P.S. I Dare You by Winter Renshaw

Author:Winter Renshaw [Renshaw, Winter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Winter Renshaw
Published: 2018-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

ASSHOLE.

Correction—oversensitive asshole.

Four weeks to go.

Less than one month.

How was I supposed to know his mother had passed? When I did that research last week, I focused only on the two Calders. Not once was his mother mentioned anywhere. And I’d remember coming across an obituary.

Burying myself in my work, I focus on the next report, which proves to be the most interesting of them all. WellesTech is trying to out-Netflix Netflix.

To that, I say, “Good luck.”

Drawing in a deep breath when I’m finished typing my summary, I hit print and grab my phone, realizing I have two missed calls—both of them from Rush—both from an hour ago when I was in Mr. Welles’ office getting my hand slapped for touching a photo. I press the phone icon and pray I can steady my ragged breathing before he answers.

“Aer,” he picks up in the middle of the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Work … why? What’s up?”

“I thought we were meeting for brunch? Kaio on Houston—remember? We have to check in in forty-five minutes and you’re … not here.” The sound of doors opening and closing fill the background.

Whoops.

“Oh, shoot. I completely spaced it off. I’m so sorry! Can we raincheck?”

“This place books out for months at a time.” He tries to hide the disappointment in his voice, but I know him too well. “Got this reservation from another doctor at work. Traded it for tickets to Hamilton … that I originally bought for a date with Hillie.”

“I’m so sorry.” I rest my elbow on my desk and bury my head in my hand. “Can I make it up to you?”

“It’s … whatever.” He exhales.

“You can still eat there, right?”

He’s quiet. I know it’s not the same. I know he’s been looking forward to this all week. He said the food there is just like the food at this little Japanese café he used to take me when I was a kid and he’d get paid from his part-time job at the nursing home.

“I’m so sorry.” I could apologize seventy-five more times and it still wouldn’t feel like enough.

“Yeah, uh. I guess, I’ll just head that way.” My brother exhales into the phone.

When I finally peel my forehead from my hand, my gaze drags across the room to a shadowed figure standing in my doorway.

Calder.

“Hey, I’ll call you later,” I tell my brother before hanging up. “Sorry.”

“Go home, Keane,” he says.

How long had he been standing there?

“Really? But I have five more summaries to type up.” I point to the reports stacked neatly on the corner of my desk, each single sheet of paper perfectly aligned with the one beneath it.

“You’ve done enough today. Go home.” He turns to leave.

“Wait,” I say. I grab my phone, my purse, and the report off the printer—still warm—and chase after him.

He stops short just outside my doorway, and I almost pummel into him.

“Here’s the WellesFlix report,” I say, hoping they don’t actually call it that when the time comes.

Calder takes the stack from me, our hands brushing, and I swear time stops, though I’m not sure why.

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