The few times I’ve spent with his family over the past month have been enjoyable but also on the superficial side. Conversation is kept light and shallow, never delving into any remotely deep topics. Their interactions are filled with meaningless formalities. Lots of “How have you beens” and “fines” and never any elaborations.
My heart squeezes when I think of Reed as a child, probably starved for love and attention, never knowing what it felt to be loved in a deeper-than-the-ocean kind of way that defies logic and requires no conditions.
It truly is amazing, the man he turned out to be.
All this time, I mistook his guardedness for arrogance. I had him pegged all wrong. He just hadn’t let his walls down yet.
“Let’s stay here forever,” I say to Reed. We’ve been here seven nights and six days and we’re supposed to leave tomorrow. It was only meant to be a quick getaway. We still have an insane amount of work to do back home to get our business off the ground.
“We’ll be back. Someday.” He squints into the Aegean Sea. “Maybe we’ll pull a Redford and Bebe and come back here solo after we have kids.”
He’s never mentioned kids.
Hell, he’s never mentioned marriage or anything that spans beyond the rest of this year unless it pertains to our private corporation.
“I was kidding,” he says. “We’ll bring them with us, of course.”
“I never knew you wanted kids.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” he says. “Until I met you.”
Reed turns me to face him and brushes a windblown strand of hair away from my face. His mouth skims against mine.
“I love you, Joa,” he says. “I’ve loved you from the start—I just didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t know what love was until I met you.”
I let his words sink into the deepest parts of me before locking them away forever.
“I love you too.” I rise on my toes and kiss him, and in this moment I know.
He’s the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.
Epilogue
Reed
Five years later …
"Happy birthday, dear Kaia ...”
Our one-year-old daughter squirms in her high chair as my wife watches the flickering candle like a hawk, ready to pounce should anything go awry.
The gang’s all here. Tom and Bevin, Neve, Cole, Emmeline, Ellison, and baby Evan, Logan and his new fiancé, Michaela, Bijou and my parents. Even Lucy made the trek out here to Mills Haven to celebrate our daughter’s first birthday.
The song finishes, and Joa helps Kaia blow out her candle. Everyone claps, including Kaia. A minute later, she’s double fisting her vanilla smash cake with pink frosting, shoving it into her mouth until her cheeks look as if they could explode.
When she’s finished, her face is stained pink from the frosting and her dark hair is highlighted with white cake crumbs.
I head out to the patio to check on the grill situation.
It’s so weird to be one of those guys. The ones with the house in the suburbs. The ones who test drive minivans and dream about coaching their kids’ soccer teams when the time comes.
Three years ago, I married the love of my life.
Two years ago, we started trying for a baby—which happened a lot sooner than we expected.
And a year ago, shortly after Kaia arrived, we moved to Mills Haven to be closer to family. My parents are travel fiends and assured us they would be happy to make the trek to Chicago on a regular basis, and Joa’s parents are so hands-on and willing to help it just seemed like the right decision.
Our business does well enough that we can be choosy about our clientele, only opting to take on the contracts that fit into our schedule.
From outside, I watch through the sliding door as Joa wipes Kaia’s hands and face with a damp washcloth. Joa’s saying something, shaking her head and laughing, and Kaia’s dimples flash.
Motherhood came natural to her. Probably helps that her own mother was Super Mom incarnate. One of my favorite things is to listen on the baby monitor on the nights when Joa puts Kaia to bed.
She sings her Raffi songs.
Reads her Dr. Seuss books.
Tells her the most ridiculous stories she makes up on the fly.
I couldn’t have picked a better mother for my child, and already I can’t wait until the next one and the next one.
I want that crazy, loud house filled with kids and laughter and cheesy traditions. I want to be the dad that dresses in matching superhero costumes with his kids on Halloween, the one who chaperones field trips and mows his own lawn in the summer. I want to be the husband who isn’t afraid to kiss his wife in front of their kids, so their kids can know what true love looks like.
It won’t always be perfect.
It won’t always be magical.
But it will be filled with love and a bond that can never be severed no matter what may come our way. Real love never ends, never goes away.
Joa taught me that.
Sample of P.S. I DARE YOU
Chapter 1
Aerin
“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 hands 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 c
oming 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.
Chapter 2
Calder
“Your phone’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 told 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.
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