Holy shit. I’ve been so wrapped up in hating my family and this job that I failed to recognize I have a serious hard-on over my handler. Quite literally.
Even though I know it’s a very bad idea, I tilt my head down, an infinitesimal shift that speaks louder than words ever could. Those lips of hers part, and she tips her chin up, eyes still locked on mine. We’ve been dancing around each other since she brought me up to the penthouse the night of the funeral. Half the time, my irritation and her snark seem a lot like flirting.
I’m not her boss, not really. She’s not my employee. There aren’t any restrictions here. Complications, yes. She’s contracted to deal with me for several more months. But this attraction is becoming difficult to ignore, especially when she’s this close to me and it seems mutual.
I’m almost past the internal argument when a knock on the door startles us. Wren sucks in an unsteady breath and takes two quick steps away from me. I mutter a curse and wrench the door open.
Standing in the hall, nervously wringing her hands, is Marjorie.
“I don’t need a coffee.” Dammit. I’m snappy, so I tack on, “But thanks for checking.”
She blinks a bunch of times, like a strobe light. “Um, okay. I’m actually looking for Wren. She’s not in her office. Have you seen her?”
“I’m right here.” Wren steps up beside me, looking a hell of a lot more composed than I feel. “What’s going on?”
Marjorie blows out a relieved breath. “We have an ADF emergency.”
Wren rolls her eyes. “Of course we do, and right before a meeting. How shocking.”
“What’s an ADF?” I ask.
Marjorie makes a cringy face.
“Armstrong Douche Fuckery emergency,” Wren explains. She turns back to Marjorie. “Is he having a meltdown?”
Marjorie nods vigorously. “It was a code yellow before I came to find you, but it’s been a few minutes.”
“That means it’s probably escalated to a code red by now. Where is he?”
“He was in his office.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” Wren slips out of my office and strides quickly down the hall in the direction of Armstrong’s, Marjorie rushing to keep up. I follow along because I’m interested to see what exactly a code red ADF emergency looks like and how she plans to handle it, since it’s her job and all. “Do you know what exactly it’s pertaining to?” Wren asks Marjorie.
“Something about being removed from a project. I’m not one hundred percent sure.”
“Has he broken anything yet?”
“Not that I—” A huge crash cuts Marjorie off.
Wren sighs. “Okay, thank you, Marjorie.” She turns to the guy positioned outside Armstrong’s office door. He looks halfway between a bodyguard and techie. “Hi, Carter, thank you for keeping him contained. Have you notified Lulu at the front desk?”
He nods somberly. “She knows to prevent clients from making their way down this end of the hall. I’ll call her when you give me the all clear.”
“Great, thank you.”
“Need any help in there?”
“I think we’ll be okay. Thank you, though.” Wren pushes open the door to Armstrong’s office. He’s currently in the middle of a temper tantrum. His desktop monitor is on the floor, the screen spiderwebbed.
I follow Wren inside and close the door. Armstrong has always been on the dramatic side. As a kid if he didn’t get his way, he’d fly off the handle and break things. It appears this hasn’t changed at all in the past twenty years. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s gotten worse. I wonder if the strain of trying to keep it together in public is making it even more challenging. And my presence probably isn’t helping.
Wren crosses her arms over her chest. “What seems to be the problem?”
Armstrong spins around and stalks toward her, but as soon as she puts a hand up, he freezes, almost like a dog obeying.
“You did this!” He points at Wren, and then me. “Both of you.”
Wren looks over her shoulder. “I can handle this.”
“I’m sure you can. I’m here as an observer.” I motion for her to go on.
Armstrong is livid, nostrils flared, face red, hands clenched into fists, hair a mess.
Wren inspects her fingernails. “You’ll need to elaborate, Armstrong. What exactly did I do?”
Armstrong paces the room while flailing. “The McKenzie account was mine, and you took it away. It isn’t enough that Lincoln gets to come in here and take all the glory, and now he’s stealing my biggest clients!”
“Well, Armstrong, we wouldn’t have to take those accounts away from you if you would stop sexually harassing the daughter of the client in question.”
“I did no—”
“Three weeks ago, you sent their youngest daughter, who incidentally happens to be eighteen, a dick pic.”
“That’s ludicrous,” Armstrong spits.
Wren’s voice softens, almost as if she’s chastising a child. “We both know that’s untrue.”
“She said she was twenty-one.”
Of course, this is my brother’s go-to defense.
Wren tips her head to the side, expression passive and unimpressed. “So, you felt it was reasonable to send inappropriate photographs to one of the models contracted to shoot a spread in one of Moorehead’s teen publications because she told you she was twenty-one?”
Armstrong throws his hands in the air. “Well, how was I supposed to know she was related to the McKenzies?”
“Possibly because her last name happens to be McKenzie?”
“I only got her first name, so that’s not my fault.”
It’s unreal the way my brother shifts the blame, no matter how heinous his actions are.
Wren’s tongue peeks out for a second before it disappears, and she clamps her mouth shut in annoyance. She takes a deep breath through her nose, and when she speaks again, her voice is scary low. “I am going to ask you to stop speaking because everything that’s coming out of your mouth is pissing me off. I have a meeting that your temper tantrum is making me late for. One that you’re no longer invited to attend.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can and I will. Your behavior this morning is not fitting of senior management at Moorehead Media, and it will not go unpunished. If you act like a spoiled child, you’ll be treated like one.”
Wren takes one small step forward, causing Armstrong to scramble behind his desk. It’s exactly the kind of move he would have pulled when we were kids. “But I—”
Wren raises a hand, and he stops talking. “I have several women who can attest to the fact that the picture you sent is unequivocally your penis.”
“Maybe someone else sent it. Ever think of that? Maybe someone stole my phone.”
Wren pinches the bridge of her nose. “That you were texting an eighteen-year-old girl is questionable to begin with. Armstrong, stop digging yourself into a deeper hole.”
“She baited me! She was flirting with me and asked for my number! She started texting me, not the other way around.”
That he’s thirty and sending inappropriate pics to barely legal women is just … vile. I really don’t understand how he’s managed to get away with this for so long, or how anyone has been able to tolerate his asinine behavior.
Wren raises her hand again, and Armstrong’s mouth clamps shut. “In order to avoid losing the contract entirely, you’ve been removed from the account. You’re very fortunate that I was able to keep you from being forced to take a mandatory leave of absence. However, if it happens again, you will be taking some time off. Am I understood?”
His frustration is clear, but he doesn’t snap like I expect him to. “Yes. Understood.”
“I’d like you to take the rest of the day off. You’re not in any state to manage yourself around other people, and no one should be subjected to you when you’re like this.” She turns to me. “Do you have anything you’d like to add?”
I’ve gone from wanting
to kiss her to wanting to strip her naked and screw her on the closest surface after that takedown, but considering sexual harassment is the reason she’s chewed out Armstrong, I figure it’s better to keep that to myself. “Uh, nope, I’m good.”
“Okay, well, we’re late for our meeting, so we should be on our way.” Wren slips past me and opens the office door.
Armstrong shoots her the double bird behind her back.
“Real mature there, brother.” I follow her into the hall, leaving him to stew. “How often do you have to do that?”
Wren shrugs. “Depends on the week.”
“You were incredible; you know that, right? Watching you level him verbally like that was sexy as hell.” I hold open the conference room door and brace for the potential headlock, except that’s not what happens.
Instead, surprise crosses her face and she smiles, her eyes meeting mine for the second time today. “Thank you.”
If I thought I liked her before, I’m crushing on her hard now.
CHAPTER 9
G-MOM OBSERVATIONS
LINCOLN
After the meeting in which I had to fight the entire team on cutting not one but two magazine publications that would result in the loss of twenty Moorehead staff members, I go for lunch with G-mom. I asked for time to come up with an alternative plan that would salvage those jobs. Not just for the sake of my conscience, but also to keep disgruntled employees from defecting to the competition.
My mother was invited to join us for lunch, but thankfully she had a prior engagement and couldn’t reschedule. I’m assuming she has some kind of “procedure.” Also, my mother and G-mom don’t often see eye-to-eye on anything, so I’m happy not to referee them for the next hour.
G-mom waits until we’ve placed our orders before she finally speaks candidly. “You managed that meeting well.”
“I don’t know about that. There still isn’t a solution, so don’t go patting me on the back yet. We might have to let those people go if I can’t figure out a decent alternative.”
“If it comes down to that, I can always do the letting go,” she offers.
I scrub a hand over my face. Armstrong would derive so much joy from telling all these people they no longer have a job. All I can think about is their families and the long road of applications and job interviews ahead. “I hope it doesn’t, but I don’t think it sends the right message if I can’t take that on myself. At least while I’m in this role.”
She gives me a piteous smile. “I’m so sorry, Lincoln. I know this is hard for you. They’ll all have a severance package and a letter of reference if you can’t find a creative way to handle that division.”
It makes me feel marginally better, but not great. “I don’t want to send them to the competition and drag our bottom line down even further. This company is in enough trouble as it is, thanks to Armstrong. I don’t understand why he’s been allowed to get away with this for so long. I get growing up in that house messed him up, but there’s something seriously wrong with him. What would prompt my father to spend all that money covering up his mistakes? This family is a mess. I mean, apart from us.” I motion between us. “Well, apart from you anyway.”
“You’re not a mess, Lincoln. You’re handling this with grace, especially under the circumstances.” She sighs. “I see now that I should’ve paid more attention to what Fredrick was dealing with, and how he was dealing with it where Armstrong was concerned, but I assumed he had it handled.”
“Apparently he handled it with a lot of money.”
G-mom straightens her silverware. “Sometimes I regret not trying harder to get Armstrong out of there like I did with you. Maybe he would’ve turned out differently.”
“Maybe working so closely with Dad was half the problem.”
“Your father wasn’t a bad man, Lincoln.”
I snort my disbelief. “I get that as his mother you’re obligated to wear rose-colored glasses when it comes to him, but he was a shit father and you know it. He was never there, never made an effort to get to know me, didn’t go to any of my sports competitions. He missed my high school graduation because of a damn meeting.”
“He put too much focus on work. And his flight was delayed on your graduation. He tried to be there.”
I give her a look. “Too little too late. And you and I both know it wasn’t all work. He wasn’t faithful to my mother, and maybe I can understand that, since she has the warmth of a corpse, but why not get a divorce, then? Why subject us all to their miserable relationship? Why not move on?”
“I really don’t understand his reasons for staying, and now that he’s gone, I doubt either of us ever will.” G-mom gives me a small, pained smile. “I think your father probably made mistakes along the way, and how he dealt with your mother and Armstrong may have been his penance. What I know about Fredrick is that he was an honest and fair businessman, except when it came to your brother. Maybe he was trying to make up for his mistakes with you, but he allowed Armstrong to run free until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
“Well, that plan backfired, didn’t it? He’s left behind a hell of a mess to clean up.”
“I’m only beginning to see that now that I’m so immersed in the company.” She taps on the edge of the table. “Maybe I should postpone my trip. I don’t want to leave you with this whole mess to deal with on your own.”
I wave that idea away. “Don’t do that. I can handle things here. Besides, I’m not alone. Wren will be here, and Armstrong is terrified of her.” My grandmother has taken a trip every year on the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. She and a few of her friends, who are also widowers, go on a month-long cruise. It’s cathartic, and she deserves it now more than ever.
The server drops off our lunches, and my grandmother daintily cuts into her salmon filet while I take a huge bite of my burger. I hate to admit it, but I’ve missed good food like this.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at the screen. “It’s Wren. I’m going to check the message in case it’s important.”
I don’t think I have a meeting until later this afternoon, at least not that I saw on my calendar. Although, I’m not the best at checking it. Normally I wait for Wren to message me about whatever I’m supposed to be doing next, which I realize is probably pretty assholey. She’s not my assistant; it shouldn’t be her job to tell me what my schedule for the day is.
Her message is brief and professional, informing me that my afternoon meetings have been rescheduled, so I’m not expected back at the office until tomorrow.
“Huh, that’s odd.”
“What is?” G-mom sits up straighter.
“Wren rescheduled all my afternoon meetings.”
“Oh. That was kind of her.” G-mom relaxes back into her chair.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m sure she realized this morning was difficult for you, so she took it upon herself to give you the time you need to think through what to do next, instead of bombarding you with things that could obviously wait.”
“Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.” I fire a thank-you back and flip my phone facedown. While G-mom might be right, that Wren cancelled my afternoon meetings as a courtesy, I worry the almost-kiss from this morning is going to mess up the dynamic between us. I like her, and I like that she doesn’t feed me BS. I don’t want to screw with that by making things awkward.
“You and Wren are spending a lot of time together lately.” Her tone is conversational, but I know better.
“She doesn’t really have a choice, does she? She’s paid to handle me.” Which is very much the truth, but it’s been feeling a lot less like a working relationship and more like something else lately. Or maybe that’s just my perception. Still, today it seemed like she wanted me to kiss her. Or maybe I’ve been off the dating circuit so long, I don’t know how to tell when a woman wants to be kissed versus when she’s irritated with me.
“Well, it doesn’t seem like she’s minding her job very much these da
ys. She’s a lot … happier working with you than she ever was with Armstrong.”
“That’s probably because I don’t throw temper tantrums.” Not big ones, anyway.
“Or maybe it’s because she likes you. When you’re not busy being pissed off, you’re actually quite pleasant to be around.”
“You’re family. You have to like me. It’s different,” I counter.
“I have to disagree with that. Your brother is an insufferable brat and your mother is trying on a good day. I tolerate them only because I have to. I spend time with you because you’re my favorite.” She winks and I grin, but I have to wonder how much I’m projecting and how much of the attraction between Wren and me is real, and what, if anything I should do about it.
CHAPTER 10
PLUS-ONE
WREN
My father pulls me for a hug. “How’s my baby girl?”
I accept the affection and don’t balk at the baby-girl comment. I’ll always be his baby, and I’m very okay with that. When I was twelve, not so much, but now I’m grateful for his warmth and the nickname. “I’m good. How are you?”
“I’m well.” He holds me at arm’s length. “You look … happier than the last time I saw you.” He lowers his voice. “Are things okay over at the Moorehead circus?”
I laugh. “As okay as they can be, I suppose.”
My father is well aware of some of Armstrong’s antics. While the Mooreheads have paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep their youngest son’s scandalous behavior from becoming public fodder—for the most part—not all of it has managed to stay under the radar.
“Where’s Mom?” My stomach twists at the possibility that she’s going to cancel.
My dad gives my hand a reassuring pat. “She’ll be joining us shortly.”
“Okay. That’s good.” Last week, she and I volunteered at the hospital together. It was emotional, but cathartic to have that experience. It’s only taken me more than a decade to realize that healing happens a lot faster when you stop placing blame and start putting in an effort to make a change.
Handle with Care Page 9
