Connor locked his office door at seven p.m. exactly, as usual, and walked to the exit. He planned to walk to Charles’s apartment where he was meeting Charles, Ben, and Blake for poker…just what he needed to blow off some steam.
His father and Uncle Cameron were already at the elevator. He knew people viewed his position as Senior Vice President of Corporate Strategy at thirty-two as nepotism. Yes, Finch Liquor Distribution was his father’s company. But he’d worked hard to prove his worth. While his father dined out on the fact Connor, his heir apparent, had garnered the best grades possible at Harvard, in real life they hadn’t proved anything to his father beyond the fact that education was expensive. Every day since he’d joined, his father and uncle had attempted to extract the proverbial pound of flesh they felt he owed for the expense.
“You got a second, Dad?” he said, wanting to share his thoughts about acquisition.
“I’m heading over to Cameron’s for dinner, can we chat in the elevator?”
“Sure.” The doors closed once the three of them were inside. “I’ve been giving some thought to the next five years. We’re going to see continued growth in the small batch premium products. The artisanal flare that has revived products such as gin and vodka. Average alcohol consumption is decreasing, but the expectation is, especially in the twenty-one to twenty-nine segment, that if they aren’t drinking often, it had better be the best quality when they do. Nobody is going on social media celebrating drinking middle-of-the-road price points.”
“And?” Cameron said drolly.
Connor raised his eyebrow in impatience and looked at his father. “To keep pace with that change, I think we need to shift part of our portfolio from the B-class and mass market brands to capture this market. We need to innovate, find the best labels, and bring them in-house. We might even need to buy some of them, help invest in their businesses to increase volume without messing with what makes their spirits unique. It’s going to take quite a pivot, but I believe we can, and need to, do it.”
Cameron attempted to hide a smirk behind his hand. Fuck, the man wasn’t even subtle anymore. “I feel like this is a stretch, fueled by your own personal objectives for when you take over,” he said, his nasal tone highlighting his boredom. “Your father has successfully steered us for decades. I know you want to make your own mark, Connor, but this is not the time or way to do it.”
“And that’s why I’m bringing it to my father, not you, for consideration. This is a long-game play and won’t fuel any immediate success. But it’s a move to protect us in the long term. Look, I know how you feel about Dyer’s, and it doesn’t need to be them, although we’d be foolish to ignore them,” Connor said, trying to get them back on track. “But if we don’t tap into this market, we’re going to see a significant drop in our sales with nothing to plug the gap.”
“You don’t need to play catch up, Donovan,” Cameron advised. “It feels like a lot of outlay.”
“Says the guy with moth-balled purse strings. Dad, it won’t be. We have underperforming assets we can let go of. We research the leading up-and-coming brands and make a bet on those we believe can make it to the big leagues. We do our homework. Casamigos Tequila went from an idea George Clooney had to a billion-dollar sale in four years. It’s doable.”
“I’m not totally adverse to the idea,” his father said. “Come see me tomorrow, and we’ll discuss.”
“I’ll do that.” Connor made a mental note to ensure the meeting took place at a time Cameron was busy so he couldn’t invite himself.
When the elevator reached the ground floor, Connor stepped out before it headed down to the parking garage. He’d left his car at home and was grateful his father hadn’t asked what was in his bag. He probably would’ve lost his shit in the elevator to learn there was a bottle of Dyer’s Medallion gin in it.
A cool breeze blew on the walk to Charles’s apartment as he thought back to Saturday night. It had hit him, somewhere between saying goodbye to his father and drinking his mediocre room-service beer, that he envied Emerson—that she and her family had actually built something worthy of an award. It was the reason he’d bought a bottle to take to poker night so he could try it.
“Hello, loser,” Charles said, opening the apartment door and allowing a waft of something garlicky and delicious to filter into the hallway. Charles’s Asian fusion restaurant had opened the previous year with a financial helping hand from Connor, but as the smaller, silent, and culinarily incapable partner, he left the running to Charles. And the Brit hadn’t let him down. The restaurant opening had been met with rave reviews and a booking list that went out for months.
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too. Ben and Blake here?” He’d gone to high school with the two of them, and they’d introduced him to Charles at one of their poker nights four years earlier.
“Already eating. Wild mushroom risotto, rocket salad, and I’ll even make you a poached egg on top to offset all the carbs and butter involved in making food that tastes like food instead of the shit that you eat.”
“Not going to argue,” Connor replied. “I’ll take the eggs. Make it two, thanks.” Connor headed into the open plan apartment and found his friends. “Ben, how’d the IPO go?”
Ben had just taken the company he’d built over the last six years from private to public. The
