I am so excited for the release of Handle With Care and am thrilled to be able to share the first chapter of the book today. I Flipping Love You, which is also set up in the Shacking Up world, was one of my favorite reads of 2018 so to say this is one of my most highly anticipated reads of 2019 is an understatement. Enjoy!
Handle With Care by Helena Hunting
Release Date: August 27, 2019
HE WANTS TO LOSE CONTROL.
Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother, Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense, gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff, wilderness guy to a suave businessman.
SHE’S TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.
Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody, cynical CEO.
Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother, Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense, gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff, wilderness guy to a suave businessman.
SHE’S TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.
Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody, cynical CEO.
Chapter One
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 uncoordinated 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.
“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 being nearly 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
problems?” 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, considering 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?”
“Sh*t, 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 tonight. 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.” 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 probably 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.
“Penthouse.” 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 probably all
the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow again, helping him
stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated penthouse elevator.
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 wonder 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 a 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.”
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 penthouse 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. “Probably.”
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
penthouse 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 finally coax him to his feet.
In the time between
leaving the bar and making it to the penthouse 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 penthouse 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.
“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 f*ck out of New York.”
I scan the penthouse.
It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern furniture, like two different
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
penthouse, 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 otherwise it’s spotless.
“What’re you doing?”
he asks.
We pause when we
reach the threshold. “Which way is your bedroom?”
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
lavish 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 fingers he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have painkillers for you.”
He makes a noise, but
doesn’t move otherwise.
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 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
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 fingers 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 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 underneath 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. Whatever 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.
Gwendolyn’s fingers
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 company.”
A hot feeling crept
up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Everything 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 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 decade. 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 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 organization
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 present 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 collarbone. 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 probably 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. Probably 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 important details
regarding the penthouse, 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.
Connect with Helena Hunting
![Making Up by [Hunting, Helena]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41j38e-RAAL.jpg)
I Flipping Love You – Amazon | My Review | Favorite Read of 2018
Making Up - Amazon (Release Date: July 16, 2019)
Making Up - Amazon (Release Date: July 16, 2019)
While Handle with Care is part of The Shacking
Up series it is most definitely a standalone, BUT it also has the character we
all love to hate from the series: Armstrong Moorehead. Lincoln, our hero is the
reclusive, mysterious older brother who would like nothing more than to jump
back on a plane and GTFO of New York city as soon as the funeral is over. His
grandmother has other plans for him, however. And no one is better suited to
deal with his angstonistic ass than Wren--a total no nonsense badass.
I hoped you enjoyed chapter one as much as I did!
