His smile faded a little. “We try. It’s not the same without my parents, but Maya and I keep it going. Tradition matters, you know?”
I nodded, unsure how to respond to the unexpected vulnerability. The casual mention of his parents’ absence hung in the air between us. I wanted to ask what had happened but sensed it wasn’t the right moment. He struck me as someone who wouldn’t want to reveal too much on camera.
Before I could formulate a reply, Mrs. Marian arrived with the second round of hot chocolates—these topped with homemade marshmallows and chocolate shavings.
“Mexican chocolate,” she announced. “Cinnamon, vanilla, and a hint of chili.”
The moment broken, we returned to the tasting. As we progressed through the flight, Maddox gradually relaxed, his commentary becoming less grudging and more animated. He had strong opinions about the white chocolate peppermint (too sweet), enthusiastic praise for the dark chocolate orange (surprisingly complex), and outright skepticism about the final offering—a lavender-infused concoction with gold-dusted marshmallows.
“Fair warning,” Mrs. Marian teased before leaving us to the final tasting. “This one’s a little out-there, but it was a special request sent in via my granddaughter’s social media account by several fans of the tasting.”
After she’d moved far enough away to be out of earshot, Maddox made a face.
“This,” he declared, eyeing the purple-tinted drink like it hadpersonally insulted his heritage, “is exactly what’s wrong with Instagram culture. Nobody needs edible gold or flowers in their hot chocolate. It’s pretentious nonsense.”
I laughed despite myself. “Not a fan of the nontraditional aesthetic?”
“It’s hot chocolate, not a fashion statement. It should taste good, not just look good in photos.”
“You know,” I said, leaning closer, “for someone who claims to hate social media, you seem to have a lot of opinions about it.”
“I have opinions about everything,” he retorted. “Ask anyone in town.”
“Oh, I plan to. I’m making a spreadsheet of ‘Maddox Sullivan’s Grumpy Opinions’ as we speak. I’m guessing by the end of our twelve dates, I’ll have enough material for a coffee table book.”
His lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Your dates,” he corrected. “Not our dates.”
“Our dates since you will definitely be there,” I corrected with a grin. “And if you thought I was implying something more than that, don’t flatter yourself, Sullivan.”
“Like I’d date someone who needs outdoor wear with fancy labels when the weather’s barely below freezing,” he shot back.
“Says the man who’s been checking out my fancy-labeled ass since yesterday.”
Maddox choked on his hot chocolate. “I have not?—”
“Let’s circle back to this pretentious hot chocolate,” I interrupted, taking pity on him as his face turned crimson. “Is your objection to lavender specifically or all flowers in beverages? What’s your stance on chamomile tea? Discuss.”
“Don’t try to distract me with tea politics,” he growled, but I could see the humor in his eyes now.
Something about the banter felt easy, natural, as if we’d known each other longer than the mere day it had been. I found myselfforgetting we were on camera, forgetting the carefully constructed talking points, forgetting everything except the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was trying not to smile.
I sat back and tapped the side of my mug, which seemed to be hand-thrown pottery, similar to a few pieces I’d seen at the gallery the other day. “There’s nothing wrong with making ordinary things beautiful. That’s what photography does, isn’t it? Finds the beauty in the everyday?”
Maddox studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “There’s a difference between finding beauty and manufacturing it.”
“Is there? Or is it just snobbery in reverse—looking down on something because it’s polished rather than raw?”
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, genuinely considering the question. “Maybe,” he admitted finally. “Maybe my issue is more with showing the sunshiny, filtered version of something instead of making the effort to find the true beauty below the surface. Real authenticity as opposed to…” He hesitated. “Hashtagauthenticity.”
“Authentic. There’s that word again,” I murmured, holding his gaze. His smoky eyes offered more temptation than any of the hot chocolate varieties had. I tried to stay focused. “What is authentic, really? If I genuinely enjoy this ridiculous, overly complex, lavender hot chocolate, isn’t that authentic? Even if I also think it would look great in a filtered photo on my Instagram?”
“The problem isn’t enjoying it,” he said slowly. “It’s changing the entire experience to make it photographable. It’s the difference between capturing life and staging it.”
“So you’ve never repositioned a subject for better light? Never asked someone to move slightly to improve composition?” I raised an eyebrow. “Because that sounds an awful lot like staging to me.”
Maddox smiled—a real smile that reached his eyes andtransformed his face from merely handsome to devastating. My heart did a stupid triple-thunk before stuttering back to a normal rhythm.
“Touché, Hayes. Maybe you’re not completely superficial after all.”
