Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)

She has a point. Armstrong has never been good at following directions, although neither have I. The difference is, Armstrong is a narcissistic egomaniac who abuses any shred of power he has. I just don’t like bending over for the man. “So what does that mean?”

“I need your help.”

This time when my stomach flips, it’s not because of the nausea. “Help how? What’s the plan if you’re not putting Armstrong in charge?”

“I need you to stay in New York for a while and help manage things.” It’s less request and more order.

“I don’t know anything about this company.”

She leans on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping restlessly. “You have a Master’s in Business Administration from the best school in the country. You understand economics and the bottom line. The rest you can be taught.”

“I don’t want to be here. I can’t stay here. I’ll go nuts.” Panic hits. It feels like the walls are closing in.

“I didn’t expect your father to go so soon. I thought I had time to prepare for this. Years to train someone else to takeover. I had hoped Armstrong would eventually come around, but he lacks any kind of moral compass or ability to take direction. He’s not capable of managing his own damn grocery list, let alone this company. It’s temporary, Lincoln.”

I run a hand through my hair, and then remember it’s in a bun. “This isn’t making my hangover any better, G-mom.”

She rubs her own temples. “It’s not making mine any better either. I need your help, Lincoln. We can’t have your misogynistic, self-absorbed, sycophant of a brother running this company without someone to keep him from going off the rails. He can’t have that much power.” She crosses the room, pulls out a bottle of scotch and pours two glasses. “Give me six months.”

She passes me the glass. It’ll either ease the shakes or make me puke. I feel both light-headed and nauseous. Likely because my grandmother, who I love dearly and cannot say no to, is asking me to do the one thing I desperately don’t want to. Also, she just lost her son, and I’d be a seriously horrible grandson if I said no.

“Three months.”

“That’s not enough time.”

“New York makes me miserable, and I’m in the middle of a project in Guatemala. I can’t abandon my team.”

“You have an amazing staff who can handle it for a few months without you. Send your cousin Griffin to stand in for you for a few weeks if you need to. I know he loves these kinds of projects like you do.”

“I don’t know if he’s available.” Although I can pretty much guarantee he’d jump at the chance if he’s able. He and I worked on a project together last year in a small village in China.

“I lost my only child, Linc. I know Fredrick made some poor decisions, but he also made you. Give this old lady something to keep going for. Don’t let this company and our family’s legacy go down in the hands of your brother.”

I close my eyes because I can’t see that look on her face. It’s her sweet grandma look. It’s such crap, she’s pulling on my heartstrings on purpose. I crack a lid. “You’re hitting below the belt.”

“I know.” She nods, then raises a brow. “Is it working?”

I sigh. Resigned. I can rearrange the Guatemala schedule and get someone to help with project management. It’s not ideal, but it’s possible. “Fine. But six months and that is it. I’m on a plane out of here as soon as the time comes.”

“Deal.” She clinks her glass against mine, and we both swallow the scotch in one gulp.

I don’t vomit right away, so that’s a plus.

She takes both glasses and sets them in the sink. “Are you ready to deal with Armstrong now?”

“Is anyone ever?”

She pats me on the cheek. “It’s as if you were gifted with every single good trait your parents have combined, and all the leftover crap went to your brother. Even with this Fabio business you have going on with your hair, and this hippie attire, you still manage to be handsome. It’s good he didn’t have to grow up in your shadow.” She opens the door. “Get ready for the temper tantrum of the century.”CHAPTER 3G-MOM ATTACKLINCOLNI haven’t been paying attention to the meeting. Mostly it’s my father’s lawyer blathering on about division of assets and company BS while my mother, grandmother, and brother ask questions I don’t care about. Instead of listening, I’ve been staring at the woman across the table—the only non-family member apart from my father’s lawyer—seated next to my mouthbreather brother, trying to figure out what her deal is.

I was drunk out of my mind last night, but I still remember her. Vaguely. At least I’m pretty sure I do. I just can’t piece together how she fits into my night. Or what exactly her role is here. As I openly stare—I don’t even look away when she lifts those mesmerizing gray eyes and catches me—fragments of last night filter through my brain in a disjointed, foggy mess.