“How was the drive?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It gets old.” Shoving a hand through his inky hair, he sighs. “Makes moving sound like a good idea.” He crosses to the bar and sits on a stool.
“Want a drink?”
“Gimme a finger of that ninety-proof whiskey we bottled last month.”
I don’t grab a glass. The cask was bottled, but Lane hasn’t approved it for sale. We’re sitting on it. “You’re not sure about it.”
“It’s . . . subpar.”
The Golden Nugget is one of mine, and it’s a rye whiskey. “It’s for mixing.”
“Customers won’t know that when they buy it. We need to release products that stand on their own. Foster House is known for whiskey. We have more leeway with vodka and gin.”
I stomp down my frustration. We’ve had this discussion several times over the years. “It’s a good whiskey.”
His jaw hardens. “It’s not good enough.”
I leave him and go to the storeroom. I grab a bottle of Golden Nugget. I don’t pour him a glass. I make a Montana sunrise. Whiskey, lemonade, huckleberry syrup, and grenadine. Just to rub him the wrong way, I add a cherry and a small umbrella.
His expression is unimpressed. “You know how much I like cherries.”
“A bunch of cherry fiends around here,” I grumble and drop in two more.
He uses the thin straw to stir it, then takes a sip.Rolling the drink around on his tongue, he furrows his brow and swallows. “Damn, that’s good flavor.”
“I know.” I’m newer to the whiskey world. I’ve been drinking it a whole lot longer than I’ve been making it, but I know the science. I know I can create some amazing products.
“Use that for Rafting and Tasting.” He takes another drink while my optimism takes a dive.
“We talked about something new, and I was going to do a vodka infusion.” Campbell set it up so I can do something new. She threw me a bone in front of all the guys, and she didn’t have to. She has faith in me without knowing what I can do. “It’s summery.”
He shakes his head. “We need to move all the Golden Nugget.”
“And we will. In cocktails. How many festivals and street fairs do we have set up this summer? Our presence at those shouldn’t be to move product on shelves. Maybe we start offering exclusive event lines.”
Interest lights his eyes. Lane’s good at the business end. He learned everything about running a national brand from his brother. But he’s too pragmatic when it comes to Foster House Gold’s goals.
I should be the realist, but Campbell handed me an opportunity after hearing only once that I wanted more of a creative role. I’m not wasting her faith in me.
Lane nods thoughtfully. “What kind of vodka infusion for the rafting gig?”
“It’s summer. It’s Montana. Huckleberry mint.”
“Tourists will eat that shit up.”
“Hoping they’ll drink it up.”
He tilts his head. “I didn’t peg you as the outside-the-box thinker.”
“It’s not outside the box. I’ve studied what other distilleries do, especially those in the state and Wyoming.”
“Our competition.”
Previous conversations with Campbell run through my head. Her experiences could come in useful. “And our colleagues. We should work on some promotional events with them.”
He takes a slow drink, his gaze shrewd. “You have some good ideas. Your girl too.”
