Available August 27, 2019
New York Times bestselling author of SHACKING UP and I FLIPPING LOVE YOU Helena Hunting mixes humor and heart in this scandal-filled romantic comedy.
Available August 27, 2019
New York Times bestselling author of SHACKING UP and I FLIPPING LOVE YOU Helena Hunting mixes humor and heart in this scandal-filled romantic comedy.
HE WANTS TO LOSE CONTROL.
Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother, Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense, gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff, wilderness guy to a suave businessman
Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother, Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense, gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff, wilderness guy to a suave businessman
SHE’S TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.
Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody, cynical CEO.
Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody, cynical CEO.
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CHAPTER 1
WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?
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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