“Sorry,” he says. “But it would sure speed things along if we did.”
I ignore their low-level bickering and Lincoln’s snide remarks while I stare at Armstrong. I wish I had some kind of superpower that would allow me to mute him. “Are you done?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Yes. I believe I am. Is someone going to get me cookies now?” He swallows thickly and taps on the arm of his chair a few times when all I do is blink at him.
Someone sighs loudly on my left. I think it might be Gwendolyn.
“No, Armstrong. No one is going to get you cookies. Please refrain from speaking for the rest of the meeting unless you’re asked for a direct response or you have something of value to contribute. I’d like to avoid black eyes as they’re difficult to cover up for press conferences.”
A scoff comes from across the table, which I ignore. I am currently experiencing some serious regret over signing that contract prior to meeting Lincoln.
Christophe resumes the reading of the will as if the almost-brawl never happened, and once they’re finished, Penelope reviews a number of pressing Moorehead matters that will require Lincoln’s immediate attention. Nothing like going from death to business without so much as a rest in peace.
I hope Lincoln will be able to manage the demands. I can create a pleasing public image, but I can’t control his mouth when he’s speaking in front of thousands. His reference to me as a pretty little shield does nothing to instill confidence. Nor do his threats to beat down his brother.
It’s noon by the time the meeting finally wraps up, and thankfully it’s outburst-free. Christophe packs up his things, and Penelope follows him out, leaving Gwendolyn, Lincoln, Armstrong—who’s still muttering about cookies—and myself in the room.
Gwendolyn gives me a tired smile. “Wren, I’d like you to arrange a suit fitting for Lincoln, and brief him on upcoming events, press conferences, speaking engagements, whatever is happening over the next week or two.”
“Of cour—”
“I have plenty of suits, and I don’t need my brother’s babysitter, or Dominatrix, or whatever she is, briefing me on anything.” Lincoln shifts his disapproving gaze my way, his fingers curled around the back of the executive chair he’s now standing behind.
Clearing my throat, I meet that vivid blue glare of his. And just like last night, it feels like I’m being pulled right in, which doesn’t make any sense since he insulted me. “First of all, my name is Wren, so you can address me by something other than she or her. Also, I’m not Armstrong’s babysitter, and I’m definitely not a Dominatrix, or a whatever. I’m an independent PR consultant, and I’m in charge of overhauling your public image.”
“Says who?” His eyes dart to his mother. Dear Lord, this man’s brow is probably permanently furrowed. I might condone Botox if he looks this angry all the time.
“Fredrick, initially.” I nod to his mother. “And I was asked to stay on to handle you.”
“Handle me?” He crosses his thick arms over his broad chest. It’s inconveniently distracting. “By putting me in a suit and being my personal calendar? That’s cushy. What else do you handle, Wren?”
I don’t miss the hint of innuendo. I fight to keep my expression neutral and my voice even as I motion to him as a whole. “My job is to clean up your appearance and make sure you don’t screw up interviews with offensive comments.”
Gwendolyn makes an odd noise and motions to Lincoln. “While I’m sure your current attire worked for your previous position abroad, as the face of Moorehead, you need to dress and look the part. Miss Sterling has an impeccable reputation in her field, and I expect that you’ll treat her with the same courtesy as you would treat me.”
Lincoln purses his lips and sighs. “Fine. Suit fitting it is. If there are reports or a schedule you need me to look at, hand them over and I’ll ask questions if I have any.”
I pass him the stack of folders, the bottom one wet with coffee, and follow him out into the hall, leaving Gwendolyn to deal with Armstrong. I’m sure his temper tantrum is far from over. Lincoln stands there, looking lost, not to mention rough from last night’s alcohol binge. “Your office is at the end of the hall.” I point to the one without a nameplate. I’m sure it will be up by the end of the day.
“Thanks,” he grumbles and stalks away.
I wish my office were in the other direction, but it’s not, so I’m forced to follow him. He has something white stuck in his man bun, a string, or a fluff or something. I take in the shirt stretched tight across his back. Does this man even own clothing that fits, or are they all two sizes too small?