Handle With Care by Helena Hunting Chapter Reveal!

Sorry about the format. It was copied and pasted from a pdf and I wasn’t about to spend my evening fixing 9 pages worth of formatting. 
Enjoy! August 27 cannot come fast enough!

 

CHAPTER 1

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 him-
self 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 hip-
ster’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 miss-
ing 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 almost being 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, con

sidering 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 pack-
ing 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 smil-
ing under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake up

with you beside me?”
I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Shit, sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I

was joking. Besides, I’m so wasted, I can barely remem-
ber 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 shoul-
ders 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 tomor-
row.” 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 horren-
dous 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 recon-
sider what I’m about to do, but he seems pretty harm-
less 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 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. “Tomor-
row 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
fuck 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 blan-
ket 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 large 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 break-
able 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 re-
member. 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 actu-
ally 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 approxi-
mately where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.”

And roll he does, knocking me down and turn-
ing 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 con-
versation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that

took place forty-eight hours ago and put me in this awk-
ward 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 mas-
sive 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 any-
thing 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 imag-
ine 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 rep-
utation 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 misogynis-
tic, 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 teen-
ager, I discovered information that changed our rela-
tionship 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 recre-
ational 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 capac-
ity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role

here.”
“I’m sorry, what—”

Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, hold-
ing 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 in-
terested 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. Every-
thing 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 mut-
ters 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 wig-
gle 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 atten-
tion the right one just got. Probably because it’s the most

action I’ve seen since I started working for the Moore-
heads 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 de-
tails 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.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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