Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)

“Ready?”

“No, but I don’t think you’re going to leave me alone unless I do this, so let’s get it over with.”

My moderately okay mood takes a swift turn into Fuck-This-Ville when we get stuck in New York morning traffic. The car crawls along, horns honking, the semi-fresh air from the penthouse floor is replaced by exhaust, subway fumes, and sewer grates.

“I hate this city,” I gripe as we pass yet another double-parked Lamborghini. “The people here are DBs.”

“DBs?” Wren asks.

“Douchebags.”

“Oh. Not all of them.”

“All the people I know are, with the exception of my cousin,” I grumble. “It’s just a bunch of self-centered narcissists who need to show each other who’s got the biggest balls with their environmentally irresponsible cars. None of this is natural. It’s not normal to be surrounded by concrete all the time.” I motion out the windows at the endless buildings and complete lack of trees.

“There are green spaces everywhere in the city,” Wren argues.

“As if that makes it better. I don’t get the point of this. I have plenty of suits stored away at my mother’s. Maybe there’s something in Griffin’s closet that will fit me.”

Wren levels me with an unimpressed look. “The suit you wore to the funeral is five years out of date and looked like something that fit you back in high school. You’ll swim in Griffin’s suits.”

She’s right, but I really hate this. “Fine. But we can cut out the spa treatments. I can take the electric trimmer to this and be done with it.” I motion to my hair.

She looks up from her phone, horrorstricken. “Absolutely not. You are not shaving your head. I forbid it!”

“Pardon me?”

“Your hair is thick and full and fantastic. Shaving your head would be a disservice to men around the world. And women. You’re getting a professional haircut. End of conversation.”

“You can’t tell me I can’t shave my head or force me to get a haircut.”

She arches a perfect eyebrow. Even her eyebrows irritate me. “I have ten years of self-defense classes under my belt. I can bring you to your knees before you even blink. If you try to give me a hard time about the haircut, I have authorization from Gwendolyn to use whatever persuasion methods necessary.”

“I’m guessing that means you’re not planning to sweet talk me into it, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure that won’t work with you, so I should warn you that my persuasion tactics may include duct tape and rope.”

“Sounds kinky.”

She turns her attention back to her phone and clicks away furiously while her cheeks flush pink. “Wouldn’t you love that. You’re getting a haircut. You can do it the easy way or the hard way. That’s your only choice in the matter.”

“Whatever you say, Wren.” I’m almost tempted to find out what the hard way is with this woman. I have a feeling it might be the fun part of an otherwise craptastic day.CHAPTER 6FLIRT LIKE YOU MEAN ITWRENAs unpolished and infuriating as he may be, Lincoln Moorehead smells fantastic, and being trapped in this car with him is making it impossible to think. Also, now the image of him in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities seems to be stuck in my head.

Lincoln’s body is ridiculous. He’s all sculpted muscle and tanned skin—likely from his time spent in the sun working in Guatemala, digging wells, and building orphanages. It’s clear the photos I’ve stumbled across online aren’t staged, and he truly is involved in the projects. It’s one checkmark against all the Xs he’s racked up with his behavior so far.

And while his attitude still sucks a lot, I can understand better where it comes from. If Armstrong were my brother, and I was under (what I believe may be a misguided) impression my father was a serial cheater, I’d probably have the same reaction. Also, I don’t mind the city, but I can see how it can be overwhelming.

“So, how’d you end up as my brother’s babysitter?” Lincoln asks.

I glance up from my phone. I’m in the process of setting up new social media accounts for Lincoln since he has none. “Please don’t call me that. It’s demeaning and undermines what I do.”

“Fine, how’d you end up as my brother’s handler?”

“My mother is friends with your mother. She asked me to do this as a favor. It looks good on my resume and pays extremely well. And your family needed someone who could handle the situation discreetly, which is something I’m good at, so I took the job.” It’s the abridged version, but he doesn’t need all the gritty details.

Lincoln tips his head to the side. “Is your mother a nice person?”

That’s an odd question. “Yes. Most of the time.”

“Hmm.” He glances out the window, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“What does ‘most of the time’ mean?” he fires back.