Handle with Care

by Hunting, Helena

  “Hmm.” He glances out the window, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

  “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

  “What does ‘most of the time’ mean?” he fires back.

  “She’s human; no one is nice all of the time. You’re a case in point, aren’t you, with your accusations yesterday and your current surly mood? However, when you’re drunk out of your mind, you’re quite entertaining, if not mildly inappropriate.”

  He regards me for a few seconds, and his expression is somewhere between chagrined and defensive. “I don’t like the city. Or my immediate family, apart from my grandmother. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to make my grandmother’s life difficult, so I have to stay.”

  “You’ve made the not-wanting-to-be-here part rather clear.” I set my phone in my lap, abandoning the social media account setup for the time being. “What does ‘hmm’ mean?” I ask again.

  “It means hmm. I haven’t quite figured you out yet. Other than a hefty salary, I’m not sure why you’d put up with my brother for as long as you have. And my mother is a shrew, so it makes me wonder if yours is too.”

  I look away, unable to handle his intensity. I love my mother, but she’s made some poor choices in her life, ones that have had an impact on who I am and how I view honesty and trust. As for his mother, until recently, I haven’t had to deal with Gwendolyn much during my time at Moorehead. She’s cold, but then lots of women in business present that way. I certainly don’t come across as warm and fuzzy, and for good reason; show Armstrong an iota of warmth, and he sees it as a green light for sexual advances.

  “Having the Moorehead name on my resume will give me opportunities in the future. Your family donates to all the major charities, so I’m hoping after this I’ll be able to secure a PR position at one of them.” Then I’ll be able to do something meaningful.

  “So, you want to work for a charity organization?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those positions don’t come with the kind of salary my family is paying you,” Lincoln says.

  “It’s not about the money. My current salary will help me build a nest egg so I can eventually set up my own foundation. It’s about making a difference, not adding to my bank account, something I thought you might understand.”

  He nods and taps his lip. “My family doesn’t donate because they’re altruistic. They do it because it helps the bottom line and gives them a tax break.”

  As much as I don’t love Moorehead Media’s news slant, I at least thought they were genuinely invested in the charities they support. And maybe they are, maybe Lincoln’s wrong and he’s saying it to get a rise out of me.

  “How can you say that? Your mother’s on the board of almost every notable charitable committee there is in the city.”

  “She doesn’t do it because she cares; she does it because it gives her connections and makes my family look good.”

  “And what about you?”

  Lincoln drags his attention away from the window. “What about me?”

  I’ve done all the research the internet will allow on Lincoln. What’s out there makes him look like a golden boy. “You’ve spent the past year in Guatemala working with foundations that support sustainable communities, and before that you were in China. Is that to make your family look good?”

  Lincoln snorts derisively. “My whole family is a bunch of assholes. Except my cousin Griffin. And his brothers, they’re all good people.” He taps irritably on his leg.

  “Griffin Mills, of Mills Hotels?” That family is richer than God.

  “Yeah. I’m sure you’re familiar with the name, given what happened between my brother and him.”

  I’m definitely familiar with Griffin since it was his ex-fiancée—who wasn’t an ex at the time—that ended up pregnant with Armstrong’s baby. It was the reason Fredrick hired me, actually, but I don’t bother to tell Lincoln that. “You’re close with Griffin?” That’s what Fredrick intimated last year, anyway, and the few pictures of them together in China seemed to confirm that.

  “Yeah. He’s more like a brother than a cousin. We’ve worked on a few projects together over the years, but he’s heavy into the family business, so it’s harder for him to find the time.”

  I probe a little more, trying to understand who this man is and what makes him tick, because it’s certainly not a suit fitting or the city. “Did you all grow up in New York together?”

  Lincoln nods. “Yeah. We’re the same age, so we spent a lot of time together when we were young. If you haven’t noticed, Gwendolyn isn’t exactly maternal, so Armstrong and I were dealt with by nannies, and the other half of the time we were at our cousins’ house. At least until I was ten, and they shipped me off to boarding school.”

  “Why boarding school?”

  “To get me out of Gwendolyn’s hair? Who knows? My parents were fighting a lot at the time over my father’s inability to honor his marriage vows. Anyway, they put me in some program for the academic elite, or whatever. The tuition was probably absurd. It was better for me in the long run, since it got me out of that house and away from my family. Apart from holidays, I never really went back, until now, anyway.”

  I want to ask more questions, but his phone rings. He feels around in his pocket for it, frowning as he checks the screen and answers the call. “Lincoln here.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds. “Yeah, thanks, Carlos, it’s a shocker all right. I appreciate that, we weren’t particularly close, though, no … no.” He pauses again tapping on the armrest as he listens. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It looks like I’m going to have to spend some time in New York cleaning things up with the family business. Not ideal considering where we are in the project, but I’m hoping you can manage without me for a while.”

  He’s quiet for a bit. “I’d like to say it’s only going to take a few weeks, but my grandmother pulled a guilt trip on me, so it’s probably going to be longer than that. We can talk about bringing in someone to oversee the project if you think it’s going to be too much for you to deal with on your own.”

  The car pulls up in front of Saks. “Can I call you back later? You gonna be around in a few hours?” He tugs at his beard and chuckles. “Nah, they have me hooked up with some kind of baby—handler whose job is to clean me up. Apparently my T-shirts aren’t considered appropriate attire, so instead of doing something valuable with my time, I get to try on suits. Seems like a waste of resources and money that could be used to bring fresh water to the disadvantaged, but I guess I’m the one with skewed priorities here.” He glances my way. “He’s actually a she.”

  I swallow back my irritation at the way he’s talking about me while looking directly at me. Not to mention the way he demeans my job.

  “I can’t comment on that. She’s sitting right beside me. Yeah, I’ll call you when they’re done messing with me.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. “Let’s get this torture over with.” He throws open the door, and several people nearly slam into it and him as he steps out onto the busy sidewalk.

  Lincoln shoves his hands in his pockets, his mood souring further as we approach the store. “They don’t open until ten.” He nods to the hours posted on the door.

  “It’s a private fitting. They scheduled you outside regular hours.”

  That scowl of his grows scowlier. “I hope these poor bastards are getting paid overtime for this.”

  A saleswoman with the body of a model and the face of an angel opens the door for us. If I were with Armstrong, I’d have to threaten castration to prevent him from hitting on her within the first three seconds. Lincoln, on the other hand, barely grunts out a greeting and doesn’t so much as give her a once-over.

  We follow her into the fitting area where a selection of suits are hung beside matching, headless mannequins. A team of people await our arrival. An entire breakfast spread is laid out, and the second we enter the room, the team flock over, offering refreshments and coffee.

/>   Lincoln looks to me, his expression almost panicked.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “Or eat?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I can get it myself, thanks.” He grabs a croissant and shoves it into his mouth—the entire thing, all at once—and motions to the bottles of water. “Can I get tap water instead of this?” His mouth is still full and he’s chewing, so none of the sales team understand his garbled speech.

  “He’d like tap water,” I explain to the confused saleswoman. It looks like we’ll need a refresher on table etiquette before the next public dinner function.

  She blinks a few times, the request clearly throwing her. “Oh, of course. I’ll be right back.”

  The angel model smiles widely and claps her hands together. “Mr. Moorehead, we’re honored to have you here today. Let me introduce you to our team. I’m Bianca, and I’ll be attending to all of your needs today. Anything you want, you ask and I’ll provide it.” Of course she punctuates this with a wink. Way to keep the innuendos subtle, Bianca.

  “You all right? You got something in your eye?” Lincoln motions to her face and then slips his hand in his pocket, possibly feigning innocence, or maybe that went completely over his head.

  Bianca’s cheeks flush, but she recovers quickly. “Probably an eyelash.”

  I cough to cover a snicker, and Bianca moves on down the line, introducing the rest of the team. “This is Bradley, your tailor, he’ll be taking your measurements and fitting your suits. They’ll be custom-made to your exact specifications.”

  “Once we’re done here, we’ll head over to the spa where you’ll meet with the barber and the aesthetician.”

  Lincoln throws me a narrow-eyed glare. “What do I need an aesthetician for?”

  “Just for a little polishing, nails and such,” I say breezily.

  “My nails?” He looks down at his jagged nails and callused palms. “Who cares about my nails?”

  “You’d be surprised.” I put on a bright smile and add, “Personal grooming says a lot about a person in the eyes of the media, Lincoln.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corner as they dip down and pause at my crotch. His cheek tics, which I take to mean he’s smiling. Or maybe smirking is more like it. “Mmm.” His gaze is slow to return to mine. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  This time my cheeks flush, aware he’s referencing my own personal grooming habits and the up-close-and-personal view he got yesterday in my office. Stupid fan-inspired wind vortex.

  Bianca claps her hands again; it must be her thing. “Shall we get started with the suit fitting? Which styles are you most fond of?”

  The crinkles disappear from the corner of Lincoln’s eyes, and he lazily flicks a hand in my direction, back to being grumpy. “Might as well ask Wren. She’s the one who has to approve everything, anyway.”

  I decide the best option is to have him try on every style, so I can determine which complement his build best. He seems annoyed by the level of attention, and the way people manhandle him—the opposite of his brother.

  He pulls at the collar of a dress shirt while Bradley adjusts the lapels of his jacket. “This is too tight. I feel like I’m being choked to death.”

  I can’t decide if he’s being overdramatic, or if he’s tired of being prodded. I get it. He’s been living in jeans and T-shirts for a long time, a suit, even if it’s made of silk, is going to take some getting used to.

  “Can you stop poking at me for a minute?” he snaps at Bradley.

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir. Can I get you something to drink? A mimosa or a Bloody Mary perhaps?”

  “You might wanna just bring me a bottle of vodka,” he grumbles.

  “He’s fine, just give us a moment,” I tell Bradley, then give my attention to Lincoln. “Let me see if I can help.”

  “How are you gonna make this better?” He rolls his shoulders and tugs at the lapels again.

  I ignore his theatrics and adjust the collar, so it’s not all bunched up. Then I attempt to slip two fingers between the collar and his skin. He stills, and his warm breath caresses my cheek.

  It’s not the shirt that’s the problem. When I drag my fingers across his neck, goose bumps rise along his throat.

  “It’s your tie.” I loosen and adjust it, smoothing it out with my palm. “How’s that? Better now?”

  Lincoln swallows a couple of times, eyes bouncing around my face. “Yeah. Better.”

  “Excellent.” My voice is pitchy, which is ridiculous, as there’s nothing going on here that should make it sound like I’m huffing helium. I drop my hands and step back, giving Bradley space to work again.

  While Lincoln complains about being tortured, I ignore him and continue to set up his social media accounts. It’s another hour before the suit fitting is finally done. Thankfully one of the suits needed only the most minor of alterations, so we’re able to take it with us. The rest I’ll pick up sometime next week.

  He seems to relax somewhat when he’s back in his jeans and his juvenile, ill-fitting shirt. We leave Saks, and for about five minutes, he’s not grumpy, at least until we enter the spa, at which point his mood sours once again. We’re introduced to our team, which consists of Ulrich and Belinda, who will deal with his hair and his hands.

  Ulrich guides him to one of the chairs, and Lincoln pulls the tie from his hair. His sloppy bun uncoils, long hair cascading over his shoulder, falling halfway down his back.

  I step up beside Ulrich and give in to the urge to finger comb it. I’ve never been a fan of long hair on men, or ponytails, or man buns, but even I can appreciate how incredible Lincoln’s hair is. It’s thick and dark and shiny and fairly healthy apart from the split ends.

  I comb it with my fingers again as if I’m trying to get rid of knots. “Women would kill to have hair like this.”

  “It’s so soft,” Ulrich replies.

  “And luxurious,” I add.

  “Such a shame to cut it,” Ulrich sighs.

  “Maybe we could leave some length?” I suggest. It’s almost a travesty to get rid of it.

  “What if I donate it? You know, for wigs for cancer patients?” Lincoln suggests.

  “The length is certainly there. We’ll have a good twelve inches if we cut it off at the nape.”

  I rest a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder and finger a lock of silky, shiny hair. “That would be incredible.”

  He shrugs. “It’s just hair. It’s not like it won’t grow back.”

  “Bald men all over the world must loathe you,” Ulrich murmurs. He’s still running his fingers through Lincoln’s hair, almost like he’s petting him. He moves around to stand in front of him, and I follow. “And what about the beard? Are we shaping? Trimming? Getting rid of it?”

  “Too bad we can’t donate it as well.” Against my better judgment, I run my fingers through it too, which seems to shock Lincoln.

  He recovers quickly, though. “Who says we can’t? We could make merkins out of it.”

  I drop my hands and bark out an incredulous laugh. Ulrich doesn’t seem to get the joke.

  I’m almost positive Lincoln’s smirking. “We could have one made for you, in case you wanted to change things up every once in a while.” He glances briefly at my crotch. If he were Armstrong, he’d get a warning, but Lincoln’s comment isn’t accompanied by any kind of smarminess, and it’s actually kind of funny, even if it’s also embarrassing.

  “You’re unbelievable.” I give him a cautioning glare.

  “I thought it was a good idea.”

  “Right, well, whatever you want to do with the beard is up to you. Let’s clean this up and make it camera-ready.” I motion to his face in general and grab my purse. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Lincoln’s thick, warm fingers wrap around my wrist, but he releases me just as quickly, possibly because he hasn’t seen the contract I signed and doesn’t know whether or not his includes the same self-defense clause as Armstrong. “Wait! Where are you going?” />
  “I have a quick meeting. I won’t be long.”

  “With who? I thought your job was to babysit me today.”

  “I’m not a babysitter, Lincoln.” I pat his cheek; it’s condescending, as it’s meant to be. “And while my job might often feel very much like babysitting, I do have other things to take care of. Don’t worry; you’re in good hands. Oh, and be nice. I’ve authorized back waxing should you prove to be unpleasant with the staff, so be on your best behavior.”

  I leave him with Ulrich and head down the street to the café to meet up with my friend Dani. Beyond being my bestie, she’s also a PI, and I’ve asked her to look into Lincoln and see if she can dig any skeletons out of his closet. Everyone has them, and I want to find out if Lincoln’s are ones we need to worry about.

  “I ordered your usual,” she says as I slip into the booth beside her.

  Her short, blond bob is tucked up in her customary baseball cap. While I wear dresses most of the time, Dani lives in black jeans, sports jerseys, and combat boots or Chucks. Her face is pixie sweet, and her tongue is sharp.

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I wave off her worry. “Just a busy morning.” Because of the nature of my contract with Moorehead Media, we don’t discuss my job, and since she’s a PI, we can’t really discuss much about hers either.

  “So you’d be jealous if I told you I rolled out of bed half an hour ago?”

  “I might be, except I’m pretty sure you went to bed around the time I got out of mine.”

  “If you got up at six in the morning, you’d be correct in that assumption.” She rubs her hands together. “So, I did some preliminary recon while I was waiting. You want to get right down to the dirty?”

  “Might as well.”

  She turns her laptop, so I can see what she’s pulled up so far. “So, I have the usual, school, family, yadda, yadda. While there’s lots of drama there, it seems to revolve mostly around his brother. Anyway, he got into some trouble at Harvard, but other than that, I haven’t found anything else.”

  I perk up at that. “What’d he get in trouble for at Harvard?”