“I am delighted that it’s been doing right by you, and I so appreciate you taking a chance on my drink.”
He held up his hands in deference. “No chance taken there. You deserve all the credit for creating it. In fact, our market research tells us that consumers both love the drink, and you. They want to know more about you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Market research about me?”
“Not exactly about you. But the beverage, and what they like. Of course, they love the taste, but they also like you—the article Glen Mills ran about discovering your drink was one of the most popular in his magazine and drove hundreds of thousands of views online. We’ve been tracking the reviews and write-ups in blogs and across cocktail sites for those who try the drink in person at Speakeasy in New York. The bottom line is—they want more of you.”
“Why on earth would someone want more of me?”
He furrowed his brow at her as if her question didn’t compute. He reached inside his briefcase, took out a stack of papers, and stabbed his finger at it. “Because they call you the beautiful bartender. Because they like your . . .” He paused to read the notes again. “. . . charm. Your confidence. Your conversations.”
He looked up as an extremely tall man in a black suit passed behind the table, sunglasses shielding his eyes. “After crunching the numbers and running a P&L, we’ve concluded that we can grow the Purple Snow Globe business significantly if the drink and you become synonymous,” he said linking his fingers together as if to demonstrate.
She couldn’t resist. She simply couldn’t not touch that. “So they want to drink me?” she asked in a sexy purr.
A blush crossed over his baby cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Poor guy. She’d been too bawdy when this young man clearly needed the safe-for-work Julia. “No, it’s okay. My apologies.”
He took a deep breath, perhaps recalibrating. “So, we’d like you to appear in some ads, in the marketing materials, maybe even a TV spot, and on the packaging. We think it can help skyrocket the product even further, and we’re prepared to pay handsomely for the additional role we’d be asking you to take on,” he said, then shared a number that nearly made her jaw drop. But she’d mastered the poker face long ago, and it came in handy here as she gave a curt nod and let him continue. “There’s only one stipulation,” he said, then cleared his throat.
Ah, the fine print. There was always a hoop to jump through. “And that stipulation is?”
“It’s a morals clause,” he said, in a firm tone.
“Morals? I’m a good girl,” she said, reverting back to jokes. But inside, she started spinning. Why on earth would he be concerned about her morals?
“I’m sure you’re pristine, but the reason I bring this up is we are a spirits company, and while that may seem on the surface that we’re loose and fast, we actually have to be quite buttoned-up about the law, and the rules.”
“I assure you, Tad. I am over twenty-one,” she said, flashing him a playful smile, because what the hell was he hinting at?
He returned her smile, not showing any teeth. “I am referring to who you associate with. The people you consort with. As I understand, you were involved with Dillon Whittaker, and he is now in prison for tax evasion,” he said. Her shoulders tightened and she gritted her teeth just from hearing the name of her ex. The fucker was finally behind bars where he belonged and she so did not need him messing with her future.
“Dillon is not a part of my life at all,” she said crisply.
Tad nodded. “That is good to hear. Our spokespeople need to be above reproach. We would still like you to sign this morals clause to ensure that you uphold a proper reputation, including but not limited to no public intoxication, and no involvement with any sort of criminal element.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to breathe Charlie’s name, the mobster she’d previously owed money to. But perhaps only the Dillon connection had been flagged? Would Farrell have any way of knowing that she’d pretty much been in the mob’s back pocket when she lived in San Francisco? She’d had no choice, of course. She wasn’t a mob wife—she was a woman who’d been screwed over by an ex and had clawed her way out of that trouble. She resented the implication that she was a cause for concern for Farrell, so she strapped on her best tough-chick smile, and said, “I am squeaky clean, Mr. Herman. You don’t have to worry about me.”
She took the papers and said farewell to him as he gathered his bag and phone. As soon as he was out of sight, she ordered a big, fat drink. She crossed her arms over her chest, still huffing at Tad’s not-so-subtle finger-jabbing.