I adjusted my cashmere scarf and strolled toward the counter, flashing my best charming-but-not-trying-too-hard smile. “Maddox Sullivan?”
He turned, giving me a slow, assessing look. His eyes—storm-cloud gray, because of course they were—landed on my perfectly curated winter ensemble before flicking back up.
“Who’s asking?” His smooth and slightly dismissive voice caught me off guard, sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through my chest. I covered it with my most practiced professional smile.
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. “Adrian Hayes. I’m the one who emailed you about a videography job.”
Maddox blinked, then pulled his phone from his back pocket. He thumbed through his messages for all of three seconds before snorting. “Oh. Right.” He locked the screen and slid the phone back, as if the conversation was already over.
I frowned. “I assume you realize it’s a paid opportunity?”
“Yep.” He reached for a screwdriver from a nearby shelf, inspecting it with far too much interest for someone who wasn’t actively fixing something.
“And?”
He set the screwdriver down with a quiet clink and finally—finally—looked at me again. “Not interested.”
I blinked. “I— Are you serious?”
“Yep.” His mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I don’t do influencer gigs.”
A couple passing by with a shopping cart slowed to eavesdrop, exchanging glances when they heard his response. My cheeks warmed—I wasn’t used to rejection, especially not with an audience.
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. He wasn’t joking.
An older woman at the cashier stand nearby must have heard us because she said, “He also doesn’t do vacations, sick days, or anything remotely fun since—” She angled a fond but stern glance at him. “Since forever, basically. But he’s the best photographer in three counties when he’s not being a complete grouch.”
Maddox’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, Bonnie. Isn’t it time for your break?”
“My shift started twenty minutes ago.”
But a nearby customer asked for her help finding something, leaving an awkward silence between the grouch and me.
“Like she said—” I gestured vaguely toward the gallery down the street. “—you’re a photographer. And a videographer. And people pay you to take pictures. That’s what I’m trying to do here.”
He crossed his arms, those strong forearms flexing against his sleeves in a way I refused to acknowledge. “You run a content farm. I don’t work on farms.”
I huffed out a breath, willing patience into my voice. “You don’t understand. This wouldn’t just be ‘content.’ It’s a high-production-value brand deal with authentic?—”
“I’m thinkingyoudon’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t do scripted moments. I don’t do posed perfection. And I sure as hell don’t do Christmas campaigns for luxury après-ski brands.”
Part of me—the part of me that suffered from debilitating FOMO—admired his ability to say “no” so decisively.
But unfortunately for Maddox Sullivan, the rest of me was competitive as fuck. This guy was the best Legacy had to offer… and I wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.
#ProjectHotAndGrumpy #IrresistibleForceVsImmovableFlannelShirt #MaddoxOrBust #ChallengeAccepted
2
#THANKYOUNEXT
MADDOX
“You told himwhat?”Maya’s voice hit a pitch that made me wince.
“I told him no.” As she sat on the counter kicking her feet, I continued stacking the winter emergency kits by the front register, preparing for the annual rush of tourists who’d inevitably get themselves stuck in snow drifts come December. The familiar weight of the kits in my hands was grounding—four generations of Sullivans had prepared Legacy for winter emergencies, and I wasn’t about to break the chain.
“Back up.TheAdrian Hayes—who has over a million followers and works with luxury brands even I’ve heard of—came to see you yesterday… and you told him you don’t work on ‘content farms’?” Though I wasn’t looking directly at her, I couldhearher eye roll.
