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)
I had to admit, the place was cute, if you liked this sort of aesthetic. The main street looked like a Christmas card—timber storefronts draped in lights, snow underfoot, the scent of pine and woodsmoke in the air, so different from LA’s perpetual mix of exhaust fumes and distant ocean.
I slowed as I passed the hardware store, its windows filled with an elaborate vintage Christmas display featuring mechanical elves and miniature trains circling through snow-covered villages. An actual, old-school hardware store, not some hipster interpretation with $500 hammers and artisanal nails. How refreshingly… authentic. I was starting to feel more positive about this place already.
An art gallery window display caught my eye—large-format photographs of what appeared to be last year’s Starlight Ski Spectacular—the most famous of Legacy’s holiday traditions, according to my research. Unlike the typical tourist shots I’d seen, though, these images captured something raw and emotional—skiers silhouetted against thousands of twinkling lights, faces illuminated with genuine joy, the sensation of movement so vivid I could almost feel the powder spray.
I stepped closer, intrigued. These weren’t the posed, oversaturated pictures that dominated Instagram. They were so real I could practically feel the cold air and hear the laughter. One photo in particular held my attention—two women embracing at the bottom of the slope, rainbow light necklaces glowing against the snow, their faces a perfect balance of exhaustion, affection, and elation.
The placard read simply “Winter Light Series by Maddox Sullivan.”
I pulled out my phone and found the man’s Instagram. He was a Legacy local. Modest follower count, but his feed was compelling—natural landscapes, candid portraits, moments captured rather than created. It was the complete opposite of my carefully curated feed.
Then I hit his self-portrait, and my thumb froze on the screen.
Maddox Sullivan wasn’t the aging hippie or tweedy academic I’d expected. He was probably close to my thirty-two years, with broad shoulders, tousled dark hair, and rugged features that radiated quiet confidence and made my stomach do a little swoop. No filters, no angles—just messy, magnetic reality.
The contrast between his realness and my curated content hit me like a slap. But it also sparked an idea.
What if I could combine luxury with real? What if “The Twelve Dates of Christmas” featured someone who embodied everything my brand wasn’t—someone authentic, unpolished, and rooted in this place?
I needed Maddox Sullivan behind my camera.
And maybe, if I was lucky, I could get him in front of it, too.
I pushed open the gallery door, the bell jingling merrily as I entered. The space was smaller than expected but beautiful, with exposed brick walls and polished hardwood floors that creaked pleasantly underfoot. Local art filled the walls—not just Maddox Sullivan’s photography but paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that collectively told the story of the town and its surroundings.
The woman behind the counter looked up with a smile. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with a messy auburn bun on top of her head and big-framed glasses perched on her freckled nose. She wore a red turtleneck sweater under a well-worn pair of denim overalls, complete with telltale paint splotches on them. In a nearby portable crib-thingy slept a baby with cherubic cheeks and perfect red lips.
“Welcome to the Hart Gallery. I’m Avery. Anything I can help you find today?”
I flashed my most charming smile, the one that consistently garnered the most engagement on my selfies. “Actually, yes. I’m looking for information about Maddox Sullivan. The photographer?”
“Oh, Maddox!” Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Those winter shots are something special, aren’t they? He’s not in today, but his studio’s just upstairs. He does commercial work and videography, too, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
I glanced up at the ceiling as if I could see through it to the studio above. “Commercial work,” I murmured, feeling my shoulders relax in relief.
Avery nodded. “He’s very talented. Been capturing Legacy since he was a teenager with his first camera. That’s his hardware store you probably passed on your way in.”
“Oh, right,” I said, remembering the charming Christmas display. I was momentarily surprised she clocked me as a new arrival, but I supposed in a place like this, anything new stuck out. “He’s a photographer, and he runs the hardware store?”
“The Sullivan family’s run the store for four generations. Though I think Maddox himself has more interest in cameras than hammers.” She shrugged.
I smiled politely. “Do you know the best way to get in contact with him? Should I just stop by the store?”
“Not sure if he’s working today.” She reached beneath the counter and produced a simple but elegant business card on heavy stock. Sullivan & Lens, it read, with a website and a small logo that combined a camera aperture with a mountain silhouette. “He’s probably slammed right now because of the holiday, but you can shoot him a text or email.”