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)
“Appreciate it,” I said with a final smile, tucking the card into my wallet.
I left the gallery feeling more optimistic than I had all day. Finding a skilled videographer in Legacy had seemed like an impossible task, but now I had a lead—and from what I’d seen of his work, Maddox Sullivan might be exactly what I needed to make “The Twelve Dates of Christmas” the viral success that would help me land Nordique as a permanent sponsor.
I grabbed a coffee at a small local shop and pulled out my phone as I walked back to my car, opening my email app to compose a message to him. I needed to strike the right tone—professional but enticing, acknowledging the short notice but emphasizing the opportunity. I hoped he’d recognize what a fantastic situation this could be for him. My platform could bring his work to a much wider audience.
I hesitated before hitting Send, rereading what I’d written.
Hi, my name is Adrian Hayes (@realadrianhayes), and I’m a digital content creator filming a holiday content series for Nordique in and around Legacy over the next three weeks. I’m looking for a videographer since my usual guy had a medical emergency and when I saw your work at the Hart Gallery, particularly the Winter Light Series, I thought your eye for winter scenes was amazing and would really elevate the project.
Let me know if you’re interested and we can talk numbers, but I do think this could be a great opportunity for you to grow your platform. (I have 1.2 million followers.)
Talk soon,
Adrian Hayes
I hit Send before I could overthink it further, then started my car and programmed my nav app for the rental cabin I’d be calling home for the next few weeks. As I pulled away from the gallery, I realized I was already mentally rearranging my content calendar, imagining shots of Legacy’s Christmas lights, the “famous” ski spectacle, and the charming small-town holiday celebrations—all with the ruggedly handsome Maddox Sullivan behind the camera.
If he agreed, of course.
Why wouldn’t he, though? The money was excellent, the exposure real, the opportunity substantial.
But by the following morning, there was no response from Maddox Sullivan.
So I took the bull by the horns, as they probably said in places like this, and made my way into town in search of the man.
The hardware store smelled like sawdust and cinnamon, a combination that made no sense but somehow worked. I spotted him immediately—broad shoulders in a faded gray thermal, dark jeans worn just right, and a messy shock of hair that looked like it had never seen a styling product in its life.
Hot. Annoyingly so.
I adjusted my cashmere scarf and strolled toward the counter, flashing my best charming-but-not-trying-too-hard smile. “Maddox Sullivan?”
He turned, giving me a slow, assessing look. His eyes—storm-cloud gray, because of course they were—landed on my perfectly curated winter ensemble before flicking back up.
“Who’s asking?” His smooth and slightly dismissive voice caught me off guard, sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through my chest. I covered it with my most practiced professional smile.
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. “Adrian Hayes. I’m the one who emailed you about a videography job.”
Maddox blinked, then pulled his phone from his back pocket. He thumbed through his messages for all of three seconds before snorting. “Oh. Right.” He locked the screen and slid the phone back, as if the conversation was already over.
I frowned. “I assume you realize it’s a paid opportunity?”
“Yep.” He reached for a screwdriver from a nearby shelf, inspecting it with far too much interest for someone who wasn’t actively fixing something.
“And?”
He set the screwdriver down with a quiet clink and finally—finally—looked at me again. “Not interested.”
I blinked. “I— Are you serious?”
“Yep.” His mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I don’t do influencer gigs.”
A couple passing by with a shopping cart slowed to eavesdrop, exchanging glances when they heard his response. My cheeks warmed—I wasn’t used to rejection, especially not with an audience.
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. He wasn’t joking.
An older woman at the cashier stand nearby must have heard us because she said, “He also doesn’t do vacations, sick days, or anything remotely fun since—” She angled a fond but stern glance at him. “Since forever, basically. But he’s the best photographer in three counties when he’s not being a complete grouch.”
Maddox’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, Bonnie. Isn’t it time for your break?”
“My shift started twenty minutes ago.”
But a nearby customer asked for her help finding something, leaving an awkward silence between the grouch and me.
“Like she said—” I gestured vaguely toward the gallery down the street. “—you’re a photographer. And a videographer. And people pay you to take pictures. That’s what I’m trying to do here.”
He crossed his arms, those strong forearms flexing against his sleeves in a way I refused to acknowledge. “You run a content farm. I don’t work on farms.”