Timber wasbusy 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.
Adrian’s eyes lit up like he sensed weakness, and he pressed his case. “You choose the locations,” he reminded me. “You direct the shoots. We’ll feature real Legacy residents, not models. And we tell the Legacy story you want to tell.”
“And where do you fit in?”
“I’m the outsider experiencing Legacy for the first time.” He gestured around the bar. “Places like this. Real. Authentic.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”
He grinned, then grew serious. “Look, I get your skepticism. My world is curated and filtered, and yours… isn’t. But that’s exactly why I need you. This project needs to feel genuine, not staged. Nordique wants to associate their brand with traditions, with moments that matter. I think you can help me find them.” He leaned back, studying me. “Your photos don’t lie. That’s the magic I need.”
Something in his phrasing caught me by surprise. Not “your pictures are pretty” or “your aesthetic matches our brand”—but “your photos don’t lie.” Despite myself, I felt a flicker of professional pride that this man, who garnered over a million followers with his polished content, had recognized the honesty in my work.
I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. He was saying all of the things I wanted to hear. I didn’t know if I could trust him, but the money would solve several problems. Maya was right—with her leaving for college next year, I needed to think about expanding my photography business. And although I had several Christmas photo shoots on my calendar in the next few weeks, the busyness wouldn’t last. Bookings were always slower in winter.
“A couple of rules,” I said finally.
Adrian’s expression brightened. “Name them.”
“First, the creative control needs to be in writing. If I think something’s cheesy or fake, we don’t do it.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, we feature real Legacy traditions and events, butyourparticipation needs to be real, too. No manufactured moments.”
Adrian hesitated. “The, ah… let’s call it aconceptfor this series is… well, dates. As in, ‘The Twelve Dates of Christmas.’ Where I and, hopefully, a dozen local gentlemen take my followers on a special holidate. Get it,holidate?”
“You…” I paused. “You want to film yourself on dates with local guys?”
