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)
As he strode out of the hardware store, designer boots crunching in the light dusting of snow outside, Mrs. Hoffman turned to me with raised eyebrows.
“Handsome fellow,” she observed. “Friend of yours?”
“No,” I said firmly, reaching for her bag of ice melt. “Just someone passing through.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Well, he seems nice. And Timber does sharing plates…”
I sighed, already regretting my decision. This lunch was just delaying the inevitable rejection, but ten minutes of my time seemed a small price to pay to get Adrian Hayes out of my life for good. Ten minutes to definitively explain why I didn’t do influencer gigs, didn’t manufacture moments, didn’t compromise my principles for follower counts or sponsor dollars.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned her. “I can already see you scheming. I don’t want or need any of your ‘sharing plates.’”
She grinned at me. “Maddox, I was born scheming. And you do need a man warming your bed and helping you out around here. ’S’not my fault if killing two birds with one handsome stone makes the most sense.”
I glared at her, making sure she saw how serious I was. “Stand down, Evelyn. I will not be making babies with that city boy. This is not Hallmark, and he isn’t returning to his hometown looking for love. This is real life, and he’s as deep as a sheet of sandpaper, even if he’s a thousand times smoother.”
“Mmf. We’ll see.” She turned to leave.
“We won’t see!” I called after her.
As soon as Mrs. Hoffman disappeared out the door, I pulled out my phone and texted Maya.
I’m meeting him for lunch. DON’T start planning the wedding, regardless of what you hear around town.
Her response was immediate.
Maya
Too late. Rosie Marian already texted to say she heard from Mrs. Hoffman that the two of you were flirting at the cash register. Tell me everything. A Christmas wedding isn’t possible at this late date, but there’s always New Year’s…
How the fuck was that possible? Mrs. Hoffman had barely hit the sidewalk. I let out a growl and slipped my phone back into my pocket, regretting everything.
Timber was busy as always during lunch. The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a converted timber lodge that had worn many hats over the years: the town’s first hotel, then a kind of pub, and later, its first gay bar. Alex Marian had managed to preserve Timber’s rustic character with rough-hewn ceiling beams and a massive stone fireplace, while adding modern touches that gave a nod to its LGBTQ history, like subtle rainbow accents, an expanded outdoor patio for use in summer, and a recently renovated kitchen that served some of the best food in three counties.
The familiar scent of applewood smoke and rosemary hit me as I pushed through the door. Dad and I used to come here every Saturday—“man time,” he’d call it, though it was really just an excuse to let Mom have some peace. Back then, a big-screen television that played college football had dominated the space, and Rick Longleaf had snuck me soda refills all afternoon for free. Though Alex had renovated and modernized it, the worn patch in the hardwood near the bar marked where generations of Sullivan men had propped their boots while nursing a beer.
I spotted Adrian immediately—he stood out like the sunrise in a room full of night skies. He’d snagged a small table near the fireplace and was scrolling through his phone, occasionally pausing to take a sip from a coffee mug. Several people were sneaking glances his way, clearly wondering who the attractive stranger was.
Alex caught my eye from behind the bar and raised an eyebrow in question, but I shook my head slightly—a signal that I’d explain later—and made my way toward Adrian’s table.
As I approached, Adrian looked up and smiled, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “I ordered you a coffee. Black, right?”
I raised an eyebrow as I sat. “Lucky guess.”
“Not really. You strike me as a no-nonsense kind of guy.”
“And you strike me as someone who probably drinks complicated coffee with Italian names.”
Adrian laughed, lifting his mug. “Guilty. But in my defense, they were out of oat milk, so I had to settle for regular.”
“The tragic struggles of life in small-town America.”
“I’m adaptable,” he said with a shrug. “Part of the job.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, checking my watch. “I’m pretty sure you’ve already given me your pitch.”
“And you’re still determined not to take it?”
I opened my mouth to respond but hesitated. Creative control was seductive. So was the money he promised.
An image flashed through my mind—Maya’s college acceptance letter to the University of Washington that she’d shown me last week, her face alight with excitement even as worry creased her brow when she mentioned the housing costs. Then another image—the stack of unpaid supplier invoices in my desk drawer, the leak in the store’s roof I’d been patching instead of properly fixing, the darkroom equipment I’d been coveting that would let me expand beyond basic portraiture.