Blog Tour for Handle with Care
Synopsis
New York Times bestselling author of SHACKING UP and I
FLIPPING LOVE YOU Helena Hunting mixes humor and heart in this
scandal-filled romantic comedy.
HE WANTS
TO LOSE CONTROL.
Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother,
Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After
the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To
top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s
chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense,
gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff,
wilderness guy to a suave businessman
SHE’S TRYING
TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.
Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at
Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new
responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive
oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means
she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is
to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly
doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal
comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody,
cynical CEO.
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Kim's 4 Star Review
Wren
has a plan for what she wants her life to be like. Accepting the current PR job
was supposed to be a stopover to where she wants to be. After being handed an
extension to her contact and a very nice compensation package to take on the
other son of the Moorehead’s, she may have finally gotten herself in over her
head. Lincoln Moorehead doesn’t like being in the city let alone being
near his family. With his father’s passing, Lincoln can no longer avoid his
family or new responsibilities. After meeting his handler, Lincoln’s bad
attitude is dialed back a few notches as Wren brings him into the world he
left. Will these two survive each other and move the company forward or
will this just be too much that either one will turn and run the other
way?
I
was lucky to be gifted a copy in exchanged for an honest review.
Wren
is a strong, independent woman who knows what she wants and how she plans on
making it happen. She takes each step with careful thought and
planning. Dealing with the Moorehead’s was just a quick stop to getting
her dream job. After the unexpected death of the CEO, the job that was
supposed to be ending soon got extended as she had another son to guide.
She didn’t think it couldn’t get any worse as the first son, Armstrong was the
epitome of a rich privileged spoil brat who doesn’t know the difference between
what is appropriate and what isn’t. Now that she has to deal with
Lincoln, the exact opposite yet equally as challenging. She didn’t expect that
he would be just want she needed.
Lincoln
has made sure that he doesn’t end up like his parents. So after graduation an
Ivey league university, he did the exact opposite of what was planned for him
and became a project manager helping build in underdeveloped countries.
It the work that brings him satisfaction in areas but leaving him lonely.
The death of his father is what brought him home but his grandmother (G-mom) is
what got him staying longer than planned. Having his father handed the
company to him, he didn’t want along with a babysitter to watch over him is
pushing all his limits.
From
the moment Wren started talking to Lincoln, she knew she had her hands
full. Being sent to take care of him after his father’s funeral, she
finds him so drunk that he doesn’t remember her the next morning. They
may come from the same world of privileged, but she realizes that she is better
at hiding or managing it better than him. Wren’s only problem is that her
body isn’t in line with her mind. The more time she spends with him the
more her body betrays her. Of course the filter that everyone is supposed
to have decides to malfunction at the most inopportune times or she ends up
with some kind of wardrobe malfunction that had me laughing. Of course
these things only happen to Wren when Lincoln is around. There is no
denying that these two are very much attracted to each other, too bad both of
them try to fight it until they can’t.
From
the time I met Helena I knew she was truly an amazing person. Her
characters reflect the creativity that embodies her. I haven’t read a
book of Helena’s that doesn’t capture and bring me into their world. I love
that I could put myself in Wren’s shoes and felt what she felt at the time it
happened. From the moment she saw Lincoln after his makeover, it was like I was
a part of it. The chemistry between these was felt from the moment they’re
together. I loved reading how the love/hate relationship between Wren and
Lincoln transformed into something so much throughout the story. I just
couldn’t get enough of these characters and I was sad that the story had to
end.
Excerpt
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 himself 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 hipster’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
missing 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,
considering 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 packing 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 smiling 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 remember 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 shoulders 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
tomorrow.” 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 horrendous 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 reconsider what I’m about
to do, but he seems pretty harmless 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. “Tomorrow 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 ashes 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 blanket 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 breakable 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 remember. 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 actually 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 approximately where
his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.”
And roll he does, knocking me down and turning 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 conversation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead,
that took place forty-eight hours ago and put me in this awkward 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 massive 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
anything 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 imagine 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 reputation 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
misogynistic, 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 teenager, I discovered information
that changed our relationship 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 recreational 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
capacity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.”
“I’m sorry, what—”
Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, holding
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 interested 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. Everything 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
mutters 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 wiggle 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 attention the
right one just got. Probably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since I
started working for the Mooreheads 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 details 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.
From Handle With Care. Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting and
reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
About the Author
NYT 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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