The Good Chase by Hanna Martine Page B

tell them a Scottish folktale about faeries in love. Only I’d omit the end where one of them dies. Then I’d leave and let them make eyes at each other.”
    â€œThank you, Shea. Thank you very, very much.” The man looked rosy cheeked. And happy. He sat back and clasped his hands over his stomach, as though he’d just eaten two Thanksgiving meals at one sitting.
    â€œHow do you know so much about whisky?” The woman sounded exactly like she looked: tight, pinched, judicious.
    Shea kept up her breezy air and shrugged. “Drinking. Talking with scads of people. Remembering everything they say and coming to my own conclusions. And I’m told I have one of the finest noses in the business.” She tapped the side of it and winked. “On that, I wouldn’t disagree.”
    The man and woman shared an indecipherable look, the woman gave him the tiniest of nods, and then the man rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Shea, my name is Pierce Whitten, founder and CEO of Right Hemisphere Media. This is Linda Watson, my director of branding and marketing.”
    Shea shook their hands but couldn’t say what their grips were like because she’d gone numb all over. “Nice to meet you?” She was fully aware that it had come out as a question.
    â€œWe have something we’d like to discuss with you,” Linda said, also standing and setting a heavy briefcase on the tabletop as she did so.
    â€œMy company owns many media outlets under the Right Hemisphere umbrella. TV stations, magazines, websites, a film production company, just to name a few. We are here because we think you’d be an incredible asset to our company. We would like to work with you.”
    Shea’s mouth gaped open. “Me? Why? How? Doing what?”
    â€œI’ve done my homework,” Pierce said. “I’ve seen your interviews on TV specials, read pretty much every article ever written about you. I’ve been in here before and loved what you’ve done here, and now that I’ve met you, heard you speak, I think you have incredible spirit. It will translate so well to consumers.”
    Shea couldn’t get her arms to move. All she could do was blink. “Sorry?”
    â€œYou’re bigger than this one bar in New York City,” Linda said. “Bigger than a few obscure liquor specials on the History Channel. You’re a brand and you don’t even know it.”
    â€œA . . . a
brand
?” Shea stammered. “You mean like those gaudy brass buckles on designer bags?”
    Pierce smiled.
    â€œThe Right Hemisphere target market right now is the intelligent, successful, worldly American male. He wants to spend a lot of money and have a great time when he’s not working his ass off.”
    â€œSounds like most of the people who come in here,” she replied.
    â€œExactly.” Linda unzipped her briefcase. “You give them what they want in the Amber Lounge. We want to make you bigger than that.”
    Shea finally managed to move a limb, and it was to bring one hand up and rub her temple. “I’m confused. How do you propose this?”
    Pierce and Linda exchanged yet another look. “Well, that’s what we want to discuss with you. We have some initial ideas, but we wanted to first make you aware of our interest, and then hopefully schedule a more formal sit-down, a brainstorm, if you will. We want to open a dialogue with you.”
    â€œWhat are these initial ideas?”
    â€œWell—Linda, jump in here if I forget anything—we were thinking of having you create a formal rating system for whiskey, like Robert Parker’s name on wines.” When Shea wrinkled her nose automatically at that, he pressed on. “Okay, then. A regular column in one of our magazines or websites. Franchising the Amber to other first-tier cities. Scheduled appearances at big-name food festivals, or on cooking