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)
“The UPS guy is hot. Stop avoiding the question.” She pressed between me and the window display, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Was Adrian Hayes cute or not?”
I sighed, silently cursing small towns and their efficient gossip networks. The last “influencer” who’d breezed through town had captured Legacy’s “quaint mountain charm” for his travel vlog, completely missing the actual heart of the place while using our town as nothing more than a picturesque backdrop. He’d even tried to convince Becca Gorham to reschedule the annual Moose Trot 5K so he could get better lighting for his sponsorship with some energy drink company.
“Objectively? He was fine. He looks like he’s been assembled in a laboratory to appeal to the maximum number of people. Symmetrical features, perfect teeth—well, almost.” The truth was, he had one adorably crooked canine that made him look impossibly more attractive because it lent a little realness to his otherwise perfect look. I shook my head and continued. “Blond hair that somehow looks both casual and styled.”
“You actually noticed his hair. In-ter-es-ting.” She skipped back to the register.
“What’s interesting is how quickly you’re latching onto this nonstory,” I said, moving back behind the counter. “The guy came in, I said no, that’s the end.”
She made a considering noise. “Avery said he looked determined when he left the gallery.”
“Determined to do what? Force me to film his selfie campaign?”
“Maybe. You’re the best photographer in three counties, and you know it.”
I couldn’t deny the tiny spark of professional pride her words kindled. My Winter Light Series hanging in the gallery had been a labor of love—three freezing nights on Slingshot Mountain with nothing but my camera and a pack of hand warmers, capturing the raw emotion of the Starlight Ski Spectacular. Photos that told the real story of Legacy, not some glossy, manufactured version of it.
“Flattery won’t make me change my mind, Maya. You didn’t read his email. The guy was a pain in the ass,” I said, trying not to think of his actual ass. Which was arguably the one good part about him. I cleared my throat. “Trust me on this.”
“Nothing changes your mind once it’s made up. You’re more stubborn than Dad was.” She paused, and I heard her shifting gears. “So… what’s this guy’s plan now? Find someone else?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” Which wasn’t exactly true. I cared… even if I didn’t want to. Adrian Hayes didn’t interest me, but the “paid position” he’d offered did.
“No one around here can do what you do. Maybe—”
“Maya, stop. I already said no.”
“Too bad.” She sighed dramatically. “A gig like that could’ve helped fund the new darkroom equipment you’ve been saving for. And expand the portrait business. It even could’ve helped with my tuition next fall…”
I hated that her wheedling was also factually accurate. Maya was brilliant—top of her class with scholarship offers already rolling in—but none of the scholarships covered everything. And despite what people assumed about the Sullivans, the hardware store barely broke even these days.
The quarterly financial statements spread across my desk in the back room told a story that kept me awake at night. Property tax increases, competition from the big-box stores in Billings, and rising supplier costs had combined into a perfect storm. We’d make it through winter, but next year was looking bleak unless something changed.
“I’m not selling out for new camera gear,” I said, my resolve obviously wavering.
“You’re a videographer. Taking videos is what you do.”
That Maya’s words were an echo of Adrian’s was particularly annoying.
“Because those are real moments,” I argued. “Real people. Real emotions. Not some manufactured holiday fantasy to sell overpriced sweaters.”
The memory of my last gallery showing flashed through my mind—the way people had stood silent before my images, some with tears in their eyes. I’d captured something honest in those moments—the jubilation on Jenny Ringold’s face when she proposed to her longtime girlfriend at last year’s festival, the quiet determination of Mrs. Hoffman’s grandson completing his first full run despite his prosthetic leg. Those were the stories that mattered, not whatever artificial holiday fantasy Adrian Hayes wanted to construct.
Maya sighed. “Fine. Die on your artistic integrity hill. Just don’t act surprised when that guy finds someone else and you’re kicking yourself for missing the opportunity. And the cash.”
“Don’t you have an exam to study for?” I demanded.
Maya treated me to another epic eye roll before disappearing into the back room and out the back door.
I took a deep breath and let it go. The conversation was moot since I’d already sent the guy packing. Adrian Hayes was no longer my problem.
A few minutes later, the bell above the door jingled, proving me wrong.
I looked up to see the man himself stride in, this time wearing a camel coat that probably cost more than my monthly income and, I had to admit, hugged his body just right. He’d paired it with a purply-blue scarf that complemented his eyes, and when he paused in front of the window, the soft winter light caught in his golden hair like he’d choreographed it that way.