I want to ask more questions, but his phone rings. He feels around in his pocket for it, frowning as he checks the screen and answers the call. “Lincoln here.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “Yeah, thanks, Carlos, it’s a shocker all right. I appreciate that, we weren’t particularly close, though, no … no.” He pauses again tapping on the armrest as he listens. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It looks like I’m going to have to spend some time in New York cleaning things up with the family business. Not ideal considering where we are in the project, but I’m hoping you can manage without me for a while.”

He’s quiet for a bit. “I’d like to say it’s only going to take a few weeks, but my grandmother pulled a guilt trip on me, so it’s probably going to be longer than that. We can talk about bringing in someone to oversee the project if you think it’s going to be too much for you to deal with on your own.”

The car pulls up in front of Saks. “Can I call you back later? You gonna be around in a few hours?” He tugs at his beard and chuckles. “Nah, they have me hooked up with some kind of baby—handler whose job is to clean me up. Apparently my T-shirts aren’t considered appropriate attire, so instead of doing something valuable with my time, I get to try on suits. Seems like a waste of resources and money that could be used to bring fresh water to the disadvantaged, but I guess I’m the one with skewed priorities here.” He glances my way. “He’s actually a she.”

I swallow back my irritation at the way he’s talking about me while looking directly at me. Not to mention the way he demeans my job.

“I can’t comment on that. She’s sitting right beside me. Yeah, I’ll call you when they’re done messing with me.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. “Let’s get this torture over with.” He throws open the door, and several people nearly slam into it and him as he steps out onto the busy sidewalk.

Lincoln shoves his hands in his pockets, his mood souring further as we approach the store. “They don’t open until ten.” He nods to the hours posted on the door.

“It’s a private fitting. They scheduled you outside regular hours.”

That scowl of his grows scowlier. “I hope these poor bastards are getting paid overtime for this.”

A saleswoman with the body of a model and the face of an angel opens the door for us. If I were with Armstrong, I’d have to threaten castration to prevent him from hitting on her within the first three seconds. Lincoln, on the other hand, barely grunts out a greeting and doesn’t so much as give her a once-over.

We follow her into the fitting area where a selection of suits are hung beside matching, headless mannequins. A team of people await our arrival. An entire breakfast spread is laid out, and the second we enter the room, the team flock over, offering refreshments and coffee.

Lincoln looks to me, his expression almost panicked.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “Or eat?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I can get it myself, thanks.” He grabs a croissant and shoves it into his mouth—the entire thing, all at once—and motions to the bottles of water. “Can I get tap water instead of this?” His mouth is still full and he’s chewing, so none of the sales team understand his garbled speech.

“He’d like tap water,” I explain to the confused saleswoman. It looks like we’ll need a refresher on table etiquette before the next public dinner function.

She blinks a few times, the request clearly throwing her. “Oh, of course. I’ll be right back.”

The angel model smiles widely and claps her hands together. “Mr. Moorehead, we’re honored to have you here today. Let me introduce you to our team. I’m Bianca, and I’ll be attending to all of your needs today. Anything you want, you ask and I’ll provide it.” Of course she punctuates this with a wink. Way to keep the innuendos subtle, Bianca.

“You all right? You got something in your eye?” Lincoln motions to her face and then slips his hand in his pocket, possibly feigning innocence, or maybe that went completely over his head.

Bianca’s cheeks flush, but she recovers quickly. “Probably an eyelash.”

I cough to cover a snicker, and Bianca moves on down the line, introducing the rest of the team. “This is Bradley, your tailor, he’ll be taking your measurements and fitting your suits. They’ll be custom-made to your exact specifications.”

“Once we’re done here, we’ll head over to the spa where you’ll meet with the barber and the aesthetician.”

Lincoln throws me a narrow-eyed glare. “What do I need an aesthetician for?”