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

  Table of Contents

  P.S. I Dare You

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Epilogue

  SAMPLE – War and Love

  Other Books by Winter Renshaw

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT 2018 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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  DESCRIPTION

  Dear Ms. Keane,

  Before this ridiculous little arrangement commences, I’d like to make myself indubitably clear: I know who you are, I know that my father hired you, I know why my father hired you, but most importantly, your services aren’t needed.

  In fact, I want no part of my father’s billion-dollar empire, and him “gifting” me with one of the “best concierges in the county” won’t change that. He’s wasting his money. You’re wasting your time.

  However, seeing as how you foolishly signed an ironclad contract with an Act of God clause and my father has strong-armed me into taking this position, it appears as though we’re stuck together—at least until your contract is up next month.

  That said, our time together at WellesTech should be relatively painless, but please don’t fool yourself into thinking I don’t notice when that pretty little stare lingers a little too long or the way your breath catches when our hands graze. You’re fascinated by me, and it kills you because you can hardly stand to be in the same room as me.

  Think I’m a problem worth solving? An impossible riddle to figure out? By all means, go ahead and try. Solve for X. Crack the code. It might even be fun (but only for me, not you).

  V/r,

  Calder Welles II

  Epigraph

  and i

  fell for you,

  like raindrops.

  —How an Ocean is Made, Pavana

  For you. Yes, you. ☺

  “WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, Mr. Welles, I’m not understanding the scope of this contract.” My back is arrow-straight, my legs are crossed at the knees, and my hand are folded in my lap despite the fact that we’re FaceTiming and he can’t see anything lower than my cardigan-covered shoulders. The five-page agreement his assistant emailed me this morning is stacked in a neat pile to my right. “You want me to provide concierge ministrations for your son? And what does he do, exactly? Just trying to get an idea of what kind of services I’d be providing.”

  I spent hours last night Googling Calder Welles and his twenty-eight-year-old namesake, Calder Welles II. At one point, I must have had thirty tabs open in my browser.

  According to the uber-reliable source that is Wikipedia, the elder Calder Welles is the president and CEO of WellesTech, a technological conglomerate that also owns a news network and one of the most popular video on-demand streaming services in the world.

  His mysterious son, however? His Internet existence seems to be boiled down to a couple of lines in his father’s WellesTech website biography. He might as well be fictional. I couldn’t so much as find a single photograph of him that was a) recent and b) unblurred.

  He has inky dark hair.

  That’s about all two solid hours of online research could give me.

  Mr. Welles leans forward in his russet-colored chair and clears his throat. “My son … is a bit of a … free spirit. With an extremely difficult … disposition. To put it nicely.”

  I’m still confused. “Does he work with you? At WellesTech?”

  I already know the answer. According to the WellesTech staff directory, the only Calder Welles who works there is the one on the other side of this screen.

  His lips pull at the sides, revealing a too-perfect smile that contrasts against his tawny, wrinkled skin.

  Veneers.

  Definitely veneers.

  “Not exactly,” he says with a slight chuckle that morphs into a sputtering cough. “But that’s the goal. That’s why I’m hiring you.”

  I haven’t agreed to sign the contract, but I won’t mention that yet.

  Over the past three years, I’ve concierge’d for Silicon Valley executives, Fortune 500 CEOs, Hollywood royalty, and Orange County stay-at-home wives, and while they ran the gamut as far as personality quirks and backgrounds, the one thing they all had in common was that they needed me. They had work for me to do. I was hired to make their busy, chaotic lives easier. All of my charges know that if they hire me, they have absolutely nothing to worry about. I’m a self-starter. If I need an answer to something, I find it without bothering them. I’m resourceful and quick on my feet. The most responsible woman they’ll
ever know.

  They call me “the control freak’s answer to a personal assistant,” and for that reason and that reason alone, I’ve got a client wait list five miles long.

  “I’ll be stepping down in the coming year.” He lifts a veiny fist to his thin lips, wheezing until he manages to wrangle the narrow glass of water in front of him. “And I’d like to get my ducks in a row, so to speak.”

  “So he’s taking over the company and you’re hiring me to make his life easier while you train him?” I ask, resisting the urge to reorganize the pens in my pencil cup by color and tip size. Instead, I slide the cup behind my monitor.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Works every time.

  “He hasn’t agreed. Not yet,” Mr. Welles says. “Let’s just say we’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

  He’s crazy.

  This man is certifiably insane.

  And I should’ve known that after reading his Wiki bio. Mr. Welles has been married four times, owns eleven homes all over the world, a fleet of vintage Italian sports cars, a mega yacht named My Way, a 24k gold iPhone, and a lock of Elvis Presley’s hair. Of course he thinks he can bribe his son to take over his company by providing him with a personal concierge.

  Makes perfect sense … if you’re missing a few screws.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Welles,” I say to a man who is clearly used to getting everything he wants. “I’m not sure I’m what you’re looking for.”

  Had he read my curriculum vitae in full detail, he’d know this.

  I provide personal assistance for persnickety types. I run errands. I organize closets. I schedule travel. I coordinate projects. I walk dogs. I pay bills. I grocery shop. I schedule spa visits. I’ve even given foot massages, made allergy-friendly school bake sale cookies, and once flew on a private jet to Paris to pick up a special order Birkin for a US senator’s wife. My job isn’t glamorous or prestigious by any means, but I’m good at what I do. Correction: amazing at what I do.

  But being hired by an eccentric billionaire to assist his estranged son doing … what, I’m not sure … that’s a first. The son clearly doesn’t want or need me, and I’d rather be productive and stay busy than follow someone around like an unwanted pet, waiting for him to throw me a bone.

  “Of course you are.” His chest puffs and his mouth curves down. I’ve offended him.

  “I’m sure there are thousands of personal assistants in New York,” I say, eyeing the clock on the wall. I have three more FaceTime interviews lined up after this and a full inbox screaming for my attention. The number thirty-eight waits impatiently in that tiny red circle, taunting me.

  “I’ve been told you’re the best.” His brows meet.

  My ego purrs like a contented kitten on the inside, but I contain myself. “I appreciate that you’re discerning in who you hire, Mr. Welles, but I’m afraid I’ve got a wait list and at this point in my career, I’m being particularly judicious with my commitments.”

  “One hundred thousand per month,” he says.

  If I had coffee in my mouth, I’d spit it out right now. That’s over four times my going rate.

  He’s lost his damn mind.

  I respond with silence, my mind too busy running quick tabulations on what I could do with that kind of money. My student loans? Gone. Down payment on a condo? Boom. A real vacation? Costa Rica, here I come.

  “Three hundred,” he says. Clearly he mistook my stunned silence for something else.

  “Mr. Welles—”

  “Ms. Keane,” he cuts me off. “Perhaps I should make myself a little clearer: I’m dying. I don’t have a lot of time left. My son won’t speak to me. I need a middleman. Someone who can help me get through to him.”

  I was afraid of this …

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Welles. Forgive me for asking, but if you’re not on speaking terms, how do you know he needs or even wants a concierge?” I ask. In my mind, I imagine myself turning down other jobs, hopping on a plane to New York, and having Calder Welles the Second laugh in my face and refuse my services.

  He’d have every right, too.

  “That’s for me to worry about, Ms. Keane.” His chin juts forward and he straightens his emerald-striped tie. “So what do you say? Three hundred thousand for the month?”

  “And what if he doesn’t need me for the entirety of the month?” I ask.

  “You’ll be paid the same whether you work one day or thirty.”

  I couldn’t say ‘no’ to that offer if I wanted to.

  Licking my lips, I sit a little straighter and pull in a long breath before letting it go.

  “All right, Mr. Welles,” I say. “I accept your offer.”

  My track record is perfect, which has contributed to the word-of-mouth, near-overnight success I’ve known the last few years.

  I’m a workaholic perfectionist who’s never made a mistake.

  But something tells me … that’s all about to change.

  “YOUR P1HONE’S GOING OFF.” There’s a woman’s voice in my ear followed by the slip of a delicate arm beneath mine. A nose nuzzles against the bend of my neck a moment later, breath warm and soft on the top of my shoulder.

  Normally I’m adept at weeding out the sea barnacles, but evidently my gauge was off last night.

  “Babe, someone’s calling you ...” she whispers into my ear again, and I shudder.

  Babe?

  We met last night.

  My lips begin to part, the instructions to, “Don’t ever call me that again,” on the edge of my tongue, but her hand slides down my chest, and a moment later her long skinny fingers are wrapped around my morning wood. “You want me to silence it for you?”

  I sense a wicked grin in her soft voice, and while I’m not the biggest fan of reheating leftovers, she has me in a particularly vulnerable position.

  “I should get this. I’m expecting an important call,” I lie. Her warm hand unpries from my cock and she slinks back to her side of the king-sized bed. In the dark and from the corner of my eye, I watch her pull the sheets against her chest, tucking them under her arms like a makeshift towel.

  Oh, now she wants to be shy?

  I reach for the phone and flip it over to see who the hell is bothering me at six twenty-one in the morning, but the number flashing on my screen isn’t a number at all.

  It’s three words.

  All caps.

  DO NOT ANSWER.

  The girl in my bed watches me, our eyes catching before her gaze flicks away. She’s curious, I’m sure. Women always are, especially when they’ve tasted hope in the form of sexual attention and multiple orgasms. She’s probably wondering who could possibly be so important that I’d snuff out another round with her perfect, pointed C-cups and Angelina Jolie mouth.

  I won’t deny the physical chemistry we shared last night, but she’d be a damn fool to believe she’s any different from any other woman I’ve devoured in my day.

  Against my better judgement—and because I’ve already committed to answering the call in front of my present company—I press the pad of my thumb against the green circle and exhale.

  A second later, I answer with a cold and curt, “Hello?”

  “Calder?” It’s a woman’s voice.

  Not what I expected.

  “Who is this?” I glance at the caller ID on my phone again, half wondering if I was dreaming those three little words before.

  “Marta.” She states her name like a question. “Marta McDaniel.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  My father’s assistant.

  I’ve seen her name at the bottom of those letters he used to send me. What kind of man dictates his personal business and has his secretary transcribe them?

  Calder Welles Senior. That’s who.

  I pull the glass screen away from my ear, half-tempted to press the red button and put us both out of our misery right this instant.

  I haven’t heard from the bastard in four years—after I tol
d him off for the ninth time. I’m saving the tenth and final time for the day that sorry excuse for a man is lying helpless, frail, alone, and unloved on his deathbed—which I’m sure will be a Duxiana mattress covered in thousand thread count sheets because only the best will do for a man who has everything.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but your father needs to set up a meeting with you as soon as possible,” she says.

  Needs.

  That’s rich.

  I have needs too, Marta, I want to tell her. Needs that have never meant a fucking thing to the narcissistic pig who named his one and only son after himself, only to spend decades pretending he didn’t exist. Amongst other atrocities.

  “I’m afraid I’m busy,” I say.

  It’s not a lie. I have a life. One that doesn’t involve that selfish old bastard and his shiny bald head and beady eyes and those papery, wrinkled hands he never could keep to himself for more than five minutes at a time.

  Just ask my childhood nanny, a perky college coed who had no idea what she was signing up for by agreeing to work for the Welles family.

  Or the striking, honey-skinned Puerto Rican housekeeper he hired.

  And my mother’s hospice nurse … Brittany — who subsequently went on to become the second (but not the last) Mrs. Welles, a marriage that lasted a mere two-hundred and forty-six days.

  “Of course,” Marta says, her voice colored in gentle persuasion. I’ve never met Marta (and never intend to), but her jovial voice reminds me of a pleasantly plump Midwestern grandmother with wavy silver hair and chunky jewelry that she couples with bedazzled sweater sets. I picture her work desk littered with pictures of her extended family, each photo ambiguous enough to silently persuade others to ask where she fits into the mix, just so she has an excuse to talk about her family.

  If I’m right about her, Marta would be the first secretary my father has had in decades who didn’t come equipped with fake breasts and a too-eager-to-please mentality.

  But all of this is one hundred percent based on probability.

  I haven’t seen the self-centered mogul since my eighteenth birthday, when his wife (at the time) insisted on throwing a graduation party more befitting for a child finishing kindergarten than a strapping eighteen-year-old man child who spent the majority of his teenage years counting down the days until he could get the hell out of Bridgeforth Military Academy—the well-to-do’s private version of juvenile detention.