Handle with Care Read online

  “You’re going to love this. Protesting the sanitation products in student bathrooms. They’re manufactured in a plant that was known for ignoring child labor laws.”

  Well, that’s commendable but disappointing. “He can’t really be that squeaky clean. I mean, he has to have done something bad at some point that someone will use against him. What about his relationship history? Ex-girlfriends, that kind of thing?”

  Dani shrugs. “I haven’t found much apart from a grainy prom pic and a few college photos, but as far as I can tell, he either hasn’t had much in the way of relationships, or he’s extra careful about not being public about them. It’s possible his family has paid to keep him off the web, but aside from a few pictures of him working on projects in various countries over the past few years, there’s a whole lot of nothing. It’s tough when there’s no social media to work with. And he doesn’t appear in family photos. Obviously I’ll dig deeper and see what else I can find, but so far he’s coming up roses. Nothing like the brother.”

  She clicks on an image from the funeral. “Dude is giving off some serious Aquaman hotness vibes. What’s he like? Please don’t tell me the altruism is a front, and he’s an actual jerk-off like Prince Charmless.”

  “The jury’s still out on that. I’ll have to spend more time with him to get a better sense of what he’s like. So far, he’s grumpy and difficult, but then he’s related to Armstrong, so I’m not sure if it’s a genetic trait, or what.”

  “At least he’s nice to look at. You won’t have to deal with him much, anyway, right? Since you’ll be done with that circus soon?”

  “Uh, well…” I stir my coffee. “I’ll be working PR with Moorehead longer than I expected.”

  “Oh my God, what fresh hell did you fall into now?”

  “They extended my contract. Lots of transitions with Fredrick having passed. It’ll be fine.” I’m grateful that our food arrives, since I can’t really say much else on account of the NDA I signed.

  “If you say so.” Dani closes her laptop and slips it back into her messenger bag. She’s aware of Armstrong’s reputation in the media, and she knows how tough this year has been at times, so her wariness is understandable.

  “So, what about you? Working any exciting cases?”

  Dani rolls her eyes. “Hardly. It’s more of the same: cheating spouses, employees stealing from work, the occasional suspected murder, which usually ends up being paranoia. People are ridiculous.”

  I point a strip of bacon at her. I love all-day breakfast places. I could eat breakfast food three meals a day and be happy for life. “And that’s a fact. I was kind of hoping for something scandalous.”

  “I recently worked on a case where the wife thought her husband was cheating on her, but it turned out he was a cross-dresser.”

  “Was the wife relieved?”

  “Seemed that way. Would’ve saved them both a lot of money and worry if they’d been honest with each other in the first place, but I’m not going to complain, since their lack of communication pays my bills.”

  I raise my coffee cup. “Here’s to communication-less marriages.” It comes out with bite, mostly because my own parents went through a phase early on in their marriage where communication fell apart and the result was less than desirable.

  Dani grimaces. “Sorry.”

  I wave her off. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “How’s Senator Sterling doing these days? I saw him and your mom on TV the other day talking about the new hospital initiative.” She tips her head, waiting.

  My heart squeezes. “He’s good, busy but good. I saw him last week for lunch. He keeps trying to get me to take up golf, so we can spend more time together.” Yoga and jogging are more my speed than golf, but I’m willing to swing a club for a few hours if it means I get time with him.

  “And what about your mom?” she presses.

  I know what she’s getting at. Things have been better since I started at Moorehead, but it’ll never be like it was. Still, it’s a start. “She’s good. She’s been putting a lot of time in at the neonatal unit.”

  “Oh, is that abnormal for her?”

  I poke at the center of my egg, watching the yolk pool and then drip down the side.

  “Wren?”

  “No. I think it gives her peace to be there.” When I was three, my mother gave birth to my baby sister, Robyn. She was severely premature; on top of that she had a rare genetic disorder that compromised her immune system. She only survived a few days. “She asked if I wanted to volunteer with her.”

  Dani’s expression remains placid. “It might be good for you, for both of you,” she says gently.

  “Maybe. I told her I’d think about it.” Like my mother, I’ve spent a lot of time volunteering in hospitals, but until now, it’s been a solitary thing for me. Going with my mom would mean facing down a lot of demons, so it’s something I have to psyche myself up for emotionally, but I know Dani’s right. It would probably go a long way toward making things better between us.

  “Families are complicated, aren’t they?” Dani smiles sadly.

  “They sure are.” I flick a hash brown at her. “Okay, enough of this sad BS. Tell me something good. Oh! Wait. What about that guy you met at the coffee shop the other week, did you ever see him again?”

  Dani rolls her eyes. “Sure did.”

  “Uh oh. What happened?”

  “I ran into him a week later in the grocery store. With his wife.”

  My excitement deflates like a popped balloon. “No.”

  “Oh yeah. Nice, right?” Dani makes a face. “Honestly, I don’t even have time for dating since most of my evenings are spent staking out people who are screwing around on their significant others.”

  “At least we have each other, right?”

  “BFF’s forever.” She makes a heart with her hands and grins cheekily.

  We finish lunch and make a plan to eat pizza and binge-watch TV later in the week.

  I’m gone nearly two hours by the time I return to the spa to finish my afternoon of glorified babysitting. I assume they’ll be done with the whole beautifying routine. I requested they give him a facial if the whole beard disappears. I chuckle to myself at his potential irritation.

  The first thing I notice when I enter the spa is a man checking himself out in the three-way mirror. His suit hugs every muscle of his incredible body perfectly. His hair is cut short, but the top is longer, almost like that mobster style that’s made a comeback recently. He’s clean-shaven, and even from across the room, I’m pretty sure he’s a delicious specimen of man. I sure hope Lincoln cleans up half as well.

  As I pass him, his gaze shifts, snagging on me. I add extra sway to my hips and throw a smile his way. I might not have time for dating, but I can still be flirty from a distance. He turns, a smirk pulling up one corner of his mouth.

  “Like what you see?” he calls out.

  The cocky comment gives me pause, and then I realize I recognize the voice. “Lincoln?” I try to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

  “I can’t tell if that shocked look on your face is a good or a bad thing.” His grin tugs nervously upward.

  “Holy hell.” I cross over to him. “Oh my God. I can’t … This is…” I’m full-on gawking, but seriously, he looks like a totally different person. “Dear sweet baby Jesus riding a unicorn.”

  “Uhh…” Lincoln’s brow furrows. It’s a very different expression now that I can actually see his face. And what a face it is.

  I can’t seem to put words together in a sentence. I’m too busy being blown away. I reach up and run my fingers over his smooth cheeks. Good God. His jaw is made of all things magic, square and strong and just … bitable. His lips are full, and they look incredibly soft. I have the restraint necessary not to touch them, although I suddenly have the irrational urge to find out how they’d feel against mine.

  I follow the contour of his jaw with my fingertips and sigh—or possibly moan—when I reach
his chin. He has a dimple. A sweet little dimple that softens all of the hard masculine angles of his gorgeous face. I cover it with my fingertip. Chin dimples are my kryptonite. I’m not sure why I bothered with panties today since I’m pretty sure they’ve just incinerated.

  “Want me to check for you?”

  I look up from where my finger is still pressed against his chin dimple. “Huh?”

  Lincoln is full-on smiling. And it’s beautiful. His eyes light up with mirth. The right side of his mouth tips slightly higher than the left, making his grin lopsided. His front tooth is turned ever so slightly, a tiny endearing imperfection. He’s magnificent. “Your panties, Wren. I’m happy to check the state of them for you, if you’d like.”

  Dammit. I said that out loud.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT’S NOT ALL BAD

  LINCOLN

  My phone—which I’ve taken to leaving in the kitchen at night so my sleep isn’t disrupted by the constant emails and messages that come in at all hours—is currently buzzing away. I can hear it from down the hall, but I have zero desire to get my ass out of bed to find out who’s calling.

  I glance at clock on the nightstand. It’s 7:02 a.m., which means it’s probably Wren. As trying as it is having someone tell me how to dress, I will say that being around her is entertaining.

  While I haven’t seen her in person since the suit fitting, she’s been messaging me constantly over the weekend about upcoming events and things I need to be briefed on this week.

  She may not like my attitude, but based on her comment at the spa, she likes what she sees. She also told me I’m not allowed to grow a beard ever again. In fact, she threatened to set up a laser hair-removal appointment if I allow it to go past two days of growth.

  So, of course, that means I haven’t shaved all weekend.

  My phone goes off three more times before the alarm to the penthouse beeps. Several seconds later, it’s followed by the echo of heels clicking down the hall and a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Lincoln, are you awake?”

  “Yeah.” It comes out heavy and thick with sleep and gravel. And maybe a hint of excitement. Wren is quickly becoming the highlight of being in New York. She’s witty, snarky, and no BS. So far, she’s the only person here apart from G-mom who doesn’t pander to me. It makes me feel less shitty about my circumstances.

  “I’m opening the door,” she warns.

  I grin at her lack of request and kick off the sheets so the fabric only covers the space below my navel to just below where my balls would hang out. I’ve taken to sleeping naked now that the sheets don’t feel like sandpaper and there’s no risk of ending up with bug bites on my junk. As much as I dislike New York, it’s nice to sleep in a real bed for a while.

  Wren shoulders the door open. She’s carrying a stack of clothes so high, she can barely see over it, and I can barely see her.

  She crosses the room and dumps the pile on the edge of the bed. Her dress is navy and fitted, showing off her curves, despite the high neckline and the hem that falls below her knees. It’s classy, yet sexy without being provocative. Or maybe it’s provocative without being classless. I don’t know. Either way, both my eyes and all the important parts below my waist appreciate the dress. Which is unexpected since generally we’re annoyed with Wren. This new development is inconvenient.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but it clamps shut as her eyes lift and flare. She blinks a couple of times, and her tongue drags across her too-red bottom lip. I don’t know what the deal is with the red lipstick, but I wish she’d go with gloss or something. Too bad I can’t tell her what to do like she does with me.

  Her gaze moves over me in a slow sweep, catching on the strategically placed sheet before moving over my chest, all the way to my face. Her brows pull down and her eyes narrow. “You need to shave unless you want me to call my laser girl.”

  “Good morning to you too. Is this going to become a regular thing? You busting in my bedroom unannounced all the time?” I tuck my hand behind my head, causing the sheet to shift lower.

  She turns her attention to the pile of clothes on the bed. “I tried to call. Three times. You didn’t answer.”

  “Maybe I was busy.”

  Wren snorts. “Busy worshiping your abs. I brought you some new clothes. It’s not quite office attire, but it’ll get us through until the rest of your suits are ready for pick up, which should be in a few days.”

  “When did you have time to go shopping for this stuff?” I motion to the pile of boring tan and white with some striped crap thrown in.

  “Over the weekend.”

  I’m displeased that she’s working outside office hours for some stupid reason. “I can buy my own clothes.”

  “I’m sure you can. However, in the interest of presenting a positive image to the public, it’s part of my job to make sure you’re dressed the part. The quirky shirts need to stay in your weekend wardrobe. Actually, I highly recommend you wear them outside of office hours because some of them are quite witty and they show a fun side to your personality, but you cannot wear them to the office anymore. Or the ripped jeans.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” I salute her.

  She purses her lips, far from amused, which entertains me. “I’ll need you to try everything on to see if it fits.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now. We have a meeting this morning at nine thirty.”

  I sit up, throw my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, giving her a view of my bare ass.

  “Oh my God. You’re naked!” Wren covers her eyes with her hands. Except her fingers are parted, which means she’s checking me out.

  I cover my junk with my hand—what I can mask anyway—and turn to face her. “I sleep naked.”

  “I’ll just step outside. And wait.” She stumbles back a step. “For you to contain your business.”

  “Probably a good idea. I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but seeing as you let yourself in, that’s a given.”

  Her cheeks flush, and she rushes for the door, pulling it closed with a slam. Just to aggravate her, I make her wait several minutes before I come out of the bedroom wearing a pair of khaki pants and a black golf shirt. Talk about boring. I feel like I’m becoming a drone, and I’ve barely been here a week.

  I find Wren in the kitchen, trying to figure out the coffee press. Griffin has some high-tech coffee machine, but I discovered the single-cup press years ago, and it comes with me everywhere. I lean against the counter and watch while she struggles to assemble the parts. It’s not complicated, which is probably part of the issue. It looks like it should be more difficult than it is.

  “Need some help?”

  “Oh!” Wren fumbles the pieces, and they bounce across the counter and fall to the floor. “You surprised me!”

  “We’re almost even, then. You’ve showed up here unannounced twice, now.”

  “I tried to call. Both times. And the suit fitting was scheduled, if you’d bother to check your calendar every once in a while. How does this thing even work?” She turns to face me. “Hmm.” She taps her red lips with a fingertip.

  “Hmm, what?” I reach for the base and the filter. She’s missing the paper component, which is essential if she wants to avoid a cup full of grounds. I open the cupboard, grab a filter, slide it in place, and screw it to the base.

  Wren watches as I add grounds and boiling water before I press the coffee through. “Would you like a cup?”

  Her nose crinkles. “Is it any good?”

  “I think so.” I push the fresh cup toward her and tap the cupboard beside her head. “There’s sugar in here and cream or milk in the fridge if you need it.”

  I empty the grounds into the compost and repeat the process while she adds a sprinkle of sugar and two drops of cream to her coffee. It doesn’t even change the color in the remotest way. She brings the cup to her lips and blows before she tips it up and takes a tentative sip.

  “Oh, wow, this is really good.” She ta
kes another, more robust sip and makes a face. “And extremely hot.”

  “Yeah, careful you don’t burn your tongue off, there.” I add a full spoon of sugar and a healthy dose of cream. It’s an indulgence I haven’t had much of in the past couple of years. Cream isn’t something I often had access to, and I’m not a fan of powdered milk in my coffee so I switched to mostly black, but now that I’m in New York and I can buy cream at every corner store, I plan to capitalize on the luxury.

  “You never answered my question,” I prompt.

  “What question?” Wren regards me from over the lip of her cup.

  “You hmmed me and never explained what it means.”

  “Oh! Right. Yes.” She sets her coffee on the counter. I notice the complete lack of lipstick mark on the cup, which should be impossible considering the color and the white mug. “Let’s take a look.”

  “A look at what?”

  “How everything fits.” Her tone implies I’m ridiculous for even asking. She takes my coffee cup and sets it beside hers, then arranges my arms at my sides. “Roll your shoulders back for me, please.”

  I stand up straighter and flex. “I feel a lot like a prize cow right now.”

  She snickers. “Prize cow? That’s cute.” Wren adjusts my collar and runs her hands over my shoulders and down my biceps, slipping a thumb under the cuff of the sleeve. “Is this comfortable?” She smooths her hands over my pecs. I get that this is supposed to be a professional assessment, or whatever, but my body seems unaware.

  “Lincoln?” Wren blinks up at me, her wide gray eyes fixed on my chin again.

  “Huh?”

  She goes back to feeling up my pecs. “The shirt, is it comfortable? It’s tighter across the chest than I anticipated. We may want to go up a size. I’m worried about it shrinking in the wash since you don’t seem like the dry cleaning type.”

  “Uh, it’s okay, I guess.”

  “We’ll see how the others fit.” She moves around to stand behind me and makes another noise, fingertips skipping along my traps. “This is good. The pants are a nice fit. I think we should tuck the shirt in, though, and add a belt. It’ll look more professional.” She grabs me by the belt loop and starts jamming the fabric down the back of my pants. Which means she’s sort of touching my ass. I’m wearing briefs, but it’s still contact. She keeps tucking, moving to the right and then to the left before she comes around front.