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)
“Much better now that I’ve seen this,” she replied cheerfully. “You look very… settled, dear.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “Did you need something specific?”
“Light bulbs for my porch fixture. But I’m in no hurry.” She settled in to browse, clearly planning to observe our interaction for as long as possible.
It seemed Mrs. Hoffman got busy on her gossip group chat while she browsed because over the next hour, a steady stream of locals filtered through the store. Each one took note of Adrian’s presence, his obvious comfort in the space, and the way he chatted easily with customers about everything from the weather to local holiday events, and each one also seemed to give me an indulgent smile that might have been the Legacy equivalent of “I told you so, Maddox.” I found I didn’t care.
Adrian helped old Mr. Peterson find the right-size gasket for his plumbing repair, listened patiently as Sadie explained her ongoing war with her temperamental coffee machine, and even managed to sell three sets of Christmas lights to tourists who’d wandered in looking for directions to tonight’s Starlight Spectacular ski event.
“You’re good at this,” I said during a brief lull, watching him rearrange a display of gift cards.
“It’s not hard,” he replied, glancing up with a smile. “Not this part, anyway, where I’m just interacting with customers and rearranging things. People just want to feel heard. And most of them are buying things they actually need, not just things they want to show off.”
The simple observation hit me harder than it should have. Adrian understood the difference between necessity and luxury, between authentic connection and performance. He got what Sullivan Hardware represented—four generations of serving the community, of being the place people came when they needed solutions rather than status symbols.
“Hey, Maddie!” Maya’s voice preceded her through the back door. “Did you see the— Oh.” She stopped short, taking in the scene: Adrian in my hoodie, organizing inventory like he worked here, me watching him with what was probably an embarrassingly besotted expression.
“Morning to you, too, squirt,” I said, trying for casual and probably failing spectacularly.
“Adrian’s helping out,” Maya observed, her grin widening. “How… helpful of him.”
“I volunteered,” Adrian said, completely unbothered by her knowing look. “Figured someone should make sure your brother doesn’t scare off all the customers with his sparkling personality.”
“Good thinking. He can be pretty terrifying when he wants to be.”
Bonnie hurried out of the back room, where she’d been running our sales reports, and shoved her laptop in my face. “Maddox Sullivan, look at these numbers!”
I glanced at the screen, and my eyebrows rose.
I knew sales were better than usual, of course, but I hadn’t taken the time to analyze just how much. Online sales were up nearly 300 percent from this time last year, with orders coming in from all over the country. Christmas light sets, winter gear, even specialty hardware items that had been gathering dust for months.
“This is all from the videos,” I said, moving over to grab Adrian and pull him closer so he could see. “I told you people were ordering from us because of your posts.”
Adrian shrugged, but I caught the pleased flush on his cheeks. “Good products sell themselves. I just helped people find you.”
It was more than that, though. Looking at the sales data, reading the customer notes that mentioned seeing us on social media, I realized what Adrian had done wasn’t just promotion. He’d told our story. He’d shown people what Sullivan Hardware meant to Legacy, what it meant to have a family business that cared about quality and service and community.
He’d made us matter to people we’d never met.
More than that, he’d shown me what a difference online reach—the kind of reach I could make with my own videography—could make to our bottom line.
“The profits from this quarter alone will cover Maya’s first-year tuition,” I said quietly, the truth of these numbers finally sinking in.
“Really?” Maya’s eyes went wide. “Like, all of it?”
I nodded. The weight I’d been carrying for years—the constant worry about money, about Maya’s future, about keeping the store afloat—had lifted so suddenly I felt dizzy.
“Thank you,” I said to Adrian, meaning it more than I’d ever meant anything. “I don’t know how to—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted gruffly. “You don’t owe me anything. This is what good partnerships look like.”
Partnerships. The word settled in my chest like a promise.
As the morning wore on, I found myself stealing glances at Adrian as he moved around the store. The way he remembered customers’ names after meeting them once. The patience he showed with Kin Nay when she couldn’t decide between two different types of weather stripping. The genuine interest he took in learning about products he’d never have use for back in LA.
It felt like family. Like the kind of chosen family I’d never thought I’d have again after losing my parents.