For a second, I think she’s going to go ahead and shove her hand down the front of my pants. Just before that happens, though, she seems to realize she’s been manhandling me, or treating me like a toddler who doesn’t know how to dress himself.
Her cheeks flush, and she steps back. “You can get that part.”
“You sure? You’re doing such a good job. I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”
“I won’t be here every morning to help you out. This is good practice.” She grabs her coffee from the counter and takes a sip, possibly to hide her embarrassment. Or a smile. I’m not sure which is more likely.
I stuff the shirt down the front of my pants and do some rearranging to hide my body’s unexpected reaction. All the while, Wren’s gaze stays locked on my chin.
“How’s this?” I hold my arms out.
She taps her lip, eyes moving over me in an assessing sweep. “You need a belt. And shoes. Come.” She motions for me to follow her down the hall.
I spend the next half hour striping down to my briefs—I don’t bother going to the bathroom since I get a kick out of how she pretends to look away, but really she’s watching me from the mirror.
Not everything she picked out is beige and white or black. There are a few shirts with color that she felt would go well with my skin tone, and a selection of button-downs. I have to admit, she has good taste in clothes, and nothing is outrageously expensive. In fact, a few of the shirts have sale tags on them; something I appreciate. I wonder if she did that intentionally since I know my mother and Armstrong would never buy anything on sale.
Before we leave for the office, Wren sends me into the bathroom to shave. I come out with only the hint of a stash. I think it’s pretty damn funny, but apparently she doesn’t. She forces me back in, makes me sit on the closed lid of the toilet, and finishes the job for me.
It’s hot and maybe a little scary to have an irritated woman wielding a razor close to my mouth. But she manages to do it without nicking me.
And as much I don’t want to admit it, I kind of appreciate that she’s pushy and doesn’t bow to me. So far, all anyone’s done at the office is kiss my ass, but not Wren. She happily dishes out the snark. I may not like my new job, or this city, or my family, but at least my handler is keeping me entertained.
CHAPTER 8
ADF EMERGENCY
LINCOLN
Two weeks post-funeral, I’m beginning to settle into my new role. I’m not necessarily getting used to it or comfortable, but I’m starting to figure things out. I’ve done two very brief, very public news conferences. It wasn’t what I would consider fun, but I made it through without messing up. Wren seemed pleased with my ability to speak in public without saying something inappropriate, which is definitely a plus since it means she’s less up my ass about every single damn thing.
The learning curve is steep, though, and the volume of files I have to review is astronomical. Moorehead is a massive company that covers every conceivable type of media. The numbers I’ve been over so far tell me we’ve been paying out a lot of money for things that don’t appear to be remotely business-related. It’s not a surprise, but it means I have to figure out where all the money went and explain what appears to be hundreds of thousands in non-business related expenses to the board.
I’m reviewing files for one of our magazines prior to a meeting this afternoon to discuss moving from print to digital only—print sales are down by 50 percent, incidentally; the decrease in sales seems to correspond with the timeframe in which my brother screwed over his ex-wife at their wedding. Since the competition smartly scooped her up, the content has suffered and the sales have disintegrated while the competitors have quadrupled their online readership and doubled their print sales. Doesn’t seem like much of a coincidence. Obviously his ex’s replacement isn’t nearly as good at the job as she was. That and all the great content has shifted to our competition, where she now works.
I blow out a frustrated breath, resentful of the sunshine streaming through my office window. What I wouldn’t give for a little fresh air right about now. I loathe that I’m stuck twenty-seven floors in the air and that I can see the park from my window, taunting me. I’m also frustrated at the sheer amount of money that’s been spent protecting my brother’s disturbingly entitled, misogynistic ass.
I throw down my pen at the knock on my office door. I swear to God, if my assistant asks me one more time if I need another coffee, I’m going ban her from speaking to me directly. Or I can have Wren do it.
“What?” I snap.
Wren pops her head in my office. Speak of the devil. Or the angel. I’m on the fence. “Really?”
I lean back in my extremely comfortable chair, which cost five thousand dollars—I know because I looked it up in the expense budget—and fight a smile, ready for the tongue-lashing I’m about to get. Somewhere along the way, it’s turned into my favorite part of the day. “Really what?”
She closes the door and props her fist on her hip. “We’ve talked about this, Lincoln. You had no idea it was me behind that door. What if it had been a client?”
“All my client meetings are scheduled in my calendar, and they all have four million alerts set by you. I knew it wasn’t a client.”
She purses her red lips. That lipstick drives me up the wall. It’s always on. Always perfect. Always a distraction. And today, her dress is covered in huge flowers. A rainbow of colors. She’s like the sunshine cutting a bright line across my desk, melting the chocolate bar sitting on the corner. I should move that.
“Lincoln?”
Dammit. She was talking and I missed it. Probably chewing me out about something. “Huh?”
Her nostrils flare, and those impeccably shaped brows draw together. “Did you hear a thing I said, or did you tune me out like you do everyone else?”
“I don’t tune everyone out.” That’s not entirely true. I tune a lot of people out. I’m not used to having to pretend I care about someone’s five-million-dollar campaign for lace underwear that costs more for a single pair than my monthly grocery budget, and how we can help them advertise. There are more important things in this world than panties. I think even Wren would agree with me on that.
“What the hell are you smiling about?”
I rub my chin because that’s where her is gaze is currently fixed, as usual. Half the time I think I have food on my face. “Nothing. I was thinking about something.”
“This isn’t a joke, Lincoln. You can’t use that tone with staff.”
I motion toward the closed door. “Do you know how many times a day Marjorie stops by my office to see if I need coffee?”
“She’s trying to be helpful. It’s her job.”
“I don’t think twelve coffees a day is helpful to anyone. I’m worried one of these times she’s going to roofie me, and I’ll end up hog-tied in a closet.”
“Is that a fantasy of yours?”
I give her some of her own sass back. “This isn’t a joke, Wren. I can’t have my staff trying to kidnap me and keep me in their basement as a pet or a trophy.”
“That’s a little high on the drama, there, Lincoln. Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with your brother.”
I push out of my chair and plant my fists on my desk. “You did not compare me to that asshole.”
“We can get a drama-queen crown. You two can take turns wearing it.” She bites her bottom lip, her smile making her eyes twinkle with mischief.
“I’m not being dramatic. I need Marjorie to cut down on the office visits, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I already have a shadow. I don’t need another one.”
Wren’s smile drops, and her expression goes blank. At first I can’t make sense of the sudden shift.
“I see. I’ll speak with Marjorie. I only stopped by to remind you that we have a meeting shortly. I’ll see you in the boardroom.” She spins on her heel, the skirt of her dress flaring, and stalks toward the door.
It’s then I realize
how she’s taken that comment. I’m around my desk and blocking the exit. I’m fast when I want to be.
She stumbles back a step, and I see, for the first time, a hint of vulnerability. She lifts her chin and twists her head away, eyeing me from the side.
“I wasn’t referring to you, Wren. I meant—”
She holds up her hand and cuts me off. “You don’t need to explain.”
“Uh, I think I do, because you look pissed, and while I incite that reaction in you frequently, generally you aren’t under the impression that I’m insulting you. I was being quite literal.” I motion to the floor where my shadow bleeds into hers. “I know I suck to deal with, but I hate this place and you’re pretty much the only decent thing there is about working here. Aside from G-mom. She’s awesome, but she’s not here every day like you are. Interestingly enough, I piss her off a lot too. You’re the only person here who isn’t constantly bending over to kiss my ass. So please, Wren, don’t take what I said the wrong way.” I don’t know why I’m saying all of this, or why I sound like I’m imploring her to believe me.
Maybe because I have to sit beside her in a meeting, and I don’t want the angry glare she usually directs at my brother aimed at me. Or maybe it’s because what I’ve said is true. At some point in the weeks since I agreed to take on this godforsaken role, I’ve started to … rely on her? Get used to her? Which I guess is the damn point. Despite how aggravated we always seem to be with each other, I don’t want to hurt her feelings. If she even has any of those.
She looks in my direction, but still not at me. Her gaze is on my tie, or my chin, or my eyebrows. I don’t fucking know. “I’m trying to help you acclimate. If you need space, all you have to do is say so.”
What I do next might flirt with workplace harassment, but she’s not listening, and it’s infuriating. Now I guess I understand her frustration with me. I grab her by the shoulders, gently, of course. Her dress has cap sleeves and a wide, high neckline. It’s modest—as are all her dresses—but still sexy. She almost looks like someone out of the fifties. Especially with her hair pulled in a ponytail that does this twist thing at the end.
She glances at my hand, cupping her shoulder. She’s shorter than me by a lot, even with heels. She’s curvy, but she feels almost delicate. I need to stop making these observations.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Wren, look at me.” I’m snippy, but for fuck’s sake, she’s not listening.
She purses her lips and stares at my neck. I duck down, getting right in her space. This is probably really bad. I’ve blocked the exit to my office, and I’m physically preventing her from leaving. Although, she’s adept at self-defense. If she wanted me to stop touching her, I’m pretty sure I’d be on the floor with her heel against my jugular.
“Look at me. Not my chin or cheeks or my forehead—my eyes, meet them, please.”
She exhales slowly. Her breath smells sweet, like something fruity, citrus maybe. Those gray eyes finally lock on mine. Some kind of weird energy seems to pass between us. Wren rarely, if ever, makes direct eye contact with me. I don’t know why. But now that I have her full attention, I don’t want to let it go. God, she’s beautiful. Why am I focusing on this now?
“I’ve spent a lot of time in fairly isolated environments over the past five years. Interacting with people on a daily basis who need me to fix problems I didn’t create is new and difficult. I don’t love this job. I don’t think I even like it, if I’m going to be honest, but you, your presence makes it bearable, even if it seems the opposite.” As I tell her this, I realize it’s not a load of BS meant to make her feel better and prevent her from being pissed at me for the rest of the day. I don’t know when it happened, or how it happened, but it’s not just that I’m used to her. I think I actually might like her. I drop my hands and step away from the door. “I’m sorry I touched you. Please don’t put me in a headlock.”
Wren chuckles. “Don’t worry. I won’t invoke my self-defense clause.”
“It’s kind of messed up that you have one at all.” I motion between us. “Are we okay?”
“We’re fine. You’re fine.”
“Are you fine? I mean, look at you, obviously you’re fine.” It would be fantastic if I could stop digging myself into a verbal hole. I’ve been out of the game for far too long. “I mean, in the emotional sense of the word. I really can’t have you pissed off at me for like, longer than an hour max, otherwise shit goes downhill fast around here.”
The last time I really made her angry, which was two days ago when I showed up at the office in jeans and a suit jacket—I figured if I was sitting down, no one would see the jeans, so it wouldn’t matter—she rescheduled all my meetings and made me sit with Armstrong to review paperwork as punishment. At least it felt a lot like a punishment.
“I’m fine.” She picks some lint off her skirt. “Is there anything you need to review before the meeting? It’s pretty straightforward. You’ll have to listen to Easton Davidson talk about how big his balls are for a good hour, but you’re adept at tuning people out. I’ll sit beside you and give you a nudge whenever you need to respond.”
“Wait, are you serious?”
“About?” Wren’s still picking at imaginary lint.
“He’s really going to talk about…” I motion to my crotch, which isn’t a great idea since for some reason, today my body’s response to bickering with Wren is to get excited about it. Thankfully, she doesn’t look where I’m pointing.
“Oh!” She laughs and waves a hand in the air, embarrassed maybe. “That was a figure of speech. All of these men do the same thing every time we have a meeting. It’s like a measuring contest. Half the time I expect them all to whip their pant pencils out and set them on the table so we can see whose is the biggest. He’s going to talk about how amazing he is, and you have to pretend to care. It’ll be fine.”
Her phone buzzes from somewhere in her dress, and she slips her hand into the skirt to retrieve it. “It’s ten to; we should head to the boardroom unless you have any other questions.”
She slips the phone back into her pocket and straightens my tie, as is her habit. She moves on to my hair, fingertips grazing the shell of my ears before her palms glide along the sides of my neck so she can adjust my collar. And then she’s back to my hair. Her nose wrinkles, and she licks her thumb then reaches up.
I catch her by the wrist before she can make contact.
“Your left eyebrow is wonky,” she explains.
“You can’t lick your thumb and touch my face. I’m not a toddler, Wren. How would you like it if I did that to you?” I lick my own thumb and swipe it across her eyebrow before she has a chance to duck out of the way. The pad comes away with a brown streak.
I hold up my thumb. “What the hell is this?”
Her cheeks flush an even deeper pink, and she smacks my hand away. “It’s eyebrow pencil; something you wouldn’t know anything about since you’re a man and you don’t have to manage this kind of thing.” She gestures to her face and then to mine. “You style your hair and shave your face, and you’re good to go. It’s a lot more work for me.”
“That’s a choice, though, isn’t it?”
“Not if I don’t want to look like a hag in a pretty dress every day.”
I don’t know if I believe that. I think it’s more likely that women have been conditioned to believe they need makeup to look good by some of the magazines this company owns and endorses. I bet she’s equally gorgeous without the makeup, but I don’t say that because I’m unsure how the compliment will be taken.
Under that brown pencil her eyebrow is significantly lighter. I tug on the end of her ponytail. “Is this your natural hair color?” I’d like to say I already know, since she flashed me that first memorable day, but there was nothing but smooth skin to compare it to, so I’m at a loss.
“It’s lighter than this.” She motions to her head.
“Ho
w much lighter?”
“Why does it matter?”
I shrug. “It didn’t until you started getting defensive about it.”
“I’m not defensive.”
“Yes, you are.”
Wren huffs out a breath. “I’m naturally fair. My hair is dark blond. I dye it so people will take me seriously and not stereotype me as some kind of brainless ditz.”
“Do you honestly believe people make those kinds of ridiculous assumptions?”
“In my personal experience, yes.”
“That’s terrible.”
Wren shrugs. “That’s life.”
“Dark hair or light hair, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re gorgeous, or that you’re incredibly proficient at your job.” I’m still fingering the end of her ponytail. Being this close to her, I get a hit of floral shampoo, or maybe it’s lotion. Whatever it is, I like it.
“Thank you.” She adjusts my collar for the second time, fingertips grazing my throat.
Normally this kind of attention would bother me, but for some reason I don’t mind when Wren does it. Possibly because I enjoy it when she’s all up in my personal space. It also allows me to stare at her without her noticing, since she’s so absorbed in making sure nothing is out of place.
Now that I know she dyes her hair, I detect the hint of roots at her hairline. This close, I can also make out the blond in her mascara-coated eyelashes. She has a tiny beauty mark under her right eye and another on her left cheek.
Her gray gaze shifts and meets mine, there are flecks of blue and green near the pupil that I haven’t noticed until now. She’s utterly captivating.
I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t, and the attraction we’ve been masking with the constant bickering flares. Her tongue sweeps out to wet her bottom lip. If I kiss her, that red lipstick will disappear and stop being such a distraction.
Handle with Care Page 8