and a genuine smile appeared. “Hmm. Our local fire chief and his random fire inspections? But I’m sure that won’t come up.” He took a last bite of his breakfast. “Other than that, he’s an open book. Just be yourself.” He paused, reconsidering. “Actually, be a better version of yourself. The one that isn’t constantly thinking about camera angles and hashtags.”
I ignored the jab. “And the hot chocolate tasting? What should I expect?”
“It’s a holiday meet-and-greet event put on by Alex’s family. The Marians bought the old Legacy Lodge and Inn about twenty years ago. It was historically significant to the town, but the town couldn’t afford to keep it up.”
He sat back and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “As a gesture of goodwill, the family periodically opens up the main lodge for locals and tourists to visit, including offering these holiday hot cocoa flights. Over the years, the cocoa tasting has become a Legacy holiday tradition.” Maddox wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. “Ready? We should get those establishing shots while the light’s still good.”
The next two hours passed in a blur of activity. True to his word, Maddox first dragged me to Sullivan Hardware, where he outfitted me with proper winter boots that, to my surprise, were actually the ones I’d tried to find. They were perfect—rugged but stylish enough to work on camera.
“These aren’t on their website,” I murmured, noticing they were more comfortable and warmer than they appeared.
“Limited distribution,” Maddox explained. “They test certain lines in specialty mountain shops before wider release.”
“That’s actually perfect for the campaign. Exclusive access is always good content. You could get some online orders if you have a shop set up.”
He didn’t bother responding with more than a huff of frustration, presumably due to the fact that I dared imply his business wasn’t fully modernized.
Properly equipped, we spent the morning capturing footage around town—the Christmas decorations along Founder’s Row, the historic buildings with their fresh blanket of snow, locals going about their morning routines. Maddox’s instincts as a photographer were undeniable. Where I would have staged carefully posed shots of quaint storefronts, he captured a pair of elderly men playing chess through a steamy café window, their weathered hands moving pieces with deliberate precision. When I suggested a standard shot of the town’s Christmas tree, he instead directed me to a low angle that framed it against the mountains, making it appear to touch the sky.