Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,243

nonchalance on my face, praising the meal, sipping coffee with cream, and chatting with Pete and Georgia about New York. Beneath that mask, though, I was a nervous wreck.

“This is delicious! Is it French toast?” Please don’t let my cheeks be too pink.

“Could you pass the cream, please?” Oh God, I said that too loud, didn’t I?

“I love that restaurant! They have an amazing brunch.” Look at his forearms. Christ, they’re huge.

After breakfast was over and the table was cleared, I concentrated on pulling my notes from my bag and preparing to talk. Don’t look at him. Who cares if he’s staring at you like he can’t decide whether to tear your clothes off or tear you to shreds? He doesn’t care about this anyway. Focus on the issues and strategies. You got this. When everyone was seated again, I began.

I’d outlined a three-pronged strategy for building brand awareness as well as increasing revenue. The first involved the basics: they needed a logo, they needed a new website, they needed social media accounts and someone to run them. “I’ve listed contact information for a few graphic designers I know, but I encourage you to shop around for someone local as well,” I said. Brad threw a few names out, Pete asked a couple questions and took notes, and Georgia smiled at me as she bounced Cooper on her lap. Jack, however, sat with his arms crossed and continued to give me the evil eye.

Ignore him. Keep going.

The second prong involved creating content—they had to be prepared to put a lot of work into engaging potential customers and getting people talking. “And I don’t mean ads saying how great you are. I mean pictures and stories about what you’re doing here—the messes and the successes. Show off those funny-looking vegetables! Talk about the time you failed at beekeeping or whatever! Admit your first attempt at homemade pie crust was a disaster! People relate to that. Make them feel something, make them laugh, make them wonder. This isn’t about you—it’s about them.”

Jack snorted.

“I love that,” Georgia said, shooting Jack a look over Cooper’s head. “And I like to write, too.”

“Perfect.” I smiled at her with grateful relief. “Let them get to know you all. Be real, be fun, be visible. They’ll associate your brand with you as people, make that human connection.”

“Do we all have to be visible?” Brad frowned.

I shrugged. “Not if you don’t want to be. But I think the whole concept of the family-owned and operated farm is stronger if the whole family is involved. Plus, the name is Valentini Brothers Farm.” I didn’t miss the way they glanced at Jack, but I kept my eyes off him.

“I like photography,” Brad said. “My daughter Olivia does too. Maybe we could take pictures for the site?”

I snapped my fingers. “There you go. That’s perfect. Maybe your daughter could even have her own little corner on the website, a blog where she talks about things for kids. Teaches them about eating local and organic.”

“And easy recipes,” Georgia added. “She likes to cook too. This is great, Margot.”

Jack cracked his knuckles.

“Moving on,” I said, this time giving him a pointed stare, “let’s talk about agritourism. A lot of smaller farms are using it to supplement their income.” I explained the concept, and everyone but Jack was excited about it.

“We can’t do weddings here. We don’t have the space.” Even though what he said was argumentative, it was almost a relief to have him say something and not just sit there bristling.

“We had your wedding here,” Pete reminded him.

“That was a one-time thing.”

“He’s right to be concerned about space, though,” Georgia said. “For his wedding, they rented a tent. Would the client have to do that every time?”

Jack groaned. “Then we have people trampling everywhere to set up a tent every weekend? Catering trucks? Port-o-johns? No.”

I tried to help. God knows I didn’t like port-o-johns either. “What about a semi-permanent structure or space dedicated to that purpose? What if you invested in a huge tent that stayed up the whole summer?”

“We could do that,” Pete enthused, earning a dirty look from Jack. “And we wouldn’t need catering trucks.” He sat up taller in his chair. “We’d want to cater it. But we’d need to get a license.”

Georgia nodded grimly. “Kitchen inspection. And generally, a home kitchen won’t cut it.”

I thought for a moment. “When you imagine your farm-to-table restaurant, where is it? Somewhere on the premises?”

Pete and Georgia looked at each other. “We