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Read Online Books/Novels:

P.S. I Dare You

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Winter Renshaw

Language:
English
Book Information:

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, and lastly, 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 worth figuring 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

P.S. I dare you.

Books by Author:

Winter Renshaw Books

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.


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