Chapter 2 #2
“I don’t think we did… Mr. Hayes,” I replied evenly. “I understood what you wanted. I said no. Seems pretty straightforward.”
His smile didn’t waver, but something flashed in his eyes—determination or frustration, I couldn’t tell. “Let me buy you a coffee. Or lunch. Ten minutes of your time, that’s all I’m asking.” He leaned in a little more—close enough for the faint scent of something spicy and expensive to reach me.
“So you can try to convince me that your project isn’t nonsense and fluff?”
Adrian straightened, assessing me with more calculation than I expected. “You know what? I think you’re afraid.”
Clickbait. Don’t fall for it.
I gritted my teeth and ignored my own brain. “Excuse me?”
“I think you’re afraid that if you work with me, you might actually enjoy it.” He smiled again, but this one seemed more genuine, with a touch of challenge. “You’ve got this whole ‘authentic artist’ persona going on, and you’re terrified that working on a commercial project might undermine that.”
His words hit uncomfortably close to home.
I had built walls around my work, standards that kept me “pure” but also, if I was being honest, safely insulated from criticism beyond my small pond.
Was there a part of me that was afraid of what exposure to a bigger audience might reveal—that maybe I wasn’t as good as Legacy thought I was?
I felt heat rising in my neck. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“And you don’t know me either,” he countered, which was annoyingly true.
“Here’s my offer,” Adrian continued, apparently taking my silence as permission.
“If you think my work is manufactured fluff, then help me create something authentic. While I’m wearing Nordique clothes, of course.
You maintain creative control over how we shoot, and if you hate what we’re doing at any point, you can walk away with a week’s pay as severance. ”
I crossed my arms, studying him. Part of me—a very small, probably delusional part—actually believed he might be sincere about letting me have my way with the shoot.
The rest of me remembered all the wannabe influencers who’d treated our home like a quaint backdrop for their personal brand ever since the Marian family had started putting Legacy on the map.
Like that travel TikTokker last spring who’d staged a “spontaneous” picnic in Lennon Marian’s private field without permission, trampling his sister’s prized wildflowers.
Or the fitness influencer who’d blocked the trail to Pronghorn Ridge for two hours while filming workout routines, forcing actual hikers to wait or turn back.
To them, Legacy wasn’t a real place with real people—it was just aesthetically pleasing scenery to boost their metrics.
The door jingled again as Mrs. Hoffman entered, shaking snow from her boots.
“Morning, Maddox!” she called cheerfully. “Got that ice melt I called about?”
“Set aside behind the counter,” I replied, glad for the interruption. “Need help carrying it out?”
“My granddaughter’s in the car. She’ll come get it.” She approached the counter, eyeing Adrian with undisguised curiosity. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
Adrian turned on the charm, extending his hand. “Adrian Hayes. Just visiting for the holidays.”
“Evelyn Hoffman.” She shook his hand, then looked between us. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Mr. Hayes was just leaving,” I said firmly.
Adrian’s smile didn’t falter. “Actually, I was hoping to convince Maddox to join me for lunch at…” He paused, glancing at Mrs. Hoffman. “Where would you recommend for the best lunch in town?”
Mrs. Hoffman brightened. “Oh, Timber, without question! Alex just revamped the menu last month, and the butternut squash soup is a must-try.”
I suppressed a groan. Of course she’d suggest Timber. It was the best damn restaurant in town.
“Sounds perfect,” Adrian said, turning back to me with triumphant eyes. “Timber at noon? Ten minutes of your time.”
I could practically see the town gossip network lighting up like a Christmas tree.
By nightfall, half of Legacy would be speculating about me and the handsome stranger with the pretty face.
The other half would already be planning our wedding.
In a town where everyone knew your business before you did, this lunch would be headline news—exactly the kind of attention I’d spent years avoiding.
I wanted to argue that he’d had more than ten minutes of my time already, but since Mrs. Hoffman was watching our exchange with the avid interest of someone who would definitely be sharing this story at her next book club meeting, if not sooner, I refrained.
“Fine,” I relented, if only to end the conversation before half the town heard about it. “Noon. But only ten minutes.”
Adrian’s genuine smile was annoyingly appealing. “Excellent. Looking forward to it.” He nodded politely to Mrs. Hoffman. “Lovely meeting you, ma’am.”
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.