P.S. I Dare You (PS Series Book 3)

by Winter Renshaw

  I see her swallow, the ball in her neck rolling up then down, and she stares at me as if I’m some mythical unicorn she never knew actually existed until now.

  I nod a silent thank you and head down the left hall.

  Two days ago I was in Telluride minding my own business when I got the news that my father is dying, and now here I am, granting a dying man’s wish.

  That’s got to make me worthy of some kind of sainthood, I’m sure.

  At the end of the hall is a half-circle desk the color of rich espresso, where the top of a platinum blonde head of hair peeks out.

  She must hear the gentle pad of my sneakers on marble because she looks up, smiles, and rises.

  “You must be Calder,” she says as she comes out from around her desk with her right hand extended. “I’m Marta.”

  And I’m … wrong to assume she was a Midwestern grandmother.

  So wrong.

  Marta is mid-thirties at most. Platinum hair cut into an angled bob, and she wears a tight navy pencil skirt and white button down—buttoned low enough to show a hint of her generous, too-perfect-to-be-real cleavage. Diamonds dangle from her ears. I’m willing to bet they were gifts from my father for “administrative assistant’s day.”

  Clearly he didn’t hire her strictly for her pleasing “phone voice.”

  That’s what I get for thinking my father just might be capable of changing his stripes.

  I can’t help but wonder what his current wife—Lisette—thinks of his assistant. I couldn’t begin to speculate seeing how I’ve never met Lisette, but I’ve seen her in pictures and she’s exactly what I would expect my father to marry for his fourth go-round.

  “I’m so glad you could make it.” Marta smiles wide, and I spot some red lipstick on the sides of her teeth, but I don’t want to embarrass her seeing how her voice is all breathless and shaky. “Your father has been preparing for this all morning. He’s very excited to see you. Would you like a coffee? I can send for one.”

  “No, thank you.” I clear my throat and peer down the hall where I spot the infamous twelve-foot double doors he had imported from Italy one summer. The WellesTech Media logo centers each door—hand-carved by some Parisian artisan of course—and the Welles family crest is displayed on the gold door hardware.

  “Sure, all right.” Marta smiles again, and the red lipstick has morphed into smeared pink. At least it’s less noticeable. “I’ll walk you back.”

  I keep a few steps behind her, my hands in my pockets as I stride down the marble hall, past oil portraits of my father over the years.

  I’d expect nothing less.

  There’s a confident sway in Marta’s walk, which is ironic considering how she constantly sounds like she’s in desperate need of a Xanax.

  She raps three times on the door when we arrive, and then she shows herself in.

  “Mr. Welles, your son is here,” she says before holding the door wide and waving for me to come in. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

  My father’s expression is frozen as he studies me. And he remains seated at his desk, which is fine. We’re not men who hug and if we were, we certainly would not hug each other.

  “C.J.,” he says, rising and smoothing his red tie.

  It’s been a solid decade since anyone’s called me C.J.

  Calder Junior … my father’s little nickname for me growing up. My mother always called me C.J. as well. She said it was the easiest way to differentiate between the two of us.

  And she thought it was cute.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” He points to the olive green suede guest chair across from him.

  Flattening my lips and exhaling, I take a seat so we can get this shit show over with.

  The only reason I’m here is because I’m curious as to what pressing matters of his estate he’d need to discuss with me in person.

  Maybe it’s a setup. Maybe he cast his reel and I took the bait. But no matter because he still can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do.

  “It’s good to see you, son,” he says, taking his seat.

  The bags under his eyes suggest exhaustion, and the skin on his hands is thinner than I remember, showing every purple-blue vein, but other than that, he looks the way I remembered—like an old, rich white man. I’m convinced in the end, they all look exactly the same.

  But he doesn’t look like a dying man. There’s color in his cheeks and his eyes are clear. And he’s here, isn’t he? Clocking in some hours?

  “Thank you for coming. I know the choice wasn’t easy for you,” he says. My father isn’t dumb. He thinks that thanking me and acknowledging that he knows the decision to come today was mine is going to soften me, but he’s wrong.

  “What did you need to discuss with me?”

  His thin lips curl for a moment before his expression returns to its former state. “Right. I suppose we should get on with this. I’m sure you have places to go, people to see.”

  “I do.”

  His beady blue eyes capture mine from across his glass-topped desk. “I wanted to talk to you about taking over WellesTech Media.”

  “Absolutely not.” My jaw clenches.

  “C.J.” His head tilts to the side and he chuckles, but this is not a joke. “I’ve built this … this empire … for you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “This is my legacy we’re talking about. Your birthright. Marta told you I’m—”

  “—yes, but that doesn’t change anything.” I feel myself glaring, unable to release the tightness in my face.

  My father leans back in his chair, the leather creaking, and drags his wrinkled hand across his chin as he studies me.

  “Here’s the thing, C.J.,” he says. “If you don’t want WellesTech, fine. But I’ll be forced to sell it. And as you know, this company is worth billions, so the pool of prospective buyers is naturally on the smaller side.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone.”

  “You see, that’s the thing. I already have.” He leans forward, his elbows on the desktop. A freshly stocked cup of his favorite gold pens rests to his right, crammed almost too full. “It’s the Samuelson-Barnes Group.”

  I don’t see my father anymore.

  I see red.

  Rising, I shove the chair away and head to the door, but when I get there, I stop cold in my tracks, a balled fist in the air.

  Turning to him, I ask, “Why? Why would you so much as consider that?”

  “They’ve been wanting to buy us out for years,” he says.

  Us.

  Like WellesTech has anything to do with me.

  “And they’ve made an incredibly generous offer,” he adds. “One I would be remiss to turn down.”

  “So that’s why you brought me here? To give me an ultimatum? Take over WellesTech or you’ll sell it to the company that was singlehandedly responsible for the death of my mother.”

  “I know it looks bad, but you need to understand, I’ve—”

  I strike my hand through the air before turning my back to him. “I don’t give a shit what your reasons are.”

  Gripping the door, I pull in a hard breath, letting it linger in my chest as I wrap my head around what this means and where this leaves me.

  If I take over the company, I can sell it to whomever I want. But that means I’ll be forced to learn how to run it, familiarize myself with the day-to-day operations and then some. I’ll have to spend day in and day out shadowing my father—a living nightmare of sorts.

  But if I don’t … if I walk away from his offer ... WellesTech will go to the Samuelson-Barnes Group, and when my father dies, I’ll inherit their dirty fucking blood money.

  The heartless bastard is strong-arming me.

  “I thought maybe you could learn the ropes.” His voice is gentler now. “I can teach you everything, C.J. While I’m still able to. Who knows how much time—”

  “Stop.” I interrupt him, turning to face him again. “If yo
u think reminding me every two seconds that you’re dying is going to earn you my sympathies or respect or even my forgiveness, you’re wrong.”

  His palms lift and his chin juts forward. “Fair enough.”

  “I need … I need to think about this.” I squeeze my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe I’m considering this. A few minutes ago, I was prepared to say a lot of things to my old man.

  This wasn’t one of them.

  “If you decide to come on board, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll even hire you an assistant, a concierge of sorts to make your life easier. You’re going to be busy and you’re going to need someone to do your shopping, things like that. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “I don’t need someone to shop for me. I like the way I dress.” I glance down at the navy waffle fabric of my Henley.

  “Someone to cook for you on occasion,” he goes on.

  “I order out. And I don’t like people making themselves at home in my kitchen ...”

  “Someone to run your errands, book your travel.”

  “I have a Cessna. I don’t need to book my travel,” I say.

  “She could keep you company at the very least. Assistants are there to relieve your burdens, and sometimes that includes ensuring you’re … comfortable, that all of your … needs … are met.”

  “Trust me, I have no problem ensuring my needs are met.” My words snip at the disgusting creature on the other side of the room. “And I would never put an employee in a position like that.”

  “Of course not,” he says a little too quickly. “You’re a good man, C.J. A better man than I ever was. Don’t think I don’t see that.”

  The ass-kissing is unnecessary. He’s embarrassing himself, and he doesn’t even realize it.

  My fist tightens around the doorknob that I’ve yet to release, the metal likely leaving indentations in my palm by now.

  “I know I don’t deserve a thing from you.” His voice breaks, but my heart remains hardened. “I just want to leave you with the best piece of me. It’s the least I can do after … everything.”

  Everything.

  I love how he can encompass a lifetime of shitty fathering into a single word like everything.

  I pause, all the things I want to say to him creeping up my throat, but now’s not the time.

  “I have to go.” I don’t wait for him to say goodbye.

  Yanking the door open, I take two steps before slamming into a pretty little brunette carrying an iced coffee from the WellesTech coffee bar.

  Or … she was carrying it.

  Now she’s wearing it.

  All over her white blouse.

  And let’s be fair here: she slammed into me. Who the hell walks that close to a door that could swing open at any given moment? Walk in the middle of the hall for fuck’s sake.

  Her rosebud mouth forms an ‘o’ and her honey-colored irises flash. The now-sheer fabric clings to her skin, exposing the floral lace detail of her bra cups, and tiny rivulets of brown liquid drip slowly down her cleavage.

  Coffee bath aside, I can’t help but notice she’s exceedingly attractive. What with her pointed nose, angled chin, and fan of thick, dark lashes. Her shiny dark hair stops at her shoulders, parted on one side, pressed stick-straight, and tucked behind one ear—not a single strand out of place.

  I’m willing to bet she’s as uptight as she is beautiful, and I’m also willing to bet the only reason my father hired her was because she fit his very specific mold: hourglass curves, youthful glow, sparkling eyes, full lips, young enough that she hasn’t yet lost that eager-to-please mentality.

  “You should really watch where you’re going,” I say before peering past her shoulder.

  The young woman opens her pink lips to say something, but I walk away, stopping for a quick second at Marta’s desk to hand her a fifty-dollar note from my wallet.

  “Dry cleaning,” I say before pointing behind me. “For the coffee girl.”

  Marta’s reach is slow, her brows meeting in the middle. “O... okay?”

  She’ll figure it out.

  For now, I have to go. I’ve got my own shit to figure out.

  ASSHOLE.

  I hold another paper towel under the faucet before wringing it, moving onto the neon orange, citrus-scented hand soap. I work it into a lather and press it against the splatter marks on my formerly pristine white shirt before muttering a silent prayer to the Gods of Stain-Fighting Power.

  Asshole.

  The splash marks barely lift from the fabric, and in fact, I might even be making it worse, which means I’m going to have to run home and change on my first day at WellesTech.

  Asshole!

  He ran into me. How dare he tell me to watch where I’m going?

  I know New Yorkers are a tough crowd, but this goes beyond.

  That man wasn’t tough.

  He was a jerk.

  Big difference.

  I can only hope and pray I won’t be working with that prick at any point in my tenure here—though I’m not sure if he even works here. He was in jeans and Chucks, hardly appropriate for a workplace like this.

  The ladies’ room door swings open and a young woman in a mauve shift dress steps in, her heels clicking on the penny round tile. With strawberry blonde waves that fall past her shoulders and a gaze the color of emeralds, I expect her to be as snotty as she is beautiful, only she stops in her tracks when she sees me and exhales as she lifts a palm to her heart.

  “You poor thing. Bad day?” she asks as she takes the spot next to me at the sink. Resting her small Prada bag on the counter, she begins to dig inside, retrieving a Tide pen. “I don’t know if this will do much, but you can try.” She smiles. “I’m Lillie, by the way. I work in Payroll.”

  I take the pen, though I think we both know it’s no use. The biggest stain was the size of a salad plate a few minutes ago, but all this dabbing has made it almost double in diameter.

  “I’m always spilling random things on myself,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Biggest klutz ever.”

  “I wish I could blame this on myself.” I sigh, pressing the pen against a small area to see if it’ll work. “Some jerk ran into me.”

  “Did he at least buy you another coffee?”

  I roll my eyes, handing the pen back to the friendliest New Yorker I’ve met in my life. I don’t want to waste the rest of it.

  “Nope,” I say. “He told me I needed to watch where I was going and then he walked away.”

  Her jaw slacks and our eyes catch in our reflections. She has the prettiest spray of freckles across her nose and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I swear everyone in this office must moonlight as Fashion Week models. I’ve never seen a collection of people so beautiful all in one place. It almost feels like The Twilight Zone.

  Lillie points, squinting. “Was it Javier in Accounting? I bet it was Javier. Did he look like Enrique Iglesias minus the mole?”

  I laugh through my nose. “No ...”

  “Was he blond? If he was blond then that was Brendan, our VP of Marketing.”

  “He had dark hair … and he was in jeans.” Now that I think about it, I really didn’t take that close of a look at his face. I was too in shock to process what had just happened, too worried about the transparency of my freshly-soaked blouse.

  “Oh.” She pushes a breath through her nose and glances to the left. “If he was in jeans, he doesn’t work here. Welles would never let anyone get away with dressing like that in the office. He was probably some salesman or vendor or something.”

  “Yeah, it’s all right. It happened. It’s over. I don’t even care to know his name anyway.” I face my reflection straight on, tugging at the damp fabric that clings to my skin.

  “Oh, hey, wait! Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” Lillie-from-Payroll turns on her heel and makes a beeline for the door, stepping out and returning thirty seconds later with a black cardigan in hand. �
�I always keep one of these in my office. Welles keeps this place ice cold year-round.”

  I accept the cashmere-soft sweater. “Are you sure?”

  Lillie’s eyes widen. “Yes. A hundred percent. Take it.”

  “You are amazing. Thank you. I’ll have it dry cleaned and get it back to you as soon as possible.” I slip my arms into the sleeves and work the buttons next. The espresso-stained blouse beneath is a cold and wet reminder against my skin, but at least it’s out of sight and I won’t have to run home to change.

  I’ve learned it’s always important to find the silver lining in every situation, even when it seems impossible. It’s the only way to stay sane in a world where things are constantly going wrong.

  “What a first day,” I say when I get the last button.

  “Aw, it’s your first day? I figured you were new because you didn’t look familiar. At least it can only get better from here, right?” Lillie reaches into her bag and retrieves a gold bullet of lipstick. A second later, she coats her mouth in the most perfect shade of office pink I’ve ever seen, though with our vastly different skin tones, I doubt it would look half as good on me. “You want to get drinks or something tonight? I mean, I know it’s a Tuesday, but it’s your first day and you look like you could use something to look forward to—unless you’re busy.”

  Rush said he was working a double tonight and my only plan was to order takeout from one of the Chinese menus magnetized to the side of his fridge. But a drink sounds better. And it’d be nice to have a friend around here, even if I won’t be around more than a month.

  “Yeah, that sounds fun, actually. Let’s do it,” I say.

  Lillie’s emerald eyes light and her lips pull into a wide grin. “Perfect. There’s a place around the corner with the best strawberry basil martinis you’ll ever have in your entire life. Meet me at the elevators at five?”

  I nod as Lillie’s heels click across the tile floor and she locks herself in a stall. I give myself one final check in the mirror, ensuring my stain is covered enough, and I head back out to Mr. Welles’ assistant’s desk. Between fielding phone calls and doing his bidding, she’s been handling my orientation, which so far has consisted of a few forms from HR, a thirty-minute video on sexual harassment in the workplace (standard procedure, she said), and a fifteen minute break—which was when I made the life-altering decision to grab an iced coffee from the employee coffee bar in the lower level.