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 huffed out a breath, willing patience into my voice. “You don’t understand. This wouldn’t just be ‘content.’ It’s a high-production-value brand deal with authentic—”
“I’m thinking you don’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t do scripted moments. I don’t do posed perfection. And I sure as hell don’t do Christmas campaigns for luxury après-ski brands.”
Part of me—the part of me that suffered from debilitating FOMO—admired his ability to say “no” so decisively.
But unfortunately for Maddox Sullivan, the rest of me was competitive as fuck. This guy was the best Legacy had to offer… and I wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.
#ProjectHotAndGrumpy #IrresistibleForceVsImmovableFlannelShirt #MaddoxOrBust #ChallengeAccepted
2
#THANKYOUNEXT
MADDOX
“You told him what?” Maya’s voice hit a pitch that made me wince.
“I told him no.” As she sat on the counter kicking her feet, I continued stacking the winter emergency kits by the front register, preparing for the annual rush of tourists who’d inevitably get themselves stuck in snow drifts come December. The familiar weight of the kits in my hands was grounding—four generations of Sullivans had prepared Legacy for winter emergencies, and I wasn’t about to break the chain.
“Back up. The Adrian Hayes—who has over a million followers and works with luxury brands even I’ve heard of—came to see you yesterday… and you told him you don’t work on ‘content farms’?” Though I wasn’t looking directly at her, I could hear her eye roll.
“That’s exactly what I said.” I adjusted the display of hand-crank flashlights that wouldn’t die when the batteries inevitably froze. These were the flashlights Dad had insisted on stocking after that blizzard in ’08 had left half the town without power for three days. “Real tools for real problems,” he’d always said—a Sullivan Hardware motto that didn’t exactly mesh with influencer aesthetics.
“Maddox. Seriously?” My seventeen-year-old sister sounded more like forty-seven sometimes. “You do realize that was an opportunity, right? The kind that pays actual money?”
I grunted, tucking a pack of hand warmers into a kit. “I have a job. Two, in fact.” Three, if we count parenting a seventeen-year-old.
“A job that requires you to arrange emergency kits in a hardware store that’s been slowly declining in revenue since Mom and Dad died. And your other job is literally what he’s trying to hire you for!”
I stopped mid-motion, the familiar pang hitting my chest at the mention of our father. Three years, and it still felt raw. “Helping run the family business isn’t something I need to apologize for. And my photography schedule is already packed with family portraits and Santa stuff. You know that.”
I ran my hand along the worn edge of the counter—the same counter where Dad had taught me to count change, where Mom had set up her Christmas cookie station every December, where I’d developed my first roll of film in the back room because I couldn’t afford proper equipment. This wasn’t just a failing business; it was the physical embodiment of our family history.
“Your photography could have a much bigger audience if you didn’t have the marketing instincts of a particularly antisocial brick,” Maya replied. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done—taking care of me, keeping the store going—but I’m months away from college. You need to think about what’s next for you.”
“I’m thinking about what’s next for us,” I corrected, moving toward the window display to check that the vintage mechanical elves Dad had insisted on setting up every year were still working properly. “After you’re at school, I’ll have plenty of time to—”
Maya hopped off the counter and followed me. “To what? Take more wedding photos of people who can barely afford your already too-low rates? Turn down opportunities that could actually put Sullivan & Lens on the map?”
I rolled my eyes. “Tell me how you really feel, Maya.”
“Maddie,” she said more softly, using the childhood nickname that always made me pay attention. “I’ve seen how you look at the brochure for the documentary workshop in Denver. The one you keep hiding in your desk drawer. You’ve been putting your dreams on hold, and I get why. But you can’t keep using me as an excuse.”
I fiddled with one of the elves, avoiding her too-perceptive gaze. The workshop was a pipe dream—five thousand dollars I didn’t have, a week away from the store I couldn’t afford. But she was right that I’d been using her and the store as convenient shields against taking risks with my art.
“Also?” she added, returning to her usual snarky tone. “Avery texted me that he came by the gallery asking about your work. She said Adrian was hot. Having seen his Instagram, I agree.”
I adjusted an elf that had tilted precariously. “Avery thinks the UPS guy is hot.” I didn’t mention that Avery was still under the influence of pregnancy and postpartum hormones or that she only pointed out hot men to tease her wife.