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

by Winter Renshaw

  It’s delicious.

  A quick glance at the sticker on the side of the cup shows that it’s exactly what I ordered yesterday morning. Double espresso. Sugar-free caramel syrup. Coconut milk. One Splenda. Extra ice.

  “How did you know …?” I ask.

  “The barista remembered you from yesterday,” he says. “Apparently you made quite the impression.”

  “I did?”

  Oh. Yeah. I re-organized the sugar and creamer stand while she made my drink. But I couldn’t help myself. The little colored packets were shoved every which way, some upside down, some blues mixed in with some pinks. And the milks and creamers needed to be in order of lightest to heaviest. The thing was practically screaming my name, and it looked damn fine by the time I was done with it.

  “You’re good at that, aren’t you?” he asks. “Leaving impressions.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t go around asking people what they think of me.” I return my coffee to the coaster and cross my legs. “Was there something you’d like me to get started on?”

  “Yes, actually,” he says. “I’m going to be emailing you a few reports. Since I don’t have time to read them thoroughly, I’d like you to do that for me and then summarize them.”

  Folding my hands and resting my elbows on my desk, I say, “Of course. And when would you like the summaries?”

  His brows knit. “As soon as possible, Ms. Keane. We only have twenty-nine more days together, as you know.”

  Calder points to the small calendar just below my computer monitor, where I’ve already put a perfect ‘X’ through today’s date. Okay, so maybe the countdown is a little over the top, but after leaving Mr. Welles’ office this morning, I wasn’t exactly in a calm, cool, and collected state of mind, and dragging my pen across that little square was just what I needed to soothe my sour mood.

  But I’m better now.

  Especially since it seems like Calder is attempting to turn over a new leaf. If this continues and he’s actually being sincere (and I have no reason to believe he isn’t), the next four weeks might not be so bad?

  “Right,” I say. “Okay. I’ll watch for that email.”

  I can’t help but think there’s something more he wants to say. He wouldn’t come in here and take a seat for the sake of telling me he’s sending me some reports to summarize, right?

  “Was there anything else?” I ask, shaking the mouse to my desktop machine.

  “Oh, there you are, sir.” Lillie’s hourglass figure fills my doorway. “Marta was looking for you.” Her gaze soars to mine and she gives a curious half squint.

  Calder stands. “I’ll email you shortly.”

  Lillie waits for him to leave before rushing into my office and shutting the door. “What the hell are you still doing here? I thought you were going to quit today?”

  I rest my chin on the top of my hand. “I tried.”

  “What do you mean, you tried?”

  Dragging in a gravelly breath, I shake my head. “There’s a clause in my contract. It’s this whole thing. Anyway, I guess I’m stuck here another four weeks. So … yay?”

  She laughs through her nose. “It can’t be that bad, right? I mean, at least he’s something to look at.”

  “Yeah. Totally makes up for everything.”

  Lillie rolls her eyes. “I’m just trying to get you to look at the bright side. Literally.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  She taps the screen on her white watch before blowing a breath through the side of her mouth. “Ugh. Conference call with London in five minutes. Drinks tonight? I feel like there’s more to this than you’re letting on. Like you hated this guy and now you’re sitting there like it’s no big deal that they won’t let you quit.”

  “It is no big deal.” Or at least it’s not as big of a deal as I thought it would be. That’s the thing about emotions—when they’re running high, they distort everything in their path. Now that I’ve had a chance to chill out a little and now that Calder’s shown he’s capable of doing something thoughtful for another human being, I have hope.

  “Still … drinks anyway?” she asks. “Happy Hour at The Lowery?”

  I nod, and the instant Lillie leaves, an email pings my inbox. And another and another. I double click on the first attachment. Upon first glance, the thing reads like stereo instructions—not that I’ve ever read actual stereo instructions. I just remember my dad always using that comparison back in the day when something confused him. Though looking back, everything confused him all of the time, and likely because he was half-baked the majority of his waking hours.

  I scroll through the first report. All twenty-seven pages. And then I grab a notebook and pen from my desk drawer and get to work, mentally starting my countdown to Happy Hour.

  LEAVING MY FATHER’S BUILDING just past six o’clock tonight is akin to walking out of the fiery gates of hell. The concrete jungle has never felt so refreshing, the foul sewer air so invigorating.

  Meetings. Policies. Introductions. Quarterly agendas. I don’t understand who in their right mind would enjoy this sort of thing enough to do it day in and day out.

  My morning kicked off with an unscheduled meeting with my new assistant and proceeded with my father dragging me around from office to office, introducing me to various department heads, all of them old white men with expensive suits, thinning heads of hair, and drop-dead gorgeous assistants—proof that my father is stuck in the kind of fictional Mad Men world that would put Don Draper’s life to shame.

  But that’s neither here nor there because I’m two seconds from ducking into The Lowery for a double whisky before I head home.

  I have to say, I finally get the whole happy hour thing. Not that I didn’t understand it before, I just didn’t need, want, or choose to understand it. But now these assholes in suits have my full sympathies.

  The Gods of Good Fortune smile down upon me when I spot my favorite seat at the end of the bar the second I step inside. Shrugging out of my jacket and slinging it over my arm, I make my way through the half-drunk crowd. I don’t recognize tonight’s bartender—she must be new—but it isn’t hard to mess up two fingers of Macallan.

  “Hi there, handsome.” She greets me immediately, her shoulders slightly hunched and the soft tops of her breasts squeezing out of her scoop-neck top like goose down pillows. Her eyes are circled in way too fucking much makeup and her hair is piled into some kind of frizzy rat’s nest bun on top of her hair, but I’m not here to judge.

  “Double Macallan. Thanks.” I glance away, scanning my surroundings for a familiar face. Ever since this place was featured on some mind-numbing reality show earlier this year, the crowd hasn’t been the same. It’s mostly tourists these days. The locals have moved on, though I’m still trying to determine to where. Just last month, the owner told me he wished he never would’ve signed that release and allowed them to film here. The bar’s been in his family since the 1930s, and he sold his soul to the devil for a hot minute of free publicity.

  We all make mistakes.

  The bartender returns with a drink that looks closer to three fingers than two, and I slide her a twenty. No point in opening a tab. I won’t be here long.

  Lifting the drink and taking a sip, I peruse my surroundings one more time.

  “No fucking way.” I mutter, my mouth against the crystal tumbler. I take a generous mouthful of the burning amber liquid, my vision squaring up with the pretty little number in the booth in the corner.

  Aerin nods to the blonde across from her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. And when it’s her turn to speak, she uses her hands. Her expression dances between wide smiles and furrowed brows—whatever she’s talking about has her running the full spectrum of human emotions apparently. And the girl across from her, whom I recognize from the other night and whom I learned today was “Lillie Treadwell from Payroll,” sits beside a gentleman who can’t seem to keep his body from draping over her.

  Desperate. Pathetic.<
br />
  Is that seriously what women are into these days?

  I take another drink, this one also unintentionally too generous, but it’s all the same. The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can get the hell out of here.

  Turning my attention back toward the bar, I rest my elbows on the scratched wooden top and do my best to ignore their presence—which shouldn’t be hard seeing how packed this place has become in the past five minutes. It’s loud as hell, Dean Martin pumping through the speakers.

  Some drunk girl pushes into me, nearly making me spill my drink.

  “Oh, my gawd, I’m so sorry!” she says, her palms splayed on my back, her perfume invading my lungs and her over-exaggerated Queens accent assaulting my eardrums. “Are you okay? Did I spill your drink? I can buy you a new one.”

  I straighten my back, jerking my body out from under her hands and refusing to make eye contact. “I’m good.”

  In an instant, she’s gone, and I check the time on my phone. I must have checked it a thousand times today, which is insane because any other day I might be lucky to check it twice, if at all. But the day kept dragging and I kept checking to see if it was an appropriate time to leave. As busy as my father kept me, I’d have expected the day to be over in the blink of an eye, but it was quite the opposite.

  Apparently, time only flies if you’re having fun.

  Shooting back the remains of my Macallan, I rise and make my way to the line for the bathroom. Three women and two men wait ahead of me. This could take five minutes or this could take all night, but my place is a good twenty-minute walk from here, so I’ll take my chances.

  “Calder.” A woman’s voice from behind me is followed by the prod of a fingertip into my shoulder.

  Turning, I find myself face-to-face with Ms. Keane herself.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, the hint of a slur in her voice. Her shoulders are aligned and she holds her chin high. She might be doing her best to act sober, but she can’t keep her body from swaying ever so slightly.

  “How many drinks have you had, Keane?” I ask.

  Her dark brows gather. “I’m pretty sure that’s nonnne of your business.”

  “You’re lit.”

  “We’re not doing this,” she says, slicing her hand through the air, though almost as if it’s on a delayed reaction.

  I stifle a laugh. This tiny little thing with gorgeous, sparkling eyes doesn’t intimidate me in the least, not even with a scowl that would frighten small children and animals.

  “I need to know something,” she continues.

  “All right?”

  “Why were you so nice to me this morning?” The line moves and she takes a step closer to me before I have a chance to step closer to the man in front of me. The space between us is tight, and a citrus-and-spearmint scent mixes with a soft, floral perfume and fills the space around me.

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” I finally move. She follows. The fact that she’s two sheets to the wind is clearly having an effect on her ability to accurately judge and acknowledge personal space. She’s lucky I find this amusing. And she’s lucky she’s hot AF.

  “You defended me,” she says. “I mean, I think that’s what you did. In your father’s office. You tried to tell him to let me out of my contract.”

  “Oh, you mean when I was being a decent human being?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why would I force someone to work for me who doesn’t want to?” I ask. She shouldn’t get it twisted. My simple act of kindness was mutually beneficial … if only it hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

  Her rosy lips almost bunch at one side and her dark eyes fall to the floor. It’s only under this light that I notice the spray of freckles across her nose. Her makeup must have worn off throughout the day. I imagine she keeps them hidden because they make her look younger than she already is, more girlish. Aerin Keane is a woman who wants to be taken seriously, but she’s mistaken if she thinks all that entails is covering up her freckles.

  A burst of warmth floods my body, like the whisky waited until this very moment to kick in.

  “You shouldn’t wear so much makeup.” I regret the words the second they leave my mouth.

  Holy shit.

  That came out wrong … in so many ways, on so many levels.

  “I don’t mean it like—” I add.

  “—what’s that supposed to mean?” Her left hand hooks at her hip and her lips are slightly agape. “The way I look is none of your—”

  “—I just meant,” I cut her off as she moves closer, but I lose my train of thought when her face is so close to mine I can almost taste that pink little mouth.

  The line moves again.

  I move again.

  She moves again.

  Pull yourself together, Welles. Fix this.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you hide your freckles,” I say, not sure this is going to make any of this better.

  Her nose wrinkles, head tilts. “And?”

  “You don’t need to hide your youth to be taken seriously.”

  “I’m not hiding my youth.” Her face is tight, as if my words taste bitter. “And even if I were, it’s not your place to comment about it. Have you no tact?”

  “I have plenty of tact,” I say. Just not in this moment.

  The line moves again—thank God.

  “It’s just makeup,” she says, shrugging and letting her hands fall at her sides. Sweet Jesus, she’s not going to let this go. I must have really nicked a vein here. “Did you know there are hundreds of foundation options out there? Sheer formulas. Medium. Full coverage. BB creams. CC creams. Tinted moisturizers. Organic products. Vegan products. Mineral makeup. And each brand has its own range of shades and colors with various undertones like cool and neutral and warm. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find that one holy grail of foundation that works with your skin type and looks natural and matches your tone perfectly? Do you?”

  I cover my smirk with my hand before biting my lower lip. “I … can’t say that I do, Keane.”

  “So now I’m curious … what other assumptions have you made about me?”

  “Why would you ask that? Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you tell me just this morning that you don’t go around asking people what they think about you?”

  “That was then. Before you accused me of being ashamed of my freckles.”

  “Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.” I slide my hands in my pockets, letting my shoulders fall, showing her this conversation amuses more than aggravates me.

  “If we’re going to be working closely together for the next four weeks, I’d like to set the record straight on any misconceptions you might have.”

  The line moves. We move.

  One more ahead of me, then it’s my turn and I can get the hell out of here.

  “Honestly, Keane, I haven’t thought about you all that much,” I lie.

  I thought about her more than I should have today. I thought about her ass in that tight skirt. I thought about how good she’d look with one less blouse button buttoned. I thought about how it might feel with her legs wrapped around me or what she’d do if I claimed that hot little mouth for my own.

  It’s funny where the mind wanders when it wants to be anywhere but sitting in an office across from my father’s cronies, listening to my dad act like we’ve been in touch all these years and I’ve just been “busy.”

  “Rest assured I have no further ideations or notions about the person you are,” I say before turning away.

  “I don’t buy it.”

  I glance back at her. “You don’t have to buy it.”

  “I can tell by the way you look at me, you’re thinking … things. I don’t know what they are, but you’re thinking something …”

  I check the time on my phone. “Like I said, Keane, you’re drunk. And honestly, you should go home before you say or do something you’re going to regret in the morning. We’ll be seeing each again other
in approximately thirteen hours. I’m sure we could both use the space.”

  “I’m not drunk.” The pitch of her voice cuts through the loud bar and she lifts on the balls of her feet.

  “You’re not … not drunk.”

  “Whatever. Just … tell me what you see when you look at me,” she says.

  She’s crazy. Certifiably insane.

  The man before me looks over his shoulder at us. I’m pretty sure he’s been eavesdropping this entire time, but I can’t blame him.

  “You want to do this here? Now?” I ask.

  Rubbing her lips together, she nods with the kind of enthusiasm only a woman with a couple of strong gin and tonics in her veins could muster.

  “Keane. Please. I’m not—”

  “—do you think I’m uptight?” she asks.

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “It’s okay if you do. Most people think that about me. And they’re not wrong.”

  Inhaling a sharp breath, I hold it for a second. “Yeah, all right. You seem uptight.”

  To say the least.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have an uptight assistant than some Type B sloth?”

  “Aren’t all sloths Type B?”

  “That’s not my point.” Her fists ball at her sides.

  Holy shit, this woman needs to get laid STAT.

  “You’re laughing,” she says, lifting a pointed finger in my direction. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you and you’re laughing.”

  “Am I?”

  Keane rolls her eyes, and it takes a second for her vision to focus on me again. “Once an asshole, always an asshole. I knew that whole nicey-nice act today was a fluke.”

  “Are we done here?” I ask when the man ahead of me heads into the restroom. I’ve been after the owner for years to add another bathroom, but he refuses, saying that modernizing this place would completely take away from its charm and history. Hell, the cast iron bucket sink in there is the same one they’ve had since the fifties; the same one Sinatra once used to rinse a spilled martini out of his pressed shirt one blustery New Year’s Eve a lifetime ago.

  “I don’t know, are we?” she asks.