CHAPTER 1
WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?
WREN
I
slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack mountain man who looks like
he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes too small. He’s
intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been pulled up into
a haphazard man bun thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl,
however, makes him about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet, here I
am, sidling up next to him.
He
glances at me, eyes bleary and not really tracking. He quickly focuses on his
half-empty glass again. Based on the slump of his shoulders and the
uncoordinated way he picks up his glass and tips it toward his mouth, I’m
guessing he’s pretty hammered. I order a sparkling water with a dash of cranberry
juice and a lime.
What
I could really use is a cup of lavender-mint tea and my bed, but instead, I’m
sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous,
obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals are
on the same kind of slippery slope.
“Rough
day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its contents.
It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been watching
him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move. While he’s
been sitting here, he’s turned down two women, one in a dress that could’ve
doubled as a disco ball and the other in a top so low-cut, I could almost see
her navel.
“You
could say that,” he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost slits. I
can still make out the vibrant blue hue despite them almost being closed. They
move over me, assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress with a high
neckline and a hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not nearly as
provocative as Disco Ball or Navel Lady.
“That
solving your problems?” I give him a wry grin and tip my chin in the direction
of his bottle of Johnnie.
His
gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at him.
Or what I can see of his face under his beard, anyway.
“Nah,
but it helps quiet down all the noise up here.” He taps his temple and blurts,
“My dad died.”
I
put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy on my part since its
half-genuine, half-contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.”
He
glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I
should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might
be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim is
off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a
handful of napkins to mop up the mess.
“I’m
drunk,” he mumbles.
“Well,
I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, considering the way you’re sucking
that bottle back. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask for a straw in the
first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer in there if you want
tomorrow morning to suck less.” I push my drink toward him, hoping he doesn’t
send me packing like he did the other women who approached him earlier.
He
narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?”
“Cranberry
and soda.”
“No
booze?”
“No
booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
He
picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his mouth. His eyes
crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake up
with you beside me?”
I
cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Shit,
sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m so
wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed
tonight. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then
motions to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.”
I’m
not sure how to respond. I go with semi-affronted, since it seems like somewhat
of an insult. “Good to know.”
“Dammit.
I mean, I think you might be hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I think
you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times. “You have
nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.”
This
time I laugh—for real—and point to the bottle. “I think you might want to tell
your date you’re done for the night.”
He
blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.”
He
makes an attempt to stand, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he stumbles
into me and grabs my shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa. Sorry. Yup, I’m
definitely drunk.” His face is inches from mine, breath smelling strongly of
alcohol. Beyond that, I get a whiff of fresh soap and a hint of aftershave. He
lets go of my shoulders and takes an unsteady step back. “I don’t usually do
this.” He motions sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a three drink max guy.”
“I
think losing your father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool. Despite
being tall for a woman, and wearing heels, he still manages to be close to a
head taller than me.
“Yeah,
maybe, but I still think I might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly unsteady,
swaying while standing in place. I take the opportunity for what it is and
thread my arm through his, leading him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s get
you to the elevator before you pass out right here.”
He
nods, then wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance. “That’s
probably a good idea.”
He
leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the two stairs
leading to the foyer. There’s no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down,
but I drape one of his huge arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own
around his waist, guiding him in a mostly straight line to the elevators.
“Which
floor are you on?” I ask.
“Penthouse.”
He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to the black
doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.”
“It’s
probably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow
again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated penthouse
elevator.
He
stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into a furrow. “I can’t
remember the code. It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles forward
and presses his forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his thumb with
the sensor, but his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing.
I
settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank. Or a superhero.
For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems pretty harmless
and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m also
trained in self-defense, which would fall under the by any means necessary umbrella.
“Can I help?”
He
rolls his head, eyes slits as they bounce around my face. “Please.”
I
take his hand between mine. The first thing I notice is how clammy it is. But
beyond that, his knuckles are rough, littered with tiny scars and a few scabs,
and his nails are jagged.
“Your
hands are small,” he observes as I line his thumb up with the sensor pad and
press down.
“Maybe
yours are abnormally big,” I reply. They are rather large. Like basketball
player hands.
“You
know what they say about big hands.”
I
fight not to roll my eyes, but for a brief moment, I wonder if what’s in his
pants actually matches the rest of him. And if he’s unkempt everywhere, not
just on his face. I cut that visual quickly because it makes me want to gag.
“And what do they say?”
His
eyes crinkle again, and he slaps his own chest. “Something about big hands, big
heart.”
I
bite back my own smile. “Pretty sure you’re mixing that up with cold hands,
warm heart.”
His
brow furrows. “There’s a good chance.”
The
elevator doors slide open. He pushes off the wall with some effort and
practically tumbles inside. He catches himself on the rail and sags against the
wall as I follow him in. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this right now.
He
doesn’t have to press a button since the elevator only goes to the penthouse
floor. As soon as we start moving, he groans and his shoulders curl in. “I
don’t feel so good.”
Please
don’t let him be sick in here. If
there’s one thing I can’t deal with, it’s vomit. “You should sit.”
He
slides down the wall, massive shoulders rolling forward as he rests his
forehead on his knees. “Tomorrow is going to suck.”
I
stay on the other side of the elevator, in case he tosses his cookies.
“Probably.”
It’s
the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. Or at least it feels
that way, mostly because I’m terrified he’s going to yak. Thankfully, we make
it to the penthouse floor incident-free. On the down side, now that he’s in a
sitting position, getting him to stand again is a challenge. I have to press
the open door button three times before I can finally coax him to his feet.
In
the time between leaving the bar and making it to the penthouse floor, the
effects of the alcohol seems to have compounded. He’s beyond sloppy, using the
wall and me for support as we make our way to his door. There are two penthouse
apartments up here. One on either side of the foyer.
He
leans against the doorjamb, once again fighting to find the coordination to get
his thumb to the sensor pad. I don’t ask if he needs my assistance this time
since it’s quite clear he does. Once again I take his clammy hand in mine.
“Your
hands are really soft,” he mumbles.
“Thanks.”
The
pad ashes green, and I turn the handle. “Okay, here we go. Home sweet home.”
“This
isn’t my home,” he slurs. “My cousin’s family owns this building. I’m crashing
here until I can get the fuck out of New York.”
I
scan the penthouse. It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern furniture,
like two different tastes crashed together and this is the result. Aside from
that, it’s clean to the point of looking almost like a show home.
The
only sign that someone is staying here is the lone coffee cup on the table in
the living room and the blanket lolling like a tongue over the edge of the
couch. I’m still standing in the doorway while he sways unsteadily.
He
tries to shove his hand in his pants pocket, but all he succeeds in doing is
setting himself off-balance. He nearly stumbles into the wall.
“Thanks
for your help,” he says.
He’s
back in his penthouse, which means my job is technically done. However, I’m
worried he’s going to hurt himself, or worse, asphyxiate on his own vomit in
the middle of the night, and I’ll be the one catching heat if that happens.
I’ll also feel bad if something happens to him. I blow out a breath, annoyed
that this is how my night is ending.
I
heave his arm over my shoulder and slip mine around his waist again, leading
him through the living room toward what seems to be the kitchen. There’s a
sheet of paper on the island, but otherwise it’s spotless.
“What’re
you doing?” he asks.
We
pause when we reach the threshold. “Which way is your bedroom?”
He
looks slowly from right to left. “Not that way.” He points to the kitchen. It’s
very state of the art.
I
guide him in the opposite direction down the hall, until he stumbles through a doorway,
into a large but simply furnished bedroom. Once we reach the edge of the bed,
he drops his arm, spins around—it’s drunkenly graceful—and falls back on the
bed, arms spread wide as if he’s planning on making snow angels. “The room is
spinning.”
“Would
you like me to get you a glass of water and possibly a painkiller for the
headache you’ll likely have in the morning?” I’m already heading for the
bathroom.
“Might
be a good idea,” he mumbles.
I
find a glass on the edge of bathroom vanity—which is clean, apart from a brand
new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. I run the tap, wishing I had a plastic
tumbler, because I’m not sure he’s in any state to deal with breakable objects.
I check the medicine cabinet, find the pills I need, shake out two tablets, and
return to the bedroom.
He’s
right where I left him; sprawled out faceup on a massive king-size bed, legs
hanging off the end, one shoe on the floor beside him. I cross over and set the
water and the pills on the nightstand.
I
make a quick trip back to the bathroom and grab the empty wastebasket from
beside the toilet in case his night is a lot rougher than he expects.
I
tap his knee, crossing my fingers he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have
painkillers for you.”
He
makes a noise, but doesn’t move otherwise.
I
tap his knee again. “Lincoln, you need to wake up long enough to take these.” I
cringe. I called him by name, and he didn’t offer it to me while we were down
at the bar. Here’s hoping he’s too drunk to notice or remember. His name is
Lincoln Moorehead, heir to the Moorehead Media fortune and all the crap that
comes with it. And there’s a lot of it.
One
eye becomes a slit. “Every time I open my eyes, the room starts spinning
again.”
“If
you drink this and take these, it might help.” I hold up the glass of water and
the pills.
“’Kay.”
It takes three tries for him to sit up. He tries to pick the pills up out of my
palm, but keeps missing my hand.
“Just
open your mouth.”
He
lifts his head. “How do I know you’re not trying to roofie me?”
I
hold up the tablet in front of his face. “They don’t say roofie, so you’re
safe.”
He
tries to focus on the pill and then my face. I have my doubts he’s successful
at either.
His
tongue peeks out to drag across his bottom lip. “The cameras in the hall will
catch you if you steal my wallet.”
I
laugh at that. “I’m not going to steal your wallet, I’m going to put you to
bed.”
“Hmm.”
He nods slowly and opens his mouth.
I
drop the pills on his tongue and hand him the glass, which he drains in three
long swallows. “Would you like me to refill that?”
“That’d
be nice.” He holds out the glass, but when I try to pull away, he covers my
hands with his. His shockingly blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment they’re
clear and compelling. Despite how out of it he is, and how much he resembles a
mountain man, or maybe because of it, I have a hard time looking away. “I
really wish I wasn’t this messed up. You smell nice. I bet your hair is pretty
when it’s not pulled up like that.” He flops a hand toward my bun. “Not that
it’s not pretty like that, but I bet if you took it down, it would be wavy and
soft. The kind of hair you want to bury your face in and run your fingers
through.” He exhales a long breath. “I haven’t had sex in a really long time,
but I feel like I would have zero finesse if I tried right now.”
I
smile and turn away. In the time it takes for me to refill his glass, he’s
managed to get one arm out of his suit jacket. He’s made it most of the way
onto the bed, feet still hanging off the end, but he’s on his back, which is
not ideal.
I
set the glass on his nightstand, along with a second set of painkillers, which
I’m assuming he’ll need in the morning, and give him another nudge. “Hey.”
This
time I get nothing in the way of a response. I poke him twice more, but still
nothing. He can’t sleep on his back with how drunk he is. He needs to be on his
side or his stomach with a wastebasket close by.
I
can’t in good conscience leave him like this. My options are limited. I shake
my head as I kick off my shoes and climb up onto the bed with him. This is not
at all what I expected to be doing when I brought him back up here.
I
stare down at his sleeping form. His lips are parted, they’re nice lips, full
and plump, even though they’re mostly obscured by his overgrown beard. His hair
has started to unravel from its man bun, wisps hanging in his face. He has long
lashes, really long actually, and they’re thick and dark, the kind women pay a
lot of money for. His nose is straight and his cheekbones— what I can see of
them—are high. With a haircut, a beard trim or complete shave, and a new suit
that actually fits, I can imagine how refined he’ll look. More like a Moorehead
than a mountain man lumberjack. I shake my head. “I need you to roll onto your
side, please,” I say loudly.
Nothing.
Not even a grunt.
I
pull on his shoulder, but he’s dead weight. Leaning over him, I make a fist and
give him a light jab approximately where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.”
And
roll he does, knocking me down and turning over so he’s right on top of me.
We’re face-to-face. Good God, he’s heavy. His bones must be made of lead. He
shifts, one leg coming over both of mine. I push at his knee, but his arm
swings out and he wraps himself around me on a low groan, pinning my arm to my
side. He’s like a giant human blanket.
“How
did this become my life?” I say to the ceiling, because the man lying on top of
me is apparently out cold.
I
try to wriggle free, I even yell his name a bunch of time before I give up and
wait for him to roll off me. And while I wait for that to happen, I replay the
conversation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that took place forty-eight
hours ago and put me in this awkward position underneath her drunk son.
I’d
been standing in Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was dead.
It was shocking that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was always
so healthy and full of life.
Gwendolyn,
his wife—now a widow—stood stoic behind his desk, papers stacked neatly in the
center.
“I’m
so very for your loss, Gwendolyn. If there’s anything I can do. Whatever you
need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant because I
couldn’t imagine how my mother and I would feel if we lost my father.
Gwendolyn’s
fingers danced at her throat as she cleared it. “Thank you,” she whispered
brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your kindness, Wren.”
“Let
me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.”
She
took a deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine. “I
need your help.”
“Of
course, what can I do?”
“My
oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the funeral, and he’ll
be staying to help run the company.”
A
hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Everything
from Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references had been
with fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as it was
Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln through
her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how difficult
Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone else,
particularly his brother.
“Transitioning
Lincoln.” Gwendolyn rounded her desk. “You’ve managed to turn around
Armstrong’s reputation in the media during the time you’ve been here. I know it
hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be difficult to manage.”
Difficult
to manage is the understatement of the
entire century where Armstrong is concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic
proportions. He’s also a misogynistic, narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to
deal with for the past eight months on a nearly daily basis—sometimes even on
weekends.
My
job as his “handler” has been to reshape his horrendous reputation after his
involvement in several scandalous events became very public. It wasn’t a job I
necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject the offer, but my
mother asked me to take the position as a favor to her since she’s a friend of
Gwendolyn.
Beyond
that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past decade.
When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our relationship
forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of trying to help
repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which was ridiculously
high, also didn’t hurt. Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly every single charitable
foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my interests lie, it
seemed like a smart career move.
“Since
you’re already working with Armstrong and things seem to be settled there for
the most part, I felt it would make sense to keep you on here at Moorehead to
work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for several years.
He’s nothing like his brother, very altruistic and focused on his job, rather
than recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.”
I
fought a scoff at the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a reference
to the fact that Armstrong couldn’t seem to keep his pants zipped when it came
to women.
Gwendolyn
pushed a set of papers toward me. “It would only be for another six months. And
of course, your salary would reflect the double work load, since you’ll still
have to maintain Armstrong in some capacity while you assist Lincoln in
transitioning into his role here.”
“I’m
sorry, what—”
Gwendolyn
pulled me into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she stepped back.
Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “You have no idea how much I appreciate
your willingness to take this on. As soon as your contract is fulfilled, you
have my word that I’ll give you a glowing recommendation to whichever
organization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in starting your
own foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if you’ll stay on a
little longer for me.” She dabbed at her corner of her eyes and sniffed, then
tapped the papers on the desk. “I already have an agreement ready and an NDA,
of course. Everything is tabbed for signing.”
I’m
pulled back into the present when Lincoln shifts and one of his huge hands
slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he pushes his nose
against my neck, beard tickling my collarbone. He mutters something
unintelligible against my skin.
I’m
momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee him in
the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi-aware that he’s fondling me.
Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room.
I
elbow him in the ribs, which probably hurts me more than it does him. At least
it gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I roll off
the bed and pop back up, smoothing out my now-wrinkled dress. My stupid nipples
are perky, thanks to the attention the right one just got. Probably because
it’s the most action I’ve seen since I started working for the Mooreheads eight
months ago.
I
hit the lights on the way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a
glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on the counter. It’s a list of
important details regarding the penthouse, including the entry code. I nab my
purse, snap a pic, and head for the elevators.
I
have a feeling this is going to be a long six months.
From Handle
With Care. Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting and reprinted with
permission
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helena Hunting
New York Times and
USA Today bestselling
author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her
incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes
contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
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