CHAPTER 1 WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?
WREN
I slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack
mountain man who looks like he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes
too small. He’s intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been
pulled up into a haphazard man bun
thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl, however, makes him
about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet, here I am, sidling up next to him. He glances
at me, eyes bleary and not really
tracking. He quickly focuses on his half- empty glass again. Based on the slump
of his shoulders and the un co or di nated way he picks up his glass and tips
it toward his mouth, I’m guessing he’s
pretty hammered. I order a sparkling
water with a dash of
cranberry juice and a lime. What I could
really use is a cup of lavender- mint tea and my bed, but instead, I’m
sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous,
obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals
are on the same kind of slippery slope.
2 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 3
sidering the way
you’re sucking that bottle back.
I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask
for a straw in the first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer in there if you want tomorrow morning to suck
less.” I push my drink toward him,
hoping he doesn’t send me packing like
he did the other women who approached
him earlier. He narrows his eyes at my
glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?” “Cranberry and soda.” “No booze?” “No
booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the
morning.” He picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his
mouth. His eyes crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake
up with you beside me?” I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?” “Shit,
sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m so
wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed to
night. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then motions
to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.” I’m
not sure how to respond. I go with semi- affronted, since it seems like
somewhat of an insult. “Good to know.” “Dammit. I mean, I think you might be
hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I think
you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times.
“You have nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.” This time I laugh— for real—
and point to the bottle. “I think you
might want to tell your date you’re done
for the night.” He blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.”
“Rough day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its
contents. It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been
watching him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move. While
he’s been sitting here, he’s turned down
two women, one in a dress that could’ve doubled as a disco ball and the
other in a top so low- cut, I could almost see her navel. “You could say that,”
he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost slits. I can still make
out the vibrant blue hue despite them almost being closed. They move over me,
assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress with a high neckline and a
hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not nearly as provocative as Disco
Ball or Navel Lady. “That solving your prob lems?” I give him a wry grin and
tip my chin in the direction of his
bottle of Johnnie. His gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at him. Or what I can see of his
face under his beard, anyway. “Nah, but
it helps quiet down all the noise up
here.” He taps his temple and
blurts, “My dad died.” I put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy
on my part since its half- genuine, half- contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.” He
glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I
should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might
be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim is
off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a
handful of napkins to mop up the mess. “I’m drunk,” he mumbles. “Well, I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, con
4 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 5
He stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into
a furrow. “I can’t remember the code.
It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles forward and presses his
forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his thumb with the sensor, but
his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing. I
settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank.
Or a superhero. For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems
pretty harmless and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m also trained in
self- defense, which would fall under
the by any means necessary umbrella. “Can I help?” He rolls his head, eyes
slits as they bounce around my face. “Please.” I take his hand between mine.
The first thing I notice is how clammy
it is. But beyond that, his knuckles are rough, littered with tiny scars and a
few scabs, and his nails are jagged. “Your hands are small,” he observes as I
line his thumb up with the sensor pad and press down. “Maybe yours are
abnormally big,” I reply. They are rather large. Like basketball player hands.
“You know what they say about big hands.” I fight not to roll my eyes, but for
a brief moment, I won der if what’s in his pants actually matches the rest of
him. And if he’s unkempt everywhere, not just on his face. I cut that visual
quickly because it makes me want to gag.
“And what do they say?” His eyes crinkle again, and he slaps his own chest.
“Something about big hands, big heart.” I bite back my own smile. “Pretty
sure you’re mixing that up with cold
hands, warm heart.” His brow furrows. “ There’s a good chance.”
He makes an attempt to stand, but as soon as his feet hit
the floor, he stumbles into me and grabs my shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa.
Sorry. Yup, I’m definitely drunk.” His face is inches from mine, breath
smelling strongly of alcohol. Beyond that, I get a whiff of fresh soap and a
hint of aftershave. He lets go of my shoulders and takes an unsteady step back.
“I don’t usually do this.” He motions
sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a
three drink max guy.” “I think losing your
father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool. Despite being tall
for a woman, and wearing heels, he still
manages to be close to a head taller than me. “Yeah, maybe, but I still think I
might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly unsteady, swaying while standing in
place. I take the opportunity for what it is and thread my arm through his,
leading him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s get you to the elevator before
you pass out right here.” He nods, then
wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance. “That’s prob ably
a good idea.” He leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the
two stairs leading to the foyer. There’s
no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down, but I drape one of his huge
arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own around his waist, guiding him in
a mostly straight line to the elevators. “Which floor are you on?” I ask. “Pent
house.” He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to the
black doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.” “It’s
prob ably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow
again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated pent house
elevator.
6 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 7
“Your hands are
really soft,” he mumbles.
“Thanks.” The pad flashes green, and I turn the
handle. “Okay,
here we go. Home
sweet home.” “This isn’t my home,” he
slurs. “My cousin’s family owns this
building. I’m crashing here until I can get the fuck out of New York.” I
scan the pent house. It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern
furniture, like two dif fer ent tastes crashed together and this is the result.
Aside from that, it’s clean to the point of looking almost like a show home.
The only sign that someone is staying
here is the lone coffee cup on the
table in the living room and the blanket lolling like a tongue over the
edge of the couch. I’m still standing in the doorway while he sways unsteadily.
He tries to shove his hand in his pants pocket, but all he succeeds in doing is setting himself off- balance. He
nearly stumbles into the wall. “Thanks for your help,” he says. He’s back in
his pent house, which means my job is technically done. However, I’m worried
he’s going to hurt himself, or worse,
asphyxiate on his own vomit in the
middle of the night, and I’ll be the one catching heat if that happens.
I’ll also feel bad if something happens to him. I blow out a breath, annoyed
that this is how my night is ending. I heave his arm over my shoulder and slip
mine around his waist again, leading him through the living room toward what seems to be the kitchen. There’s a sheet of paper on the island, but
other wise it’s spotless. “What’re you
doing?” he asks. We pause when we reach the threshold. “Which way is
your bedroom?”
The elevator doors slide open. He pushes off the wall with
some effort and practically tumbles inside. He catches himself on the rail and
sags against the wall as I follow him in. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this right now. He doesn’t have to press a button since the elevator
only goes to the pent house floor. As soon as we start moving, he groans and
his shoulders curl in. “I don’t feel so
good.” Please don’t let him be sick
in here. If there’s one
thing I can’t deal with, it’s vomit. “You should
sit.” He slides down the wall, massive shoulders rolling forward as he rests
his forehead on his knees. “Tomorrow is
going to suck.” I stay on the other side of the elevator, in case he
tosses his cookies. “Prob ably.” It’s the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. Or at least
it feels that way, mostly because I’m
terrified he’s going to yak. Thankfully,
we make it to the pent house floor incident- free. On the down side, now that
he’s in a sitting position, getting him to stand again is a challenge. I have
to press the open door button three times before I can fi nally coax him to his
feet. In the time between leaving the bar and making it to the pent house
floor, the effects of the alcohol seems to have compounded. He’s beyond sloppy,
using the wall and me for support as we make our way to his door.
There are two pent
house apartments up here. One on
either side of the
foyer. He leans against the doorjamb, once again fighting to find the
coordination to get his thumb to the sensor pad. I don’t ask if he needs my assistance this time
since it’s quite clear he does. Once again I take his clammy hand in mine.
8 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 9
Moorehead Media fortune and all the crap that comes with it.
And there’s a lot of it. One eye becomes
a slit. “ Every time I open my eyes, the room starts spinning again.” “If you
drink this and take these, it might
help.” I hold up the glass of water and
the pills. “ ’Kay.” It takes three tries for him to sit up. He tries to pick
the pills up out of my palm, but keeps missing my hand. “Just open your mouth.”
He lifts his head. “How do I know you’re
not trying to roofie me?” I hold up the tablet in front of his face. “They don’t say roofie, so you’re safe.” He tries to focus on the pill
and then my face. I have my doubts he’s successful at either. His tongue peeks out to drag across
his bottom lip. “The cameras in the hall
will catch you if you steal my wallet.” I laugh at that. “I’m not going to steal your wallet, I’m going to put you to bed.” “Hmm.” He nods
slowly and opens his mouth. I drop the pills on his tongue and hand him the
glass, which he drains in three long swallows. “Would you like me to refill
that?” “That’d be nice.” He holds out the glass, but when I try to pull away,
he covers my hands with his. His shockingly blue eyes meet mine, and for a
moment
they’re clear and
compelling. Despite how out of it he is, and how much he resembles a mountain
man, or maybe because of it, I have a
hard time looking away. “I really wish I wasn’t this messed up. You smell nice. I bet
your hair is pretty when it’s not pulled up like that.” He flops a hand toward my bun. “Not that it’s not pretty
He looks slowly from right to left. “Not that way.” He
points to the kitchen. It’s very state of the art. I guide him in the opposite
direction down the hall,
until he stumbles through
a doorway, into a large but simply furnished bedroom. Once we reach the edge of
the bed, he drops his arm, spins around— it’s drunkenly graceful— and falls
back on the bed, arms spread wide as if he’s planning on making snow angels.
“The room is spinning.” “Would you like me to get you a glass of water and possibly a painkiller for the
headache you’ll likely have in the morning?” I’m already heading for the
bathroom. “Might be a good idea,” he
mumbles. I find a glass on the edge of bathroom vanity— which is clean,
apart from a brand new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. I run the tap,
wishing I had a plastic tumbler,
because I’m not sure
he’s in any state to deal with breakable objects. I check the medicine cabinet,
find the pills I need, shake out two tablets, and return to the bedroom. He’s
right where I left him; sprawled out faceup on a massive king- size bed, legs
hanging off the end, one shoe on the floor beside him. I cross over and set the
water and the pills
on the nightstand. I make a quick trip back to the bathroom and grab the empty
wastebasket from beside the toilet in case his night is a lot rougher than he
expects. I tap his knee, crossing my fin gers
he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have painkillers for you.” He makes a
noise, but doesn’t move other wise. I
tap his knee again. “Lincoln, you need to wake up long enough to take these.” I cringe. I called him by name, and
he didn’t offer it to me while we were down at the bar. Here’s hoping he’s too drunk to notice or
remember. His name is Lincoln Moorehead, heir to the
10 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 11
my head. “I need you to roll onto your side, please,” I say
loudly. Nothing. Not even a grunt. I pull on his shoulder, but he’s dead
weight. Leaning over him, I make a fist and give him a light jab approximately
where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.” And roll he does, knocking me down
and turning over so he’s right on top of me.
We’re face- to- face. Good God, he’s heavy. His bones must be made of
lead. He shifts, one leg coming over both of mine. I push at his knee, but his
arm swings out and he wraps himself around me on a low groan, pinning my arm to
my side. He’s like a giant human blanket. “How did this become my life?”
I say to the ceiling,
because the man lying
on top of me is apparently out cold. I try to wriggle free, I even yell his name a bunch of time
before I give up and wait for him to roll off me. And while I wait for that to
happen, I replay the conversation with his
mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that took place forty- eight hours ago and
put me in this awkward position under neath her drunk son. I’d been standing in
Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was dead. It was shocking
that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was always so healthy and
full of life. Gwendolyn, his wife— now a
widow— stood stoic
behind his desk,
papers stacked neatly in the center. “I’m so very for your loss, Gwendolyn.
If there’s anything I can do. What ever
you need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant because I
couldn’t imagine how
my mother and I would feel if we lost
my father.
like that, but I bet if you took it down, it would be wavy
and soft. The kind of hair you want to bury your face in and run your fin gers
through.” He exhales a long breath. “I
haven’t had sex in a really long
time, but I feel like I would have zero finesse if I tried right now.” I smile
and turn away. In the time it takes for me to refill his glass, he’s managed to
get one arm out of his suit jacket. He’s made it most of the way onto the bed,
feet still hanging off the end, but he’s on his back, which is not ideal. I set
the glass on his nightstand, along with a second set of painkillers, which I’m
assuming he’ll need in the morning, and
give him another nudge. “Hey.” This time I get nothing in the way of a
response. I poke him twice more, but still nothing. He can’t sleep on his back with how drunk he is.
He needs to be on his side or his stomach with a wastebasket close by. I can’t in good conscience leave him like this.
My options are limited. I shake my head
as I kick off my shoes and climb up onto the bed with him. This is not at all
what I expected to be doing when I
brought him back up here. I stare down
at his sleeping form. His lips are parted,
they’re nice lips,
full and plump, even though they’re
mostly obscured by his overgrown beard. His hair has started to unravel from
its man bun, wisps hanging in his face. He has long lashes, really long actually, and
they’re thick and
dark, the kind women pay a lot of money
for. His nose is straight and his cheekbones— what I can see of them— are high.
With a haircut, a beard trim or complete shave, and a new suit that actually
fits, I can imagine how refined he’ll
look. More like a Moorehead than a mountain man lumberjack. I shake
12 HELENA HUNTING HANDLE WITH CARE 13
necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject
the offer, but my mother asked me to
take the position as a favor to her
since she’s a friend of Gwendolyn. Beyond that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past de
cade. When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our
relationship forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of trying
to help repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which was
ridiculously high, also didn’t hurt.
Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly
every single
charitable foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my
interests lie, it seemed like a smart
career move. “Since you’re
already working with Armstrong and
things seem to be
settled there for the most part, I felt
it would make sense to keep you on here
at Moorehead to work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for
several years. He’s nothing like his
brother, very altruistic and focused on his job, rather than
recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.” I fought a scoff at
the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a reference to the fact that
Armstrong
couldn’t seem to keep
his pants zipped when it came to women.
Gwendolyn pushed a set of papers toward
me. “It would only be for another six months. And of course, your salary would
reflect the double work load, since you’ll still have to maintain Armstrong in
some capacity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.” “I’m sorry, what—” Gwendolyn pulled me
into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she stepped back. Her eyes
were glassy and red-
rimmed. “You have no idea how
Gwendolyn’s fin gers danced at her throat as she cleared it.
“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your
kindness, Wren.” “Let me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.” She took a
deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine. “I need your
help.” “Of course, what can I do?” “My oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the
funeral, and he’ll be staying to help
run the com pany.” A hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Every thing from
Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references had been with
fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as it was
Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln through
her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how difficult
Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone else, particularly his brother. “Transitioning Lincoln.” Gwendolyn
rounded her desk. “ You’ve managed to turn around Armstrong’s reputation in the
media during the time you’ve been here. I know it hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be
difficult to manage.” Difficult to manage is the understatement of the
entire century where Armstrong is
concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic proportions. He’s also a misogynistic,
narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to deal with for the past eight months on a
nearly daily basis— sometimes even on weekends. My job as his “handler” has
been to reshape his horrendous reputation
after his involvement in several scandalous events became very public.
It wasn’t a job I
14 HELENA HUNTING
much I appreciate your willingness to take this on. As soon
as your contract is fulfilled, you have my word that I’ll give you a glowing
recommendation to whichever organ ization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in starting your own
foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if you’ll stay on
a little longer for me.” She dabbed at
her corner of her eyes and sniffed, then tapped the papers on the desk. “I
already have an agreement ready and an NDA, of course. Everything is tabbed for
signing.” I’m pulled back into the pre sent when Lincoln shifts and one of his
huge hands slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he
pushes his nose against my neck, beard tickling my collar bone. He mutters
something unintelligible against my skin. I’m momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee
him in the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi- aware that he’s
fondling me. Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room. I elbow
him in the ribs, which prob ably hurts me more than it does him. At least it
gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I roll off the bed and pop back
up, smoothing out my now- wrinkled dress. My stupid nipples are perky, thanks
to the attention the right one just got. Prob ably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since
I started working for the Mooreheads eight months ago. I hit the lights on the
way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on
the counter. It’s a list of impor tant
details regarding the pent house, including the entry code. I nab my purse,
snap a pic, and head for the elevators. I have a feeling this is going to be a long six months.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helena Hunting
New York Times and USA Today bestselling
author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her
incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes
contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
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