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“Was this little show really a bet?” power suit asked.
“More like a performance.” She felt a little high. The cocktails, the adrenaline; it’d been a long time sinc
e she’d performed for an audience of more than ten people. If this worked, she could come back tomorrow night and try the same thing with a different crowd.
“Which would make the rest of your business strategy a three-ring circus.”
Power suit. Entitled attitude. Too good looking. Nothing better to do than harass a woman on a Friday night. “Do you give to charity?”
“I do. Often and a lot.” Well sure, he was going to say that. “I admire your enthusiasm.”
Fin squinted at him. It was hard to tell if he was yanking her chain. “Maybe you could make an enthusiastic donation.”
He laughed. “I tried.” Shame about the way that made his pool eyes spark. “Your pitch needs work.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
“Some of us are more qualified than others.”
What a jerk. “You’d be one of the qualified ones.”
“I make pitches for a living.” Power jerk held out a card. She hesitated. If she took it, she’d be obliged to talk to him. He put it on the bar and slid it towards her with one finger. It read, Caleb Sherwood, CEO, Sherwood Venture Capital.
Holy shit.
“You’re not on our list.” Lenny had put together a list of venture cap and investment firms to target for donations, so they could expand quickly, and Fin had it memorized like a script. She put a finger on the card and moved it along the bar toward the edge until she could catch it in her other hand. “You should be on our list. Every big finance player in the city is on our list.”
“We’re a private, family company. We don’t do lists.”
She put the card in her pocket. “But you make big money, so now you’re on our list.”
“We don’t have barstools at Sherwood. You’re going to need to refine your pitch if you want to talk to us about a sizable donation.”
That was almost an invitation to pitch to a venture cap firm. A chance to replace the funding Lenny’s dad would’ve been providing if not for that orange jumpsuit. Fin’s tongue went to the roof of her mouth. Power jerk was someone she needed.
“That was…I just…wouldn’t normally… You were right. It was a just a silly bet.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“No, I’m careful what I say to strange men in pubs.”
He roared with laughter. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
Power jerk dickhead. Power jerk dickhead she needed. Still, he was offensive. He’d called her a liar. “You can’t say that.”
“You just pitched the whole bar without checking on your website’s capacity, and that’s not anyone’s definition of careful. Plus, you were ready to fuck me off until you worked out I could be useful.”
“It might be an unusual approach, but it’s hardly reckless.” Also, language. They’d only just met.
“You have five minutes to pitch me.”
“What, now, here?”
The jerkwad made a big deal of looking at his fancy watch. “We don’t do lists.”
This was the Blarney, and it was loud; she wasn’t exactly sober. Caleb Sherwood was a beautiful, arrogant ass, but he’d invited her to pitch. She needed to fix what she’d screwed up by overspending on the website. It was not negotiable. She’d pitch.
“Do you have a daughter, Mr. Sherwood?”
