Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)
“That’s all you’ve got?” Making fun of him won’t even be enjoyable if this is the best he can do.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the woman still hovering behind him. “Is it possible to put the sibling squabble on hold until after the meeting is over? We’ve already waited more than an hour and a half for your arrival, Mr. Moorehead.”
I finally give her my attention because it’s clearly me she’s addressing. Her voice is familiar for some reason—soft and smoky, but firm and authoritative. My lippy response gets stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth as I finally take her in.
Her skin is creamy and pale for mid-July in New York, possibly because she spends every waking moment trapped in this human fishbowl. Her eyes are a striking shade of gray, ringed with navy, contrasting beautifully with her chestnut hair, which seems a little dark for her complexion. Her gray dress should be boring, but the way it complements her eyes and hugs every luscious curve takes it from simple to exquisite. Her heels are a vibrant blue and pointy enough that she could take out an eye with one if she were so inclined, and judging from the look on her face, she might be very inclined right about now.
“You must be—”
I’m cut off mid-sentence by my grandmother, which is probably a good thing considering I was about to say something regrettable. “Lincoln! Where in the name of all that is holy have you been? And what are you wearing?”
“I was sleeping off the scotch. And these are called blue jeans and this is called a T-shirt, G-mom.” I motion to my attire.
Penelope Moorehead narrows her eyes, grabs me by the ear, and drags me across the hall into an empty office, slamming the door behind me.
As soon as she lets go, I rub my ear. “You know that’s considered workplace harassment.”
She crosses her arms. “Do not sass me, Lincoln Alexander Moorehead. And do not call me G-mom in front of the goddamn staff. How am I going to keep my battle-axe reputation with you shouting nicknames that make me sound like a second-rate rap star?”
“Remember when you cross-stitched me a hoodie for my tenth birthday?” I bite back a grin, because getting G-mom riled up has always one of my favorite pastimes, and that hasn’t changed at all, even if a lot of other things have.
“This is not the time for jokes, Lincoln. And this is definitely not the time to show everyone how uninvested you are in this company. Your father passed away, show some decorum. Despite your tumultuous relationship with your parents, you need to put aside your grudges today and act like the Harvard MBA graduate that you are. Not some know-it-all who makes everyone around them feel like crap because you think what you do is better than what everyone else does.”
And just like that, my g-mom takes me down a peg or five. She lost her son. I need to remember that just because I didn’t have a relationship with him or my mother, it doesn’t mean it was the same for everyone else. G-mom has always been more of a parent to me than either of the people who brought me into this world. And because of that, she’s one of the few people in my family that I genuinely love and respect. So I dial back the douche.
I drop my head, the ache behind my temples flaring again, and rub the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you.”
“No one ever expects their children to go before them.” She sighs and paces the room, then comes to a stop in front of me, her spine straight, shoulders rolled back, expression stoic.
She’s barely five feet tall, but she’s a force of nature. She was the brain behind this entire network. My grandfather might’ve had the name, but the woman in front of me has always pulled everyone’s puppet strings. And I love her for it.
“Look, Linc, I know this is the last place you want be. I get it. I understand that you love helping people and that being a project manager for building homes and helping communities in developing countries, while not the best for your financial well-being, is certainly noble. I’m also aware it’s a big f-you to your parents and all the money they shelled out for your education, and I applaud your moral standing.” She taps her lips and shakes her head. “I can only imagine how being here makes you feel. I realize your relationship with your father was strained, but he was not a bad man. I don’t know what kind of karmic bomb your parents managed to set off when they created your brother.” She paces around the room, coming to stop in front of me. “But Armstrong cannot handle this company on his own. He will sink it inside of six months.”