Page 24 of P.S. I Dare You

Aerin nods to the blonde across from her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. And when it’s her turn to speak, she uses her hands. Her expression dances between wide smiles and furrowed brows—whatever she’s talking about has her running the full spectrum of human emotions apparently. And the girl across from her, whom I recognize from the other night and whom I learned today was “Lillie Treadwell from Payroll,” sits beside a gentleman who can’t seem to keep his body from draping over her.

Desperate. Pathetic.

Is that seriously what women are into these days?

I take another drink, this one also unintentionally too generous, but it’s all the same. The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can get the hell out of here.

Turning my attention back toward the bar, I rest my elbows on the scratched wooden top and do my best to ignore their presence—which shouldn’t be hard seeing how packed this place has become in the past five minutes. It’s loud as hell, Dean Martin pumping through the speakers.

Some drunk girl pushes into me, nearly making me spill my drink.

“Oh, my gawd, I’m so sorry!” she says, her palms splayed on my back, her perfume invading my lungs and her over-exaggerated Queens accent assaulting my eardrums. “Are you okay? Did I spill your drink? I can buy you a new one.”

I straighten my back, jerking my body out from under her hands and refusing to make eye contact. “I’m good.”

In an instant, she’s gone, and I check the time on my phone. I must have checked it a thousand times today, which is insane because any other day I might be lucky to check it twice, if at all. But the day kept dragging and I kept checking to see if it was an appropriate time to leave. As busy as my father kept me, I’d have expected the day to be over in the blink of an eye, but it was quite the opposite.

Apparently, time only flies if you’re having fun.

Shooting back the remains of my Macallan, I rise and make my way to the line for the bathroom. Three women and two men wait ahead of me. This could take five minutes or this could take all night, but my place is a good twenty-minute walk from here, so I’ll take my chances.

“Calder.” A woman’s voice from behind me is followed by the prod of a fingertip into my shoulder.

Turning, I find myself face-to-face with Ms. Keane herself.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, the hint of a slur in her voice. Her shoulders are aligned and she holds her chin high. She might be doing her best to act sober, but she can’t keep her body from swaying ever so slightly.

“How many drinks have you had, Keane?” I ask.

Her dark brows gather. “I’m pretty sure that’s nonnne of your business.”

“You’re lit.”

“We’re not doing this,” she says, slicing her hand through the air, though almost as if it’s on a delayed reaction.

I stifle a laugh. This tiny little thing with gorgeous, sparkling eyes doesn’t intimidate me in the least, not even with a scowl that would frighten small children and animals.

“I need to know something,” she continues.

“All right?”

“Why were you so nice to me this morning?” The line moves and she takes a step closer to me before I have a chance to step closer to the man in front of me. The space between us is tight, and a citrus-and-spearmint scent mixes with a soft, floral perfume and fills the space around me.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” I finally move. She follows. The fact that she’s two sheets to the wind is clearly having an effect on her ability to accurately judge and acknowledge personal space. She’s lucky I find this amusing. And she’s lucky she’s hot AF.

“You defended me,” she says. “I mean, I think that’s what you did. In your father’s office. You tried to tell him to let me out of my contract.”

“Oh, you mean when I was being a decent human being?”

“Exactly.”

“Why would I force someone to work for me who doesn’t want to?” I ask. She shouldn’t get it twisted. My simple act of kindness was mutually beneficial … if only it hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

Her rosy lips almost bunch at one side and her dark eyes fall to the floor. It’s only under this light that I notice the spray of freckles across her nose. Her makeup must have worn off throughout the day. I imagine she keeps them hidden because they make her look younger than she already is, more girlish. Aerin Keane is a woman who wants to be taken seriously, but she’s mistaken if she thinks all that entails is covering up her freckles.

A burst of warmth floods my body, like the whisky waited until this very moment to kick in.

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