Read Online Billionaire With a Twist 2 by Lila Monroe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lila Monroe
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endorsement.
“There it is, coming right up on
your left,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” she said
distractedly. “Good…”
As we reached the distillery, the
director was frowning thoughtfully up at Hunter, clearly mentally
checking off items on a list in her head. “We haven’t got
footage of you yet, either,” she said abruptly. “We’ll
need that. Bartlett, you got a recommendation for rooms we should
use?”
I glowed a little bit inside at this
acknowledgment of my understanding of her work.
“The cask room,” I said.
“You’ll want to do it after anything that needs natural
light, of course, but it’ll be easy to set up the main lights
in there, and there’ll be a good color contrast with his
outfit.”
Hunter fidgeted. “I’m not
sure about an interview…”
“Don’t tell me you’re
nervous,” I teased.
“You already have an unfair
advantage over me with all your psychological advertising knowledge,”
Hunter defended himself. “How can I just give away all my
secrets?”
I raised an eyebrow, and trailed a
finger down his chest. “Well, if you don’t tell me, I
might just go…looking.”
“And is that supposed to be a
disincentive?”
The director cleared her throat. “No
need to be nervous, Mr. Knox. It’ll be a pretty standard set of
questions. The history of the brand, the values, where you get your
inspiration, that kind of thing. People will love it. The face of the
Knox legacy.”
“That does sound easy,”
Hunter agreed, not taking his eyes off mine. A warm smile spread
across his face like honey. “There’s inspiration around
me every day.”
And I grinned back up at him like a
fool, and didn’t care who saw me. “I could say the same.”
#
Long story short, the shoot went great.
Sure, we’d be single-handedly supporting some coffee plantation
with the amount of caffeine the editing team ingested as they made
visual poetry out of the raw footage, but damn, the raw footage in
itself was beautiful. It seemed like every worker they’d
interviewed had some surprisingly meaningful thing to say about the
company and the bourbon and what both meant to them. And our director
might have been gruff, but I would have taken a thousand times worse
from her to get some of the shots she had captured—the casks
stretching on like proud lines of soldiers, the wind ruffling the
fields of wheat like fine-spun gold, the sun sinking over the
horizon, turning the exact color of the bourbon as it poured out of
the large copper still.
It was the afternoon now, and I
personally thought we had enough footage to splice together the next
Oscar-winning documentary, but our director was relentless, and
insisted on one more shoot: the stables. It was there that I was
enfolded in a hug by none other than Homer from the bar.
“Well, there you are, girlie!”
“Homer! I’m glad I ran into
you!”
A few days earlier, I’d been
walking around with the director doing a preliminary look at the
scenery, and been surprised to run into my drinking/crying buddy from
the little dive bar—who, as it turned out, just dispensed
homespun wisdom as a sideline, and spent the majority of his time
breeding horses for folks all over the county, Hunter included.
“Well, what can I do for you fine
ladies and gentlemen?” Homer asked.
“I need some action shots,”
our director cut in. “Something dramatic, majestic. You got a
good mount for Mr. Knox to ride?”
“Do I ever! Come take a gander at
this piece of horseflesh, you ain’t never seen better—”
Homer began to lead them off to the
stall with his prize stallion, a majestic coal-black beast with fiery
eyes but a loyal heart. I was about to follow, when I heard a gentle
whicker. I looked into the stall it was coming from, and saw the most
beautiful horse I could have ever imagined.
Her coat was freshly brushed and shone
like moonstone, her mane long and silver-white like my childhood
dreams of unicorns. Her eyes were deep dark pools,
“There it is, coming right up on
your left,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” she said
distractedly. “Good…”
As we reached the distillery, the
director was frowning thoughtfully up at Hunter, clearly mentally
checking off items on a list in her head. “We haven’t got
footage of you yet, either,” she said abruptly. “We’ll
need that. Bartlett, you got a recommendation for rooms we should
use?”
I glowed a little bit inside at this
acknowledgment of my understanding of her work.
“The cask room,” I said.
“You’ll want to do it after anything that needs natural
light, of course, but it’ll be easy to set up the main lights
in there, and there’ll be a good color contrast with his
outfit.”
Hunter fidgeted. “I’m not
sure about an interview…”
“Don’t tell me you’re
nervous,” I teased.
“You already have an unfair
advantage over me with all your psychological advertising knowledge,”
Hunter defended himself. “How can I just give away all my
secrets?”
I raised an eyebrow, and trailed a
finger down his chest. “Well, if you don’t tell me, I
might just go…looking.”
“And is that supposed to be a
disincentive?”
The director cleared her throat. “No
need to be nervous, Mr. Knox. It’ll be a pretty standard set of
questions. The history of the brand, the values, where you get your
inspiration, that kind of thing. People will love it. The face of the
Knox legacy.”
“That does sound easy,”
Hunter agreed, not taking his eyes off mine. A warm smile spread
across his face like honey. “There’s inspiration around
me every day.”
And I grinned back up at him like a
fool, and didn’t care who saw me. “I could say the same.”
#
Long story short, the shoot went great.
Sure, we’d be single-handedly supporting some coffee plantation
with the amount of caffeine the editing team ingested as they made
visual poetry out of the raw footage, but damn, the raw footage in
itself was beautiful. It seemed like every worker they’d
interviewed had some surprisingly meaningful thing to say about the
company and the bourbon and what both meant to them. And our director
might have been gruff, but I would have taken a thousand times worse
from her to get some of the shots she had captured—the casks
stretching on like proud lines of soldiers, the wind ruffling the
fields of wheat like fine-spun gold, the sun sinking over the
horizon, turning the exact color of the bourbon as it poured out of
the large copper still.
It was the afternoon now, and I
personally thought we had enough footage to splice together the next
Oscar-winning documentary, but our director was relentless, and
insisted on one more shoot: the stables. It was there that I was
enfolded in a hug by none other than Homer from the bar.
“Well, there you are, girlie!”
“Homer! I’m glad I ran into
you!”
A few days earlier, I’d been
walking around with the director doing a preliminary look at the
scenery, and been surprised to run into my drinking/crying buddy from
the little dive bar—who, as it turned out, just dispensed
homespun wisdom as a sideline, and spent the majority of his time
breeding horses for folks all over the county, Hunter included.
“Well, what can I do for you fine
ladies and gentlemen?” Homer asked.
“I need some action shots,”
our director cut in. “Something dramatic, majestic. You got a
good mount for Mr. Knox to ride?”
“Do I ever! Come take a gander at
this piece of horseflesh, you ain’t never seen better—”
Homer began to lead them off to the
stall with his prize stallion, a majestic coal-black beast with fiery
eyes but a loyal heart. I was about to follow, when I heard a gentle
whicker. I looked into the stall it was coming from, and saw the most
beautiful horse I could have ever imagined.
Her coat was freshly brushed and shone
like moonstone, her mane long and silver-white like my childhood
dreams of unicorns. Her eyes were deep dark pools,
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