Two Hawaiian hotels? Shit, the Winthropes never stop.
He stares at me like he’s making an offer I’d be a certified lunatic to refuse. I wonder how many deals those hawkish eyes alone have sealed.
“Are you looking for exclusivity?” I ask, turning over what this means. The scorched drinks are a critical part of Wired Cup’s new vision for the public. I can’t just abandon that. However, a deal with Brock Winthrope could be ridiculously lucrative.
“What do you think?” He cocks his head, his face set like a mask.
Damn. No wonder he’s been on the Forbes Thirty Under Thirty list for most of the last decade.
“Listen, I’d love to do business with you, but I have to think about this. These drinks are slated for our new product launch next quarter. If you’re asking for these recipes, exclusively, I can’t promise that.”
The way he looks at me says I’m making a big mistake. It also tells me he hasn’t been turned down much—if at all—before.
So what? Is the man shocked and appalled that someone might actually pass on becoming part of a Winthrope hotel’s magic?
“Wired Cup is a highly successful regional chain. Why the change up?” he asks slowly.
I open my mouth, but before I can get a word out, he snaps his fingers.
“Oh, wait! Are you trying to go national? I know people who can help with that.”
I clear my throat. “No, not exactly. We’ve had ample opportunities for that, but I have better quality control sticking to the West Coast. We’d have to refine new drinks for Midwestern and East Coast tastes, and that means Wired Cup becomes another Green Mermaid knockoff. Perish the fucking thought,” I growl under my breath.
That wins me a rough laugh.
“Tell us how you really feel! So why the new direction then? Hasn’t Wired Cup stood by its legacy flavors for decades? You’re obviously after something special with the new drinks,” he says pointedly.
I brace for a backhanded insult.
If he calls my coffee reliable, there’s no goddamned chance he gets a campfire roast in any of his resorts. No matter how much money he showers on me.
“And what do you think that legacy is?”
“Bold, consistent flavors, right?” He cocks his head. “A taste everybody knows and remembers.”
I’ll let that consistent comment slide.
“I might be able to work out a deal with exclusivity based on the new beverage line—if you’re really interested,” I say with a nod.
The thumbs-up he gives me comes with a wolfish smile.
“Damn right I am. There’s one big catch—everything at the resorts is locally sourced. We’re pushing sustainability hard for the green crowd, and I’m a man of my word. That coffee can’t be sourced from anywhere outside the islands.”
Fuck.
That gives me serious pause.
Pure Kona coffee is expensive and in short supply, even if I do own significant farms there. And our common Hawaiian blends are at least thirty percent Kona bean mixed with others, unlike many others with the label that have far less Kona bean.
Then again, if Winthrope wants to pay out the ass for pure Kona coffee, this could be lucrative.
“I can do that,” I say. “Though I’m sure you’re aware that pure Kona blends don’t come cheap?” I hope my eyes aren’t full of dollar signs.
“That’s part of the charm, isn’t it? Fortunately, the average Winthrope guest puts experience over price. If their day begins with a fourteen-dollar coffee drink pressed exclusively from the best Kona beans, they’ll pony up.”
As a man who’s life-deep in the coffee business, he’s right. High-end Kona blends are worth the hype. It would be hard for even the most unsophisticated palette not to know the difference between a pure Hawaiian blend and your run of the mill mix.
I need to think this through, though. Taking on a project like this while I’m in the middle of a big launch could stretch us paper thin.
“My card,” Winthrope says, pushing a hefty piece of aluminum into my hands. “Just scan the QR code for my contact.”
There’s a crowd flowing around us now. A few other people butt in, complimenting the new coffee before the next session starts. When I look back, there’s no sign of Brock Winthrope.
Once I’m back in my seat with a water, I take out my phone and text Eliza. Everyone loves the new campfire drinks. Congratulations.
Eliza: Told ya. I know my bean juice.
I snort at the screen. Could she pick a less elegant way to describe what we do? Still, a smile fights its way across my face.
Cole: We need to talk when I get back.
Eliza: You can’t. I retired.
Cole: Retired? Bull. You’ve only worked a month and you’re twenty-six years old.
Eliza: I’m saving myself the trouble. Nothing good ever comes from any variation of “we need to talk.”
Drama Queen. I stab the send button.
Eliza: Only when I’m dealing with you.