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 arerealmoments,” 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 sheproposed 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.
For a single charged moment, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“Mr. Sullivan,” he said, placing both hands on the counter and leaning forward slightly. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
His emphasis on theMr. Sullivanmade me want to laugh, but I restrained it.
“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 somethingauthentic. 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 meremembered 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.
