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

by Winter Renshaw

  A men’s hair loss commercial fills the screen, and I reach for my phone, pulling up a news site and taking a look at the day’s shitfest headlines.

  ADULTERY NO LONGER A CRIME IN INDIA

  TOP REPUBLICAN WANTS JONES CLAIM PROBED

  NIKE TO PART WAYS WITH BEAU CARTER

  THE NEWEST CASE AGAINST ROY SAMUELSON

  I tap the fourth article.

  This jackass is always in the news for some reason or another. Last month it was for sending expired malaria vaccines to Uganda, which his top-notch lawyer was able to explain away. Two months ago he was in hot water for setting up offshore business accounts in his sixteen-year-old son’s name in order to avoid paying taxes—yet another situation his lawyer was able to weasel him out of.

  The son of a bitch is slippery.

  It’s a miracle he hasn’t seen the inside of a jail cell—yet.

  All the more reason I need to ensure Samuelson doesn’t lay a finger on WellesTech. I can’t have him tarnishing the Welles name or my mother’s legacy. After all, it was her family’s money that built this empire.

  After she passed, all the money she’d inherited from her parents—millions of dollars she’d had locked up in trusts and investments—was liquefied and given to my father, who then used it to grow the company, turning it into what it is today.

  That wouldn’t have happened had Samuelson not killed my mother with his bogus medical equipment.

  My show comes back on, and I toss my phone onto the covers.

  Fine. I’ll take over the fucking company.

  But as soon as my father dies, I’m selling it to someone decent. Someone with morals and human fucking decency.

  Samuelson has my mother’s blood on his hands. I’ll be damned if he gets her money too.

  I FILL MY PALMS with cleansing oil and rub the makeup off my face with a little too much vigor. When I’m finished, I’ll scrub the taste of my gin and tonic out of my mouth.

  Ever since leaving The Lowery, I can’t stop replaying Calder’s words.

  A snack?

  A snack?!

  Who does he think he is?

  I rinse the oil off my face and pat my skin dry. The redness on my cheeks is a sign that I might have overdone it, but a little moisturizer should remedy that, and I’ll be good as new in the morning.

  Ugh.

  The thought of going into the office in the morning, facing Mr. Welles, and potentially seeing Calder, sends a tight churn to the pit of my stomach.

  Sure. Maybe I went off on him and maybe it wasn’t the most professional thing for me to do, but the bastard deserved it.

  And honestly, he should be embarrassed, not me.

  He accused me of thinking he was flirting with me, told me I was his type, then referred to me as a snack.

  It doesn’t get more pompous than that.

  I replace the cap on my cleansing oil and wipe any residue off the bottle before reaching for my moisturizer. Eye cream is next. Then a lip mask. There’s a proper order to these things, one that I follow to the ‘T’ every night. In fact, I can’t go to bed without having completed my nightly routine and having placed all of my products in a very specific order alongside the sink.

  Some might call me OCD.

  I call it living with intention. Conscientious. Proper.

  I also call it the aftermath of growing up with zero order in my life. Towels for pillowcases when the laundry was behind. Peanut butter in the fridge one day, in the pantry the next. Dish soap for dishwasher detergent. Bread slices substituting for dog food when we ran out. No bedtime. No curfew. Never once taught how to make my bed—I only learned after watching a YouTube tutorial when I was twelve.

  There’s nothing wrong with fighting chaos with order.

  I climb into my bed at half past eight. My brother’s place is quiet, too quiet, since he’s working another double shift. If there’s anyone in this world who loves to pour themselves into work more than I do, it’s Rush.

  Grabbing my phone, I perform my pre-bed reading protocol, starting with The Skimm, moving onto NPR, and finishing with a ten-minute mindfulness meditation.

  Clearing my head when all it wants to do is relive my brief, fleeting, and infuriating interactions with Calder proves almost impossible, but I stay strong, pushing through it.

  When I’m finished, I double check my alarm before docking my phone.

  Can’t be late for my firing.

  IF A PERSON DIDN’T know my father, they might actually believe he’s a family man.

  A photo of me is framed on his desk, which begs two questions: how did he get it? And how did I not notice it last time?

  It’s from a charity event I attended a few years ago, one with celebrities and red carpets. Not my scene. But it was an organization founded by one of my friends from college, and I’m nothing if not a loyal comrade, so I rented a tux, paid for a thousand-dollar dinner plate, and made an appearance.

  He must have purchased it from Getty images and had it framed.

  Correction—he must have had Marta purchase it from Getty images and had it framed.

  I check the time on my phone. I’ve been sitting in here for almost twenty minutes while my father finishes up some meeting in the conference room down the hall that his assistant swore would only be a few minutes longer.

  Rising from the guest seat, I slide my hands in my pockets and head to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the non-windowed wall. Framed photos of my father with his newest wife—who can’t be much younger than myself—fill every nook and cranny.

  I imagine he wants to show her off, and there’s no denying she’s a stunner. Runner’s body. Full lips. Pale, wavy hair that cascades down her shoulders, hitting just above her round tits.

  My father is an intelligent man. I wonder if it ever bothers him that she’s clearly only fucking him because he’s richer than God.

  Probably not.

  I make my way to the next row of shelves, stopping short when I spot a 3x5 photo of the two of us. Grabbing the silver frame and bringing it closer, I inspect a photo that feels familiar despite the fact that I’ve never seen it in my life.

  I must have been eight maybe? Nine?

  A baseball uniform covers my skinny frame—I was number eleven, I recall—and my father towers beside me, his arm around my shoulders and the proudest Danny Tanner beam on his sun-bronzed face.

  He had hair then.

  And a genuine twinkle in his eyes.

  The most infectious laugh, just like Mom’s.

  It’s strange seeing him in jeans and a t-shirt with a full mane of dark hair. It’s almost like looking at a stranger. Or someone who died a lifetime ago. And in a way, that’s exactly what happened. The man in this photo no longer exists.

  Despite owning nothing of value—no mansion, no fleet of imported luxury vehicles, no drivers or security guards, no rich kid camps or annual yacht vacations in the Maldives—we had everything we needed: we had each other.

  “C.J.” My father’s voice echoes through his expansive office, jolting me out of my moment. “Was hoping I’d see you today.”

  I peel my attention from the photograph and straighten my shoulders.

  “I take it you’ve reached a decision?” he asks before coughing into a balled fist. His cologne—the same spicy, old man cologne he’s worn his entire life—fills my lungs. It takes me home for a moment, but I’m swiftly deposited back into reality when I spot yet another photograph on the shelf.

  He and my mother.

  They’re young in this one—it had to have been before they had me. Her hair is long and straight and parted in the middle. Oversized eighties-style glasses cover her beautiful face, but she’s grinning—mouth agape like she’d been laughing, and she’s looking at him while he makes a silly face.

  I’m not sure why this photo, of all photos, would earn a spot on his shelf or why he would keep something like this around for decades, but I’m not about to ask.

  I’m not about to have a moment w
ith my father.

  We’re not there yet—and I doubt we’ll ever be there.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, adding, “But not because I want it.”

  My father’s thin lips press and he nods. He knows. He knows he backed me into a corner with Samuelson because that was his plan this whole time.

  He might not be smiling, but the pride he senses from his little victory practically oozes from his every pore.

  “I’m very glad to hear that, C.J. I know the decision wasn’t easy for you,” he says, voice groggy until he clears his throat. “But I think—”

  I’m about to tell him to spare me from the bullshit when his phone rings.

  My father lifts his finger before heading to his desk and pressing a button.

  “Yes, Marta?” he asks.

  “Ms. Keane would like a quick word with you. Should I send her in?” she asks.

  My father checks his watch. “I’m not expecting her for another hour. Have her wait.”

  Marta is quiet for a second, and then she does that nervous humming thing. “Um, sir. She says it’s urgent. And that it’ll just take a second.”

  He exhales, leaning against his desk.

  “Fine. Yes. Send her in.” He ends the call, uncaps the bottle of Evian that had been waiting for him on his desk, and turns back to me. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any for you to meet your new assistant.”

  A second later, his double doors swing open and in marches the same petite brunette from yesterday in a navy shift dress and nude kitten heels, her hair piled on top of her head in a perfect ballerina bun.

  “Aerin,” my father says, his demeanor shifting from grumpy-old-man to people-pleasing ladies’ man in the blink of an eye. “Everything all right? Marta said you—”

  Producing a white envelope, she hands it over. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m going to have to resign.”

  His gaze flicks from the envelope to her and back as he accepts it but doesn’t dare rip the paper. If I know my father, he’s going to try to talk her out of this. If it’s not something he wants, he won’t accept it.

  “I don’t understand,” he says. His breathing is wheezier than it was a moment ago. He doesn’t like this.

  Keeping back in my corner, I watch this shit show unfold. She hasn’t so much as noticed me standing here, and I’m all ears, curious to see what bullshit reason she gives.

  It’s all the same to me.

  I have no use for her.

  “Ms. Keane, before we proceed here, I want to remind you that quitting at this point would be in breach of your contract,” my father says, his thin chest rising as he inhales. “The Force Majeure clause to be exact.”

  “Actually, I read through the contract last night and there’s an exit clause—for unwarranted behavior and gross misconduct.” Her hands clasp at her hips, but from my angle, I can’t stop feasting my eyes on the way that tight fabric hugs her peach-shaped ass.

  He chuckles. “Unwarranted behavior? Gross misconduct? You’ve worked here for a day. Care to enlighten me, Ms. Keane? Because I’m extremely confused here.”

  “We had a little … incident yesterday,” I chime in. My father is the King of Contract Clauses, and this poor girl is about to get raked over the coals if she so much as thinks about breaching whatever bullshit arrangement she agreed to.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I’m heartless, but I’m not that heartless.

  The girl twists around, her full lips forming a quick ‘o’, and then I watch as she swallows hard.

  “But everything’s fine,” I say. “Isn’t it, Ms. Keane?”

  I don’t this woman from Adam and I don’t owe her a damn thing, but that won’t stop me from ensuring my billionaire father doesn’t take advantage of her.

  “Oh.” He lifts a brow. “The two of you have already met?”

  “Not formally.” I step toward her, right hand extended. “Calder Welles.”

  I leave out “Junior” or “the Second.” And I sure as hell don’t introduce myself as “C.J.”

  She meets my handshake with obvious reluctance, her sharp stare piercing mine. “Aerin Keane.”

  Our hands linger for a few beats longer than necessary, but she jerks hers away the second I offer a smirk.

  She hates me, which is fine. It’s actually kind of cute. I don’t know any women who’ve actually hated me before I fucked them.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Keane, but I can’t let you out of your contract that easily.” My father’s tone is gentle, but his intent is razor-sharp. “It would take an act of God. Literally. I strongly advise that you read the fine print.”

  “Surely you could if you wanted to,” I interject. “You had the contract drawn up, I’m sure you could void it.”

  My father struts across the room toward me, hooking his hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze as he laughs.

  “My son, you’ve much to learn,” he says. “Rule number one if you want to be successful? Be a man of your word. Honor all agreements, big and small.”

  Aerin’s eyes rest on mine.

  Or dare I say … plead with mine?

  “I’m sure whatever happened between the two of you can be worked out. We’re all adults here, all professionals,” my father says, reaching for his Evian again. “Aerin is one of the best, and she’s only with us for the next twenty-nine days. I wanted someone in place during the transition. After that, you’re free to use Marta or hire someone of your choosing.”

  Ah. She’s a temp.

  “I respectfully disagree. If Ms. Keane would like to quit, we should allow her to go. And we shouldn’t let the door hit her on the way out.” I flash her a look I know will piss her off—but only because she wants to hate me and I’m standing here like her own personal knight in shining armor. “I’m sure you can find another temp. There are agencies all over the city.”

  “You don’t understand,” my father says. “She’s one of the best. You should see her resume. Hell, her letters of recommendation could fill a binder.”

  She sounds like someone who takes her job—and herself—way too seriously.

  “While that’s very commendable, I still don’t see why we should force her hand,” I say. “It’s just a piece of paper that could easily be shredded.”

  I watch my father, waiting to see if he catches what I’m really saying, but instead he clears his throat and rises on his toes.

  “I’m sorry, C.J.,” he says. “I think Ms. Keane will be a huge asset during our transition. I’m standing by the contract and that’s that.”

  He walks away, turning his back on the both of us, and I give her a shrug.

  I tried.

  And it’s just twenty-nine days.

  I’ll have to ensure we have as little contact as possible and then send her on her way. It’s the best I can do since the King of Contract Clauses feels it necessary to also retain his Lord Douche Bag title.

  The biggest challenge I foresee with the two of us working together has nothing to do with productivity and everything to do with me trying to keep my mind out of the gutter.

  “Ms. Keane, were you able to get set up in your office yesterday?” My father switches gears. Aerin nods. “If you’re all finished here, I’ll send you that way.”

  She looks to me, then to him, and then turns on her heel. A moment later she’s gone, the double doors swinging behind her, and my father is ripping her resignation in half.

  “Whatever happened, you need to make it right,” he says to me, taking a seat in his king-sized leather chair. “I don’t want to know the details. I just want to ensure Legal’s not going to be getting involved.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not quite grasping what’s so special about this woman? Surely there are a thousand more where she came from?”

  He shakes the mouse to his computer, squinting at the screen. “It’s up to you if you want the shiny Rolls Royce of personal assistants, C.J. … or if you’re happy with the rusted Plymouth. Trust me when I tell you a g
ood assistant is worth her weight in diamonds.”

  I bite my tongue.

  You can’t argue with stupid, and you can’t reason with crazy.

  “I’ve got a conference call in forty minutes that I’d like you to sit in on,” he says, thick fingers clacking against his keyboard. “In the meantime, I’ve had IT set up an office for you next to Ms. Keane’s.” He points toward the door. “Turn left out there, fifth door on the right. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

  Oh, joy. A corner office in a skyscraper.

  Just what I’ve always wanted.

  I’M MIDWAY THROUGH composing a text to my brother when a knock at my door sends a shock to my heart, causing me to nearly drop my phone at my feet.

  When I glance up from my desk, I spot the unapologetically masculine silhouette of Calder Welles II standing in my doorway, an iced coffee in hand—much like the one from yesterday.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “Peace offering.”

  He places the sweaty plastic cup on my desk, and I waste no time relocating it to an I Heart NY coaster I picked up from a street vendor on the way to work this morning.

  Wiping the ring of condensation off the wood top of my desk, I breathe a quick “thank you” before wondering why the hell he’s still standing here.

  My gaze lands on his shoes—white Chucks. I don’t know a lot of men who can pull off the slim-fit gray khakis and Chucks look, but he not only pulls it off, he looks like he pulled the look off a billboard in Times Square, but in a way that’s all his own.

  Calder takes the seat across from my desk, crossing his legs wide and studying me. The sleeves of his cobalt blue sweater are shoved up to his elbows, and I can’t help but notice he doesn’t wear a watch.

  I’m sure he could afford any Breguet, Chopard, or Rolex he wants, but his wrist is naked. This man might be an asshole, but he’s quite possibly the most down-to-earth asshole I’ve ever met—externally speaking.

  Facade only.

  His rich, creamy center is still an overpowering mix of arrogant, pedigreed douche.

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask, brows lifted as I take a drink of his peace offering.