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)
For a single charged moment, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“Mr. Sullivan,” he said, placing both hands on the counter and leaning forward slightly. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
His emphasis on the Mr. Sullivan made me want to laugh, but I restrained it.
“I don’t think we did… Mr. Hayes,” I replied evenly. “I understood what you wanted. I said no. Seems pretty straightforward.”
His smile didn’t waver, but something flashed in his eyes—determination or frustration, I couldn’t tell. “Let me buy you a coffee. Or lunch. Ten minutes of your time, that’s all I’m asking.” He leaned in a little more—close enough for the faint scent of something spicy and expensive to reach me.
“So you can try to convince me that your project isn’t nonsense and fluff?”
Adrian straightened, assessing me with more calculation than I expected. “You know what? I think you’re afraid.”
Clickbait. Don’t fall for it.
I gritted my teeth and ignored my own brain. “Excuse me?”
“I think you’re afraid that if you work with me, you might actually enjoy it.” He smiled again, but this one seemed more genuine, with a touch of challenge. “You’ve got this whole ‘authentic artist’ persona going on, and you’re terrified that working on a commercial project might undermine that.”
His words hit uncomfortably close to home. I had built walls around my work, standards that kept me “pure” but also, if I was being honest, safely insulated from criticism beyond my small pond. Was there a part of me that was afraid of what exposure to a bigger audience might reveal—that maybe I wasn’t as good as Legacy thought I was?
I felt heat rising in my neck. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“And you don’t know me either,” he countered, which was annoyingly true.
“Here’s my offer,” Adrian continued, apparently taking my silence as permission. “If you think my work is manufactured fluff, then help me create something authentic. While I’m wearing Nordique clothes, of course. You maintain creative control over how we shoot, and if you hate what we’re doing at any point, you can walk away with a week’s pay as severance.”
I crossed my arms, studying him. Part of me—a very small, probably delusional part—actually believed he might be sincere about letting me have my way with the shoot. The rest of me remembered all the wannabe influencers who’d treated our home like a quaint backdrop for their personal brand ever since the Marian family had started putting Legacy on the map.
Like that travel TikTokker last spring who’d staged a “spontaneous” picnic in Lennon Marian’s private field without permission, trampling his sister’s prized wildflowers. Or the fitness influencer who’d blocked the trail to Pronghorn Ridge for two hours while filming workout routines, forcing actual hikers to wait or turn back.
To them, Legacy wasn’t a real place with real people—it was just aesthetically pleasing scenery to boost their metrics.
The door jingled again as Mrs. Hoffman entered, shaking snow from her boots.
“Morning, Maddox!” she called cheerfully. “Got that ice melt I called about?”
“Set aside behind the counter,” I replied, glad for the interruption. “Need help carrying it out?”
“My granddaughter’s in the car. She’ll come get it.” She approached the counter, eyeing Adrian with undisguised curiosity. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
Adrian turned on the charm, extending his hand. “Adrian Hayes. Just visiting for the holidays.”
“Evelyn Hoffman.” She shook his hand, then looked between us. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Mr. Hayes was just leaving,” I said firmly.
Adrian’s smile didn’t falter. “Actually, I was hoping to convince Maddox to join me for lunch at…” He paused, glancing at Mrs. Hoffman. “Where would you recommend for the best lunch in town?”
Mrs. Hoffman brightened. “Oh, Timber, without question! Alex just revamped the menu last month, and the butternut squash soup is a must-try.”
I suppressed a groan. Of course she’d suggest Timber. It was the best damn restaurant in town.
“Sounds perfect,” Adrian said, turning back to me with triumphant eyes. “Timber at noon? Ten minutes of your time.”
I could practically see the town gossip network lighting up like a Christmas tree. By nightfall, half of Legacy would be speculating about me and the handsome stranger with the pretty face. The other half would already be planning our wedding. In a town where everyone knew your business before you did, this lunch would be headline news—exactly the kind of attention I’d spent years avoiding.
I wanted to argue that he’d had more than ten minutes of my time already, but since Mrs. Hoffman was watching our exchange with the avid interest of someone who would definitely be sharing this story at her next book club meeting, if not sooner, I refrained.
“Fine,” I relented, if only to end the conversation before half the town heard about it. “Noon. But only ten minutes.”
Adrian’s genuine smile was annoyingly appealing. “Excellent. Looking forward to it.” He nodded politely to Mrs. Hoffman. “Lovely meeting you, ma’am.”