Handle with Care
Page 3
I wave her off. “It’s fine. The longer this takes, the less time I’ll have to spend in my brother’s presence, which means I might be able to refrain from punching him out. Again.”
She seems like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I’m not.
Eventually she stands and comes out from behind the safety of her desk. “I’ll show you to the conference room, then.”
“If you must.” I study the art on the wall behind her desk. It’s a picture of a tree without any leaves. Kind of depressing, like this office. She walks briskly down the hall, and I fall into step beside her, rather than follow along behind. We pass glass-walled offices with pristine desks on our way to the conference room. I wonder if working here feels a lot like an upscale version of prison.
I spot my brother’s blond hair and tailored suit. He’s pacing while a woman stands with her arms crossed over her chest about ten feet away from him, gesturing stiffly.
The clip of Lulu’s heels on the hardwood draws their attention. My brother spins around, throwing his hands in the air and shouts, “It’s about time! Where the hell have you been?”
“Sleeping off a hangover and avoiding you.”
“Must be nice to have no responsibilities and no one to answer to. There’s a room full of people waiting in there for your sorry ass to show up.” Armstrong flails dramatically and wrinkles his nose. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes. Need me to go home and change into something that costs more than most people’s monthly rent so I can fit in better?”
I glance at the woman beside him. Her left cheek tics the tiniest bit, but otherwise her expression remains placid.
Armstrong ignores the comment and runs a hand down his tie, his attention shifting to Lulu. His eyes rake over her. “Lulu, you lo—”
The woman behind him clears her throat, and Armstrong jumps, almost as if he’s been tasered.
I give Lulu what I hope is a polite, non-leery smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Lulu.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Moorehead.” She nods at me and then at Armstrong, repeating herself. “Mr. Moorehead.” She does an about-face and strides down the hall like her shoes are on fire.
Armstrong watches her as if she’s a steak he’d like to stab with a fork. Or his needle dick.
“You’re a creepy bastard, you know that, right?” I tell him.
He frowns. I’m fairly certain he’s been getting Botox injections based on the lack of movement in his forehead. Must be one of his mother-son bonding experiences. “You look like you’re homeless.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” Making fun of him won’t even be enjoyable if this is the best he can do.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the woman still hovering behind him. “Is it possible to put the sibling squabble on hold until after the meeting is over? We’ve already waited more than an hour and a half for your arrival, Mr. Moorehead.”
I finally give her my attention because it’s clearly me she’s addressing. Her voice is familiar for some reason—soft and smoky, but firm and authoritative. My lippy response gets stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth as I finally take her in.
Her skin is creamy and pale for mid-July in New York, possibly because she spends every waking moment trapped in this human fishbowl. Her eyes are a striking shade of gray, ringed with navy, contrasting beautifully with her chestnut hair, which seems a little dark for her complexion. Her gray dress should be boring, but the way it complements her eyes and hugs every luscious curve takes it from simple to exquisite. Her heels are a vibrant blue and pointy enough that she could take out an eye with one if she were so inclined, and judging from the look on her face, she might be very inclined right about now.
“You must be—”
I’m cut off mid-sentence by my grandmother, which is probably a good thing considering I was about to say something regrettable. “Lincoln! Where in the name of all that is holy have you been? And what are you wearing?”
“I was sleeping off the scotch. And these are called blue jeans and this is called a T-shirt, G-mom.” I motion to my attire.
Penelope Moorehead narrows her eyes, grabs me by the ear, and drags me across the hall into an empty office, slamming the door behind me.
As soon as she lets go, I rub my ear. “You know that’s considered workplace harassment.”
She crosses her arms. “Do not sass me, Lincoln Alexander Moorehead. And do not call me G-mom in front of the goddamn staff. How am I going to keep my battle-axe reputation with you shouting nicknames that make me sound like a second-rate rap star?”
“Remember when you cross-stitched me a hoodie for my tenth birthday?” I bite back a grin, because getting G-mom riled up has always one of my favorite pastimes, and that hasn’t changed at all, even if a lot of other things have.
“This is not the time for jokes, Lincoln. And this is definitely not the time to show everyone how uninvested you are in this company. Your father passed away, show some decorum. Despite your tumultuous relationship with your parents, you need to put aside your grudges today and act like the Harvard MBA graduate that you are. Not some know-it-all who makes everyone around them feel like crap because you think what you do is better than what everyone else does.”
And just like that, my g-mom takes me down a peg or five. She lost her son. I need to remember that just because I didn’t have a relationship with him or my mother, it doesn’t mean it was the same for everyone else. G-mom has always been more of a parent to me than either of the people who brought me into this world. And because of that, she’s one of the few people in my family that I genuinely love and respect. So I dial back the douche.
I drop my head, the ache behind my temples flaring again, and rub the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you.”
“No one ever expects their children to go before them.” She sighs and paces the room, then comes to a stop in front of me, her spine straight, shoulders rolled back, expression stoic.
She’s barely five feet tall, but she’s a force of nature. She was the brain behind this entire network. My grandfather might’ve had the name, but the woman in front of me has always pulled everyone’s puppet strings. And I love her for it.
“Look, Linc, I know this is the last place you want be. I get it. I understand that you love helping people and that being a project manager for building homes and helping communities in developing countries, while not the best for your financial well-being, is certainly noble. I’m also aware it’s a big f-you to your parents and all the money they shelled out for your education, and I applaud your moral standing.” She taps her lips and shakes her head. “I can only imagine how being here makes you feel. I realize your relationship with your father was strained, but he was not a bad man. I don’t know what kind of karmic bomb your parents managed to set off when they created your brother.” She paces around the room, coming to stop in front of me. “But Armstrong cannot handle this company on his own. He will sink it inside of six months.”
She has a point. Armstrong has never been good at following directions, although neither have I. The difference is, Armstrong is a narcissistic egomaniac who abuses any shred of power he has. I just don’t like bending over for the man. “So what does that mean?”
“I need your help.”
This time when my stomach flips, it’s not because of the nausea. “Help how? What’s the plan if you’re not putting Armstrong in charge?”
“I need you to stay in New York for a while and help manage things.” It’s less request and more order.
“I don’t know anything about this company.”
She leans on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping restlessly. “You have a Master’s in Business Administration from the best school in the country. You understand economics and the bottom line. The rest you can be taught.”
“I don’t want to be here. I can’t stay here. I’ll go nuts.” Panic hits. It feels like the walls are closing in.
I run a hand through my hair, and then remember it’s in a bun. “This isn’t making my hangover any better, G-mom.”
She rubs her own temples. “It’s not making mine any better either. I need your help, Lincoln. We can’t have your misogynistic, self-absorbed, sycophant of a brother running this company without someone to keep him from going off the rails. He can’t have that much power.” She crosses the room, pulls out a bottle of scotch and pours two glasses. “Give me six months.”
She passes me the glass. It’ll either ease the shakes or make me puke. I feel both light-headed and nauseous. Likely because my grandmother, who I love dearly and cannot say no to, is asking me to do the one thing I desperately don’t want to. Also, she just lost her son, and I’d be a seriously horrible grandson if I said no.
“Three months.”
“That’s not enough time.”
“New York makes me miserable, and I’m in the middle of a project in Guatemala. I can’t abandon my team.”
“You have an amazing staff who can handle it for a few months without you. Send your cousin Griffin to stand in for you for a few weeks if you need to. I know he loves these kinds of projects like you do.”
“I don’t know if he’s available.” Although I can pretty much guarantee he’d jump at the chance if he’s able. He and I worked on a project together last year in a small village in China.
“I lost my only child, Linc. I know Fredrick made some poor decisions, but he also made you. Give this old lady something to keep going for. Don’t let this company and our family’s legacy go down in the hands of your brother.”
I close my eyes because I can’t see that look on her face. It’s her sweet grandma look. It’s such crap, she’s pulling on my heartstrings on purpose. I crack a lid. “You’re hitting below the belt.”
“I know.” She nods, then raises a brow. “Is it working?”
I sigh. Resigned. I can rearrange the Guatemala schedule and get someone to help with project management. It’s not ideal, but it’s possible. “Fine. But six months and that is it. I’m on a plane out of here as soon as the time comes.”
“Deal.” She clinks her glass against mine, and we both swallow the scotch in one gulp.
I don’t vomit right away, so that’s a plus.
She takes both glasses and sets them in the sink. “Are you ready to deal with Armstrong now?”
“Is anyone ever?”
She pats me on the cheek. “It’s as if you were gifted with every single good trait your parents have combined, and all the leftover crap went to your brother. Even with this Fabio business you have going on with your hair, and this hippie attire, you still manage to be handsome. It’s good he didn’t have to grow up in your shadow.” She opens the door. “Get ready for the temper tantrum of the century.”
CHAPTER 3
G-MOM ATTACK
LINCOLN
I haven’t been paying attention to the meeting. Mostly it’s my father’s lawyer blathering on about division of assets and company BS while my mother, grandmother, and brother ask questions I don’t care about. Instead of listening, I’ve been staring at the woman across the table—the only non-family member apart from my father’s lawyer—seated next to my mouthbreather brother, trying to figure out what her deal is.
I was drunk out of my mind last night, but I still remember her. Vaguely. At least I’m pretty sure I do. I just can’t piece together how she fits into my night. Or what exactly her role is here. As I openly stare—I don’t even look away when she lifts those mesmerizing gray eyes and catches me—fragments of last night filter through my brain in a disjointed, foggy mess.
I recall the woman passing me a pale pink drink, and later she was in the elevator with me? Did she drug me? Was I so drunk I can’t remember? My hangover is pretty damn bad this morning, so it’s possible. I have a hazy recollection of her bringing me a glass of water and some painkillers, which means she was in the penthouse with me.
I don’t think there’s any way I could’ve had sex with her. But I remember a boob and being pressed against a soft body, or maybe that was a dream. I’m unsure.
What I am sure of is that this woman, whom I don’t know, may be familiar with my brother in ways I find offensive. He’s extra jumpy around her, which could mean a variety of things; she could be fondling his balls under the table—which is unlikely since I can see both of her hands, although feet are a thing. Conversely, maybe he’s had sex with her and she regrets it, as most women would tend to, or it’s possible he’s made a pass at her and she’s rejected him, aggressively.
All options irritate me for very different reasons.
I’m startled out of my thoughts when my brother jumps up and shouts a bunch of profane nonsense, hands flailing like he’s trying to swim on land, or approximate the chicken dance while on an LSD trip. He knocks over a cup of coffee, which spills into my fixation’s lap.
“You can’t do this! It’s absolutely ludicrous!” Armstrong yells, apparently unconcerned that he’s potentially burned his most recent sexual harassment case.
I look around the table, trying to piece together what I missed.
“I’m sorry, Armstrong. I know this is a shock, but we feel it’s in the company’s best interest to put Lincoln at the helm during this transitional stage,” G-mom says firmly.
At the helm? I look to G-mom, who’s busy not looking at me.
Armstrong jabs at finger at himself. “But I’m the one who’s put in all the time here! I deserve to run the company! Lincoln doesn’t know the first thing about Moorehead. All he knows how to do is dig wells and forage for food in the wilderness. How are those valuable assets here?” He turns his attention to our mother. “Did you know about this? How can you let this happen? Look at him. How can that be the face of our company? He looks like he crawled out of a gutter and mugged a twenty-year-old college kid while on a bender. How is this better for our bottom line?”
My mother clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, Armstrong, but this decision wasn’t mine to make. I know this is hard for you, but your grandmother and fath—”
Armstrong stomps his foot, exactly as a toddler would. “The company is mine! Lincoln can’t have it!”
I raise a hand, half to quiet my brother and also to find out what the freaking deal is. “Whoa, let’s back this bus up. Can someone explain what’s going on?”
“You’ve been appointed as the CEO of Moorehead Media, according to the will,” Christophe—no R, because that would make it far too pedestrian a name—my father’s lawyer says.
I’m working on trying to remain calm as I address my grandmother. “You didn’t say anything about me being CEO. You said you needed my help.”
“Running the company, yes,” she says through a practiced, stiff smile.
It’s her warning face, but seriously, when she said she needed my help for a few months, I figured it meant I’d be keeping Armstrong in line while she sorted out who was going to take over the company, which I realize now was a stupid assumption.
“I didn’t think that meant CEO. How am I going to run a company with this useless twit on staff?” I motion to my brother.
“The name-calling is unnecessary,” G-mom replies.
“Lincoln’s not even part of this family! He hasn’t attended one event in the past five years except for Dad’s funeral. He couldn’t be bothered to come to my wedding, and now he’s going to run the company? How is that fair?”
I snort. “Your wedding was an expensive joke.”
He crosses his arms. “I was set up. Amalie had cold feet and made me out to look like the bad guy.”
The woma
n beside him shoots him a disgusted look.
Armstrong clears his throat and tugs at his collar. “My wedding is not the real issue. The point is that you’ve never involved yourself in any part of this family, and now you think you can come in and take over. I will not stand by and let this happen!” He keeps jabbing his finger at me, as if he’s engaged in a finger sword fight.
I lean back in my chair and lace my hands behind my neck. Armstrong has always been reactive. And egotistical. For a while it seemed like he finally had it together—back when he was engaged. But ever since that fiasco of a wedding, he seems to have come completely unglued. Again. But worse this time. “Someone needs a time-out.”
“Screw you, you … you … homeless-looking bastard.”
“You need some new material because that’s getting real old.” I sit forward and rest my elbows on the table. “Look, Armstrong, I get that you’re not happy about this, and if you can’t tell, neither am I. But let’s be real, the only thing you’ve done for this company is drag its reputation down the drain. How many millions of dollars have gone into paying off the women unfortunate enough to have been subjected to you? Are there reports on that, or have we paid someone to get rid of those as well?”
Armstrong waves his hand around dismissively. “There’s no proof any of that is true. It’s all hearsay.”
“Really? So it was hearsay when everyone heard you getting blown by someone who wasn’t your bride at your wedding? And was it also hearsay that you slept with our cousin’s fiancée and got her pregnant?” I’m grateful Griffin gave me the CliffsNotes play-by-play on my brother’s antics over the past year, since it provides ammunition for this fight.
Armstrong sneers. “It’s not my fault; she came onto me.”
I’ve had it with his mouth. I push out of my chair and stalk around the table.
“Boys! That’s enough!” G-mom slaps a palm on a table. “Lincoln! Sit down right now!”
“Don’t worry, G-mom, I’m not going to break anything important.”