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“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?”
“No.”
He looked like a man who’d have a trophy wife and a couple of adorably awful kids. “You don’t?” He shook his head. “No, wife, no children?”
“Is your charity going to sell me a wife and child?”
“No. Gross. Why would you ask that?”
“Because a good pitch is about uncovering a need. I can only assume by your opening that you need me to have a family or you’re selling me one.”
Good point. Script note. He wasn’t married.
“Rewind.” She made a circular gesture with her hand. “Did you know that in the developing world if you improve the life of a woman, you improve the life of the whole family?” She held her flattened palm out towards him. “Pretend I’m showing you the research.”
“There’s no pretending in a pitch.” That would’ve sounded threatening if power jerk wasn’t smiling. It was unfair how a man could look so good and sound so tricksy at the same time.
“The research says that if you help a woman with a small loan, she’ll use it to advance the long-term needs of her family. She won’t drink it or gamble it away like men often do.”
He looked her straight in the face and said, “Thank you for your pitch.”
Shit. Probably shouldn’t have made the crack about men being irresponsible, but that’s what the research said, and she wasn’t finished with Caleb Sherwood. “That was my intro, and my time isn’t up.”
“This is a pitch, not a court case. I’ve given you as much time as I give any other entrepreneur who pitches me.”
“Do they all pitch you in a noisy pub when they’ve possibly had a glass too much?”
“They take whatever chance they get.”
And she’d blown hers. Now she really needed a drink. “Are you leaving?”
He sighed. “I’d rather hoped you were.”
He wanted to watch her slink off in defeat. No chance. She’d wait him out.
“My name is Finley Cartwright.” She probably should have told him that up front.
“Fin, I’ve—”
“Finley. You don’t get to call me Fin.” Fin was reserved for friends and anyone she’d met before being with her ex, Win Oxley-Prescott, a man who could wreck a girl with false promises and excellent restaurants.
“—had a tough couple of months and an appalling afternoon and you were momentarily entertaining, and I admire your spirit.” He rubbed his jaw. “But I want to be left alone to find peace in my beer glass.”
He said all that without looking at her, without taking any notice of her interruption. “No, you don’t.”
Now he looked at her, locked those blue beauties on her murky browns. “If I wanted someone to argue with, I could’ve stayed in the office where everyone hates me.”
If he was making a play for sympathy, he was hard out of luck. If he didn’t want her to keep pitching, he should leave. “Dollars for Daughters is a microloan charity.”
He peeked through his fingers at her, trying not to grin. “Oh God, you’re still here.”
