Page 46 of Mother Clucker

I sat and stared at the video on Heather’s computer screen. The count beneath it said it had more views than I imagined possible. I mean maybe for a Kardashian or something, but not for the Strickland Feed corporate YouVid page—which I honestly hadn’t known we had until now.

But there it was. Over a hundred thousand views in just the few hours since it had been posted.

The surprise of that was only outweighed by my shock over how many comments there were.

Hundreds. And it seemed as if half of them were bad. Really bad.

I finally stopped scrolling to glance up at Heather. “How is this a good thing?”

I should be happy she was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt that only reached the top of her thighs with nothing—and I mean nothing—underneath. I was having trouble accessing that particular emotion right now.

“Yes, it’s a good thing. Do you see all that exposure? You can’t pay to go viral. It has to happen organically. Organic traffic in those numbers is amazing.”

How in the world was she so pleased by this?

“Is this where I’m supposed to believe that any press is good press? Because I have to tell you, from my experience that isn’t true.”

“It’s opened a dialogue and that provides you with an opportunity to get the truth out.”

“But half of these comments are from haters.” I might be a chicken farmer at heart and not understand all this marketing and PR stuff, but I still knew outrage and overt hatred when I saw it.

“Yes. But the other half of the comments are from supporters defending you. Supporting Strickland.”

I shook my head, still baffled. I considered calling the head of my marketing department, even at this ungodly hour, to take this damn video down.

And after that, I was going to make sure I personally had the log in to every single account associated with Strickland so I could control these things myself.

Taking over for Pops was turning me into a control freak. I used to be pretty easy going. No wonder the man had a stroke. I was probably going to be next.

Heather covered my hand with hers. “People from the towns and the factories you’re operating out of, small farmers who commend you for the switch you made to US sourced product, they’re all taking on the trolls and publicly supporting you in these comments. That’s PR gold.”

I drew in a breath. “If you say so. Apparently I’m more of a tin than gold kind of guy.”

She smiled. “Tin can. Like your dog food is in. That’s funny.”

I hadn’t been trying to be funny, but okay . . .

“We need to capitalize on this right away with another spot.”

Because this one had worked so well? Pfft. I had to stop my little dynamo before she did anything else. But how to do that without insulting her and ruining the truce we’d built?

“That other idea you had . . .” I hesitated. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable exploiting the workers.”

“It won’t be like that. I promise you. From what I can see Strickland has been focused on business-to-business. Your wholesale orders to vendors. When right now you need to be reaching out to the consumer first. The customers who will clear the shelves at those stores so they order more. And consumers buy as much with their hearts as their heads. David, please, trust me.”

“I do.” I really did trust her. Odd since twenty-four hours ago I was sure she hated my guts.

She leaned her butt on the edge of the table next to where I sat still staring at the growing number of comments on the screen.

“And while you’re shifting your marketing and PR to the consumer instead of the big chain retailers, would you maybe consider a shift in your product line like some of these commenters suggest?” she asked.

I raised my gaze to hers. “You mean like the commenter who called us chicken killers and suggested soy dog and cat food? That wasn’t you, perchance, was it?” I asked.

“No. But I have thought it . . . in past.”

“Great.” Hopefully not while we were in her bed.

“But seriously . . .” she began.

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