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)
“Stop fussing,” Adrian called from behind the hot chocolate station. “They were perfect twenty minutes ago.”
“They were good twenty minutes ago,” I corrected. “They definitely were not perfect.”
Maya didn’t look up from her livestream. “He’s been like this all week,” she informed our followers. “Yesterday, he reorganized the socket wrenches because they weren’t ‘visually compelling.’”
“I’m standing right here,” I muttered.
“You were supposed to hear that.” Her voice was full of affection—and pride. Home for winter break from UW, she’d slotted back into the rhythm of our little family effortlessly, balancing sass and strategy like a pro. Her “Sullivan Saturday” series had doubled our followers and made her a surprisingly effective brand ambassador, a thing I wouldn’t have even known existed a year ago.
“Maddox,” Adrian said gently. “Baby. You’re stress-organizing again.”
I set down the headlamp I hadn’t realized I’d picked up and walked over to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He leaned back against me without missing a beat.
“I’m not nervous,” I lied into his Sullivan Hardware hoodie, one of the new ones with the updated logo.
He snorted. “You’ve been up since five.”
“I just want today to go well. This—” I gestured around us. “—this is everything we’ve worked for.”
“And it’s already amazing,” he said, turning to face me. “Look.”
I did as he asked, taking in the space we’d created together. The original Sullivan Hardware section maintained its authentic, old-school charm—the same wooden floors my grandfather had installed, the vintage cash register that still worked perfectly, the wall of family photos documenting four generations of Sullivans serving Legacy. But now, it flowed seamlessly into the expanded section next door, where modern outdoor gear and apparel were displayed alongside curated selections of local artisan goods, hiking maps, and guidebooks to Montana’s wilderness areas.
The coffee corner anchored the space with mismatched vintage chairs we’d found at estate sales, local artwork on the walls, and fairy lights strung overhead that cast everything in a warm, welcoming glow. It felt like an extension of our home—authentic and comfortable, but elevated.
Most importantly, it felt like us. Like the life we’d built together.
“See that?” Adrian pointed to a framed photo hanging near the register—one of dozens that now decorated the store, documenting our travels over the past year.
The photos ranged from one of us grinning at the camera from the edge of a cliff in Norway, the Northern Lights painting the sky behind us in impossible shades of green and purple, to one from our trip to Japan in the spring, surrounded by cherry blossoms.
But the photo he was pointing to, the one that always stopped me in my tracks, hung just above the espresso machine. Adrian stood in an Italian olive grove surrounded by ancient trees heavy with fruit, late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the leaves to create dappled patterns across his face and shoulders. He was laughing at something I’d said—probably some stupid joke about olives or Italian pronunciation—and the joy on his face was so vivid, so carefree, that it had taken my breath away when I’d captured it.
The photo had gone massively viral when he’d posted it last summer on his newly named Instagram, @AdrianHayesStays. It had been shared by travel accounts and lifestyle blogs around the world. But for me, it represented something else entirely: the moment I’d realized I was no longer just falling in love with Adrian Hayes but had fallen completely, irrevocably, and permanently.
“That one’s still my favorite,” I murmured.
“I know,” Adrian said softly. “You stop and stare at it every time you walk past.”
“Can you blame me? You look…”
“Extremely photogenic?” he suggested with a grin.
“Happy,” I finished. “Really, genuinely happy. Like you finally found what you were looking for.”
His expression softened. “I did. I found you. Found this.” He gestured around the store. “Found home.”
Before I could kiss him properly—because that look in his eyes demanded he be kissed—Maya cleared her throat loudly.
“As much as I love watching you two be disgustingly cute,” she announced, “we have actual work to do. Adrian, the delivery truck just pulled up with the last of the catered food. Maddox, Mrs. Hoffman is here early, and she’s already critiquing your menorah display.”
“Shit,” I muttered, reluctantly releasing Adrian. “I better go deal with that before she reorganizes them again.”
“I’ll handle the food delivery,” Adrian said, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “Try not to let Mrs. Hoffman give you an anxiety attack before our guests arrive.”
As he headed toward the back door, I couldn’t help but appreciate the view. A year of regular hiking and outdoor activities, in addition to lifting and hauling deliveries to the store, had added even more definition to his already impressive physique, and the way those jeans hugged his ass was a work of art.
He caught me staring and winked over his shoulder, making me grin like a teenager.