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

  “Oh, there you are,” Marta says as I round the corner by her desk a moment later. “Thought maybe you got lost.”

  She has the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on another human being before—extensions, I’m sure, but she wears them well and they’re just as sleek and polished black as her patent leather Louboutins.

  “I’m so sorry about that. I bumped into someone a little while ago and spilled coffee down my shirt and then—”

  Marta’s manicured hands fly into the air before becoming little balls of excitement.

  “Now it makes sense!” she says, mouth dancing into a grin.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  She waves a hand in front of her face, chuckling to herself. “Calder walked by here a little bit ago and handed me a fifty dollar bill for the ‘coffee girl.’ I had no idea what he was talking about ...”

  “Calder?” I ask. My stomach drops so fast it leaves a cold spot in my middle.

  “Calder Junior,” she says. “Mr. Welles calls him C.J. I guess I honestly don’t know what he prefers to be called ...”

  She nibbles the inside of her lower lip, her brows meeting.

  “Anyway, here you go.” Marta slides a crisp fifty dollar note across the top ledge of her desk. “I assume it’s for dry cleaning?”

  “I don’t understand ...” I begin to say before biting my tongue. Why would he be so rude and then take the time to rectify it?

  Marta blinks, studying me. “What don’t you understand?”

  I force a smile. “Nothing. I guess I just didn’t realize who he was when we bumped into each other.”

  “That’s too bad. I know Mr. Welles wanted to introduce the two of you as soon as possible, but it did seem like Calder was in a hurry when he left.” Her desk phone rings and she lifts a finger in my direction before taking the call. Her phone voice is saccharin sweet, almost motherly. She reminds me of my kindergarten teacher back in Riverside, though not in the looks department. She doesn’t have hair down to the small of her back, and she doesn’t smell like patchouli and sage.

  Marta transfers the call before checking the gold-and-diamond-faced watch on her delicate wrist and returning her attention to me.

  “It’s almost time for your one-on-one with Mr. Welles,” she says. “You have time to grab another coffee if you’d like?”

  “Thank you, but no,” I say. I don’t want to roll that dice again today. “Where would you like me to wait?”

  She mentioned something about setting me up with an office earlier today, but supposedly they were waiting on IT to install my phone and computer. I don’t quite understand why they’re treating me like I’m going to be here for the long term. I have my own laptop, and the only phone I need is my cell. And if I’m going to be busy running personal errands around the city most of the time, I see no reason for me to have a dedicated office.

  Marta points to the cluster of leather chairs in the corner, and I head over to seat myself. A pitcher of cucumber water rests beside a row of neatly lined crystal tumblers. On the glass coffee table before me lie a stack of WellesTech’s official magazine, featuring Mr. Welles himself on the cover alongside the caption: “A Legacy Almost Thirty Years in the Making.”

  I help myself to the top copy, paging through until I find the featured article about my eccentric employer.

  Nearly thirty years ago, Calder Welles was working his way up the sales chain at a small-town Chevy dealership in upstate New York when a loan from his father-in-law changed everything ...

  “Aerin?” Marta calls my name from behind her desk, and she offers a warm smile when our gazes catch. “You can head back now.”

  Folding the magazine, I return it to the top of the stack before rising and running a palm down the front of my skirt to smooth out any rogue wrinkles. Clearing my throat, I pull my shoulders back and make my way to the double doors at the end of a hallway lined in oil paintings.

  Any man who decorates his office with images of himself is probably the last kind of man I need to be working for, but he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse and I took the next flight out here with dollar signs in my eyes the entire time.

  I knock when I get to his office. Three times. And then I clear my throat again, softly.

  “Come in,” he calls from the other side a few seconds later.

  I turn the handle on one of the heavy wooden doors and show myself in, trying not to gape at the view outside his wall-to-wall windows. Natural light pours in from behind his oversized desk, almost backlighting the man and giving him an ethereal look. Angelic almost. And when I get closer, I see he’s not angelic at all. Just an ordinary, old, wealthy Manhattan W.A.S.P. in a three-piece suit.

  “Ms. Keane, so glad you could make it,” he says, coming around his desk and extending his right hand. His eyes crinkle in the corners and his palm is soft, unworked.

  “Like I had a choice,” I say with a wink. “You’re a persuasive man, Mr. Welles.”

  He chuckles, finally releasing me. “Why don’t you have a seat over there?”

  Mr. Welles points to an emerald green Chesterfield sofa in the corner of his office, grouped with two leather barrel chairs and accented with floor-to-ceiling bookcases behind them.

  I take a seat in one of the barrel chairs and he takes the seat across from me.

  “How’s your first day going so far? Is Marta showing you the ropes?” he asks, but before I have a chance to answer, he adds, “I’m sorry you weren’t able to meet Calder. He was here a little while ago, and unfortunately he had somewhere to be and he wasn’t able to stay long.”

  “Actually, we did meet.” I cross my legs tight at the knee, resting my hands on top of my lap like a proper English duchess.

  His head tilts to one side. “You did?”

  “Not officially … we bumped into each other in the hall. My coffee spilled. He told me to watch where I was going.”

  The light in Mr. Welles’ eyes dims a little and he exhales. “I apologize about that, Ms. Keane.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for him.” He’s a grown man …

  “C.J. … he’s a bit of a difficult personality. Strong-willed, defiant. He gets it from me, I’m afraid.” Mr. Welles pulls at the lapel of his suit coat as he situates himself in his seat. It’s almost as if this topic makes him physically uncomfortable.

  So that’s why he’s paying me the big bucks. He knows this is going to be a formidable job, and he wants to ensure it’ll be more than impossible for me to walk away.

  “Let’s get to it, why don’t we?” I ask. “I assume your meeting with him this morning had to do with the change in leadership? Did he agree to take over your company?”

  Mr. Welles’ gaze holds mine, and the marionette lines along his wrinkled chin deepen as he frowns.

  “He hasn’t officially agreed. Not yet. He says he needs to think about it, but I know my boy. He’ll make the right decision,” Mr. Welles says, with a nod and a quiet pause. The way he speaks almost makes me think he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince me. “I gave him two options. If he’s smart—and C.J. is damn smart—he’ll pick the right one.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll have Lillie Treadwell cut you a check and Marta book you on the next flight home.” There’s a self-assured chuckle in his voice now, and then he coughs into his balled fist. “I wasn’t the best father to him. He has a lot of reasons not to want to be here, not to want to do this. But apart from everything, I’m still his father. And I know what’s best for him, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. And he won’t. At least not out loud.”

  His hooded eyes squint for a moment, like he’s recalling a memory or two, and we sit in silence for a moment.

  I almost feel sorry for him.

  He’s clearly a man who sold his soul and now he’s at the end of his life, looking back and coming to terms with his biggest regret—not having a close relationship with his one and only son.
>
  I may not agree with his unconventional methods, but I can find it in my heart to offer a little unspoken compassion for his desperation.

  “He’ll be back.” Mr. Welles’ chin juts forward and he nods. “Not a doubt in my mind.” His eyes lift across the seating area and he points. “You’re going to be good for him, I just know it. You’re grounded. He needs someone like that. He’s a bit of a free spirit, a little bit wild, and he needs some structure, some routine. That’s where you’ll come in. You’ll keep him organized, keep his schedule, and show him Corporate America isn’t the seventh gate of hell.”

  He speaks about his son like he’s some feral man child in need of taming. Keeping his schedule, I can do. Keeping him grounded? That goes beyond my realm.

  “I’m happy to organize his schedule, Mr. Welles, but if you’re expecting me to clip his wings, so to speak, I’m afraid I’m unqualified.” I straighten my shoulders, zip my spine, and hold my head high.

  “I’m not asking you to do anything other than to be yourself, Ms. Keane.” His gray eyes twinkle and he taps his thick fingers against the arm of the green sofa. “I told you. I know my son. I know what I’m doing.” Mr. Welles rises, adjusting his red satin tie. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to hop on a conference call. I’ll make sure Marta keeps you busy while we wait for my son to come to his senses. It won’t be long, that I can promise you.”

  I show myself out, returning to Marta’s desk even more confused than I was when I first took Mr. Welles’ call.

  I suppose he didn’t become one of the most successful businessmen in the history of our nation from sheer luck. He’s savvy. He’s persuasive. He’s a salesman. And he refuses to take no for an answer.

  Calder Welles Senior epitomizes the saying, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  I just don’t understand how that way is … me.

  Guess I’ll know soon enough.

  I DROWN MYSELF IN the silence of my living room, a marble-framed photo in my hand of my beautiful smiling mother with her arms around a scrawny twelve-year-old me. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes shining, her silky dark hair curled under and resting at her shoulders.

  A picture of perfect health and happiness.

  A portrait of a woman who had it all and then some.

  It was the last real summer we had together, the last summer she still had color in her skin and enough energy to drag me along for seaside walks at our Hamptons estate, all the while pretending she believed me when I acted like I hated them.

  I didn’t hate them at all.

  I cherished our time together.

  Gwyneth Welles was a saint. She was all that was right and good in this world and I had the good fortune to call her my mother, even if only for hardly longer than a decade.

  I still remember her famous clam bakes that would bring the neighbors in in droves. The way she would hum under her breath as she washed dishes. The way she would brush the hair off my forehead and kiss the top of my nose when she thought I was sleeping.

  There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her. That I wouldn’t give everything I have to hear that contagious belly laugh of hers, to hear her hum one of those annoying Carpenters songs that were always getting stuck in my head, to feel the electric warmth that radiated from her larger-than-life personality one last time.

  My mother didn’t just give me life, she gave life to everyone around her. She could brighten the worst of days, find the silver lining in any storm cloud.

  And then she got sick.

  Some congenital heart defect she didn’t know she had until she collapsed in her prized tea rose garden one balmy Sunday afternoon.

  The moment she was diagnosed, my father wasted no time phoning his best friend, Roy Samuelson, who owned a medical device company that specialized in cardiovascular conditions.

  Within a month, as my mother drifted in and out of consciousness in her weakened state, my father signed a waiver that allowed doctors to implant an experimental device patented by Roy’s company. It was still in the research phase, not yet FDA-cleared. It had only been performed successfully twice before and unsuccessfully three times before that.

  For as long as I live, I’ll never forget sitting at my sleeping mother’s side, staring at my father’s polished onyx loafers and the doctor’s gloomy gray tennis shoes beneath a pulled white curtain as they discussed options.

  “We don’t have to use the device,” the doctor said. “There are other options with less risks involved ...”

  To this day, I don’t know if it was because he trusted Samuelson ... or if he wanted my mother out of the picture so he could inherit her family’s wealth and live high off the hog as he built up his technological empire.

  He remarried (to my nanny of all people) less than six months after we buried my mom, so I can only assume.

  Running my finger along the smooth edges of the frame, I blink away the damp sting in my eyes and sit the photo back on the mantel.

  Today, my father looked me in the eyes and gave me an impossible decision to make, one that will go against every promise I ever made to my mother as she lay dying.

  If I were a man who talked to inanimate objects, I might offer a verbal apology in honor of my sweet mother’s memory.

  I can’t let Samuelson buy WellesTech.

  I can’t.

  My mother would understand, I’m sure. But it doesn’t make this any easier.

  Ambling to the bar cart that rests against the north wall, I fix myself two fingers of single malt Scotch and ignore the spilt drip that lands on the glass top.

  I don’t consider myself a slob, but letting that drip linger is a silent act of rebellion.

  I was barely thirteen and still attempting to process the loss of my mother in my own way when I started getting into trouble. It started with stealing my father’s favorite vintage Corvette for a little joyride around our estate, escalated to stealing my father’s vodka and sneaking out in the middle of the night, and ended when my father shipped me off to a military-style boarding school.

  All I wanted was his attention.

  He gave me the complete opposite.

  Bridgeforth Academy was an expensive prison, wrapped in brick walls and iron gates, with corporal punishment a regular occurrence for those of us unwilling to bow down to an existence of controlled restraint.

  We couldn’t take a shit without asking permission first.

  Left your bed unmade before leaving for class? Toilet duty for a week.

  Wrinkles in your uniform? Three day in-school suspension.

  Anything less than an ‘A’ on a test? Loss of phone privileges for two weeks.

  The last one didn’t faze me though. I never called my father. He never called me.

  I take a sip of Scotch, one hand resting in my jeans pocket, and plant myself next to the window overlooking the streetscape below my apartment.

  I don’t have a view of Central Park—quite the contrary. There’s an Indian restaurant, a dry cleaner’s, and a parking garage.

  But I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

  My apartment is comfortable but modest, paid for with money I earned on my own as I refused to touch a single dime from the outrageous trust fund my father established in an attempt to win me over several years back.

  I couldn’t even tell you what it’s worth now.

  Don’t know, don’t care.

  I’d take freedom over ostentatious wealth any day of the week. I’d much rather spend my money on experiences than things.

  I glance down at my unfinished Scotch and walk the cheap crystal tumbler to the sink, pouring it down the drain and placing the glass amongst the other dishes I’ll get around to washing when I feel like it.

  For reasons I can’t explain, I’m no longer in the mood to be alone with my thoughts. The quiet is too loud here. The walls too confining.

  Checking my watch, I determine by the time I get to The Lowery, it’ll be five o’clock and I might still be a
ble to snag a seat at the bar before the local nine-to-five schmucks take them all.

  I’ve been going to The Lowery long before it was featured on some reality TV show, long before it was the ‘cool’ place to drink.

  Heading to my room, I freshen up and order a Lyft. It’s only when I’m giving myself a once-over in the full-length mirror that I notice a brown splotch toward the hem of my shirt. It takes me a second, but I deduce that it must be from bumping into that coffee-carrying girl earlier today at my father’s office.

  Yanking the shirt over my head, I grab a clean one from my closet, tug it on, and head downstairs to catch my ride.

  Passing the communal bulletin board on my way out, I spot a handwritten flyer. Someone advertising their personal assistant services, only they’ve spelled “personal” like “personel.”

  I have to admit, I’m curious as to why my father would hire an assistant for me before I’ve so much as agreed to even consider his proposition. Either the years have eaten away at his shriveled excuse for a brain, or his illness has stolen his ability to think rationally.

  I’m not sure why he’d think I’d need or want a “concierge.”

  Stepping outside of my building, I spot my Lyft parked half a block away, hazard lights blinking, and I head that way.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of The Lowery, contemplating my first drink of what’s going to be a long night.

  I’ve got a head full of all kinds of shit I need to rectify, things I need to come to terms with. I need to make peace with the fact that I’d sooner die than let Samuelson buy my father out, which means I need to make peace with all the ways my life is about to change.

  I push through the twelve-foot double doors, the jangle of the bells barely audible over the thrum and lull of conversation that fills the place.