Handle with Care Read online

  I swallow thickly as he flips through the profiles. “Not me personally, no, but they’ve all been cleared as good potential plus-ones.”

  He pauses at an attractive brunette. “Five-eight, blue eyes, brown hair, breasts are natural. Well, that’s a real bonus, isn’t it? Oh, and look at this, she was a cheerleader in college, and she has a degree in interior design. Looks like her dad owns some big company and has a giant bankroll. She sounds perfect for me, don’t you think?”

  “Sounds like an excellent fit,” I grind out. “Her contact information is right there.” I stab at the phone number.

  Lincoln regards me with narrowed eyes. “Do you have a plus-one?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A plus-one? Are you bringing someone?”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “Has he been vetted? Maybe I need to do my own background check. Make sure you’re not bringing some douchebag to my family’s fundraiser.”

  Great. For some reason he’s pissed off, and now so am I. It’s bad enough that I’ve been told it won’t look good for me to bring a date, but the way he’s acting is full-on jerk. “My dates are none of your business.”

  He slams the folder shut and pushes it toward me. “I don’t need help getting a date.”

  “I’ll still need to vet whoever you’re bringing.” I nearly choke on the words.

  Lincoln scoffs. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Wren. I won’t screw up this precious fundraiser and ruin all your hard work making me look like the perfect CEO. I have shit to do. Close the door on your way out.”

  I don’t know how to respond to his abrupt dismissal, so I stand there for a few more seconds and stare. My throat feels tight, and my eyes burn.

  “You can go now, Wren,” he barks, eyes still on his monitor.

  So I leave, because for some reason I’m at risk of shedding tears over Lincoln having a date. Which tells me something important. He’s not just my job anymore. If I can’t have a date, I don’t want Lincoln to have one either.

  And more than that, if he’s going to have one at all, I want it to be me.

  CHAPTER 11

  SOMETIMES IGNORANCE IS BLISS

  LINCOLN

  I’m in a foul mood. Like the worst. I’m Oscar the Grouch and Scrooge’s angry hate child rolled into one. I’ve been like this ever since Wren came into my office and offered me a list of prospective plus-ones.

  And now I’m in the middle of a meeting, absent of Wren—she’s been scarce since yesterday’s conversation—and all Armstrong can talk about is letting go of the employees of the two digital publications to free up more funds.

  I rub my temples, trying to stay calm and not bark at my brother every time he throws out the phrase the bottom line.

  “What about Williams Media?” I ask.

  “What about them? They’re our competition,” Armstrong sneers, as if I’m stupid.

  What I wouldn’t give to go a round with him strapped to the side of a punching bag. “Yes. And their magazines with similar content are selling four times what ours are. According to our records, there was a proposed merger in this particular division a while back, but it fell through. Would you happen to be able to shed some light on that?”

  Armstrong adjusts his tie and looks anywhere but at me. “I guess it didn’t work out.”

  “Hmm. Well, it looks like there’s talk about hiring more staff over there to facilitate expanding that division, so it seems like it wasn’t a bad decision for them, and it sure as hell didn’t work out well for us.” I’ve done the research. I’m aware Amalie confronted Armstrong in the middle of a meeting with Wentworth, which is the reason they have her and we have tanking sales. “I’ve arranged a meeting with Wentworth to renegotiate.”

  It doesn’t take long for what I’ve said to sink it. “What? You can’t get in bed with the competition.”

  “Don’t you get in bed with everyone?” I wave him off before he can open his mouth and spew more nonsense. “Dad was more than willing to make a deal with them before you screwed it up, and now that I’m here, and in charge, I get to make the decisions, regardless of whether you like them or not.”

  “Our division is failing because Amalie sabotaged it!” Armstrong shouts.

  I really wish Wren were here to put him in a headlock. “Our division is failing because you cheated on your wife at your wedding, and multiple times prior to that, and then you went and demoted her. Williams was right to snatch her up because she’s an incredible business asset, and you screwed that up. So if anyone’s to blame for the failure of anything, it’s you, brother.”

  He throws his hands up in the air. “Of course you’re going to blame me.”

  I slam my hand on the table, rattling the glasses, and likely the board members who are bearing witness to this family drama. “Can you get your head out of your own ass for five seconds and look at the bigger picture, here, which is not a mirrored reflection of your face, Armstrong? Firing twenty employees is not in our best interests, not fiscally, and certainly not when it comes to drawing negative media attention. Merging this division with Williams means we don’t have to let them go. It will save money and bad press down the line.”

  “Lincoln’s right,” G-mom says from over the speakerphone. I didn’t want to interrupt her vacation, but I felt like her input on this would be helpful, so we conferenced her in. “A merger is the most cost-effective, financially responsible move.”

  “My meeting with Wentworth is next week. That gives us enough time to run the numbers and see what we can offer as a buy-in.”

  “What about me?” Armstrong gripes.

  “Your last meeting with Wentworth resulted in Moorehead losing the potential merger, so you’ll get to sit this one out. I have a phone conference in twenty minutes, so if we’re done here, I’ll thank all of you for attending and we can reconvene next week after the meeting. Nash, I’d like those numbers before the end of the day tomorrow, is that possible?”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  “Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your trip, G-mom.”

  “I’ll call you later, Lincoln.” I smile as she ends the call, aware the G-mom slip is probably the reason for her annoyed, but amused tone. I gather up my things and head down the hall, feeling a little lighter, knowing that we have a potential solution, as long as I can get Wentworth to agree.

  I pass Wren’s office on the way back to mine—I took the long way, but she’s still not there, which is frustrating, because all I want to do is share the possible good news with someone who will actually care.

  When I get back to my office, I drop into my chair and start organizing my desk, my bad mood returning when I shuffle the folder with my prospective dates aside. Having her hand me the folder in the first place was a pisser, but worse is that she never answered my question, so I don’t know if she has a date for this thing or not.

  I should make someone tell her she can’t bring a date. I mean, she’s supposed to be dealing with me, and probably Armstrong, at the event. She can’t have a date and do her job. Wren is mine.

  As that thought comes barreling into my brain like a shotgun blast, I realize it’s a problem. The very idea is problematic. As is the jealousy I’m currently feeling over a date I can’t even be sure exists.

  But now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t stop—again. I don’t know what she does in her spare time, not that she has much of it with the hours she pulls. But still, she could be dating. I know she doesn’t have a boyfriend. At least, I assume she doesn’t. She’d have mentioned a boyfriend if there were one. I think, anyway.

  I pull up her social media accounts and comb her posts. Mostly it’s pictures of flowers or parks, or her with her parents at various events. It’s all a bunch of staged photo ops from what I can see, but there are no boyfriend pics. She has a fish tank, but no other pets. She likes to make salad and take pictures of that, which is ironic since her favorite snack is Cheez-Its. She always has a bag of them i
n her desk. I’m pretty sure she uses it as a salad topping.

  I give up after another fifteen minutes of searching with no luck. The last time she posted a picture of her with a guy who wasn’t a family member was more than a year ago—yes, I went back that far. I still kind of want to punch the guy out, even though it’s not rational.

  I also need to get a grip, because clearly, she and I are not on the same page if she’s bringing me a portfolio full of potential dates for this event. I’ll be able to get a clear answer out of her about the date situation when we do the tux fitting. Whenever that is. She didn’t even give me a time. I’m sure it’ll magically appear in my calendar, and there will be seven hundred alerts to go with it. I can make it clear I need her attention on me, not some guy who probably wants to go out with her so he can climb ladders and get into her panties. If she’s even wearing any.

  My phone rings, pulling me out of my head and back into reality. Carlos’s name flashes across the screen, so I answer the call and put it on speakerphone. “Hey, my man, how are things going without me there?”

  “Good, great even. We’re on schedule with the wells and building materials showed yesterday. The crew is going to break ground in the morning.”

  I cross over to the window and look down at the sprawling park, wishing I were out there, or better yet, in Guatemala. Breaking ground has always been one of my favorite parts, and I’m sad I’m missing it, but glad they’re managing without me. “Anything I can do to help from my end?” I ask.

  “Nope, I just wanted to call and let you know things are going well, and you don’t have anything to worry about. How’s New York treating you?”

  “Eh, I’d rather be where you are, but I’m surviving.”

  We chat for a few more minutes, discussing the plans for construction, and I ask about funds and food supplies, but Carlos knows what he’s doing, so he’s on top of everything.

  I end the call feeling ambivalent. It’s good to know Carlos has it under control, but I miss being involved in projects that matter.

  I focus on the folders on my desk. To the right are the ones I pulled from the filing cabinet in my dad’s office that no one could seem to find a key for. I picked the lock and emptied the entire cabinet into a banker’s box when my mother was out for lunch the other day.

  I assume I’m going to find some things in there I shouldn’t, considering how hard it was to get into. I open one of the hidden files. At this point, I’m used to coming across bank records for money spent on things that don’t pertain to anything Moorehead Media-related.

  But this time, I find something more inexplicable than usual. My first inclination is to seek out Wren, since typically she’s the one who won’t BS me, but she’s not here, so I can’t ask her.

  I take the file with me down the hall to the office I least want to visit, especially after this morning’s meeting, with the person I like less than a pervasive flu virus, but who will potentially have an answer.

  I pass Carter, my brother’s assistant, who looks like he wants to stop me, but doesn’t. I enter without knocking. Armstrong flails and shouts, slamming his laptop closed, but not before I get an eyeful of some chick screwing herself with a giant purple dildo in the reflection in the window.

  “Seriously?”

  “Don’t you know how to knock?” My brother has to tuck himself back in his pants, because, yes, he was jacking off at his desk.

  “Don’t you fuck the dog enough at work, now you have to choke your chicken here too?”

  “I was releasing some tension after that useless meeting. What do you want?”

  I ignore the comment about the meeting, slap the folder on the desk, and flip it open.

  “What is that?” Armstrong squints and reaches for the paper, but I pick up the closest pen and rap his knuckles. “Ow! Why’d you do that?”

  “Wash your hands, you disgusting prick.”

  He rolls his eyes, but washes his hands in the sink by his minibar. Of course there’s a bar in his office, and a putt strip, and a couch. If it wasn’t for the ban on female employees working directly with him, he’d probably have a bed set up in here too.

  I wait until he’s rinsed the dick off his hands before I allow him to touch the documents.

  “It looks like a deed,” he says.

  “I know it’s a deed. What I want to know is, who does the penthouse belong to?”

  Armstrong frowns. Or tries to. “How should I know?”

  “So it’s not yours?”

  “Nope.” He flips his pen between his fingers. “Maybe Dad invested in some property and never got around to doing anything with it.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that there’s this deed for a condo unit tucked into his business files?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe he was using it for storage.”

  “Storage for what? It’s in Lower Manhattan. It doesn’t make sense.” Obviously my brother won’t be any help. “I’m going to go check this place out.”

  “I’ll come with you. Might be good to see what it’s worth, and I need a lunch break.”

  “Don’t you have meetings?”

  “Nope. I was planning on doing paperwork this afternoon.”

  I want to tell him to screw off, but at the same time, if he’s lying about not knowing about the property, I’ll be able to tell once we’re there. Armstrong is a good liar—he always has been—but he has a tic under his right eye that he can’t control when he gets caught embellishing stories. He also does this tapping thing with his foot.

  I want to take the subway, but Armstrong balks at the idea of public transit. I’d force him, but I have a feeling he’ll do something embarrassing and end up on social media as a result, which will make more work for Wren that doesn’t have to do with me, so we take a car instead.

  We have to stop at three different places for takeout on the way. By the time we finally arrive, I’ve already thought of a hundred ways to murder Armstrong and just as many places to bury his body.

  The building is an upscale condo on the water in Lower Manhattan facing New Jersey. It’s not a Mills building either, which is unusual. My father always invests in Mills real estate because they’re the best, and they’re family. It sends up a lot of red flags. I have a few guesses as to why my father would have a piece of property this far away from the office.

  I was smart enough to bring the deed with me, so we’re able to obtain clearance to enter the apartment, but it takes a while. Of course, Armstrong bitches the entire time—until I threaten to knock out his teeth.

  The sinking feeling that’s taken over since I found this particular file dominates as we enter the penthouse. It’s two thousand square feet of modern space. The eat-in kitchen has a small table. I run my finger across the wood surface, and they come away dust-free, which indicates someone has either been here or cleaned recently. Either way, it means this place is being taken care of. The living room boasts a wide couch and a flat-screen TV, but not much else in terms of furniture or décor. It doesn’t look very lived in, at least at first glance.

  I check the fridge and find three bottles of high-end white wine, two very expensive bottles of champagne, and a jug of fresh-squeezed organic orange juice. It’s the brand my father favored, and it’s past its expiration date. Fresh orange juice has a short shelf life, so it couldn’t have been here that long, which means someone has definitely been here in the last few weeks, possibly right before my father died.

  Armstrong appears behind me with an empty bin meant for groceries.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  He thumbs over his shoulder. “In the pantry.”

  “Is there anything else in there?”

  “Just some canned stuff, I think.” He shoulders his way past me and starts emptying the bottles of wine and champagne into the bin.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He glances over his shoulder. His expression indicates he thinks I’m an idiot for asking. “It’s good wine. I’m taki
ng it home.”

  “Sometimes I’m honestly baffled we share the same DNA.” I leave him to his scavenging and check out the pantry.

  I have a feeling my suspicions about this place are right. The wine and champagne seem to fit my theory; this is where my dad brought his mistresses. I have to assume it’s a plural and there wasn’t just one.

  I step inside the large room, and as soon as I get a load of the contents, I have a hell of a lot more questions. Lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves are several rows of cereal boxes. Sure there are a few other items, such as preserves, peanut butter, noodles and canned sauces, but the majority of the shelf space is taken up by sugary treat cereal we were never allowed to eat as kids.

  I pick up a box of Cocoa Pebbles. It’s good for another six months. My dad was always such a healthy eater, mostly because Gwendolyn would bitch at him if he so much as looked at sugar the wrong way. Holy fuck. What if my dad had an entire second family? One where the kids got to eat whatever fucking cereal they felt like. It’s the thing soap operas are based on. And those bad afternoon talk shows.

  Shelving the box, I cross through the living room and peek into the master bedroom. It looks normal. The huge four-poster bed is decorated in feminine colors. The comforter is gray and pink. The room looks a lot more lived in than the rest of the place, which again leads me to believe this is definitely where he would take his mistress. I check the closet and find both men’s and women’s clothing. Based on the sizing and the style, none of it belonged to my mother either. Beyond that, the cereal brings up a whole new set of concerns. Like maybe he knocked one of his mistresses up, and this was where he hid her. And if that’s the case, where was she now?

  I leave the master bedroom and head down the hall, terrified I’m going to find a second bedroom outfitted for a kid. Instead, I stumble on something incredibly weird.

  I don’t find a kid’s bedroom, but what I do find leaves me with a lot more questions than it does answers. It’s another bedroom, but clearly it’s not meant for sleeping. I’m not sure what exactly goes on in here, or whether I really want to know at all. It’s like costume and prop central—but with a highly sexual twist.