The Checklist by Addie Woolridge (color ebook reader TXT) 📗

house had its own roaster, and if you woke up early enough, you could smell the beans roasting across town.

Wandering up to the packed pastry display case, Dylan bit her lip for a moment before deciding to splurge on a chai latte and a piece of pie. Dessert was usually a special-occasion treat for her. But since she’d come back to Seattle, it seemed more like a close friend she had resisted calling until things became dire.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” the woman behind the counter asked, the usual friendly-coffeehouse-employee look stuck to her face.

“If you had to choose, which pie would you get? Apple or berry?”

“Oh.” The woman’s magenta lips puckered as she thought about it. “They’re both good. What are you drinking?”

“Chai latte.”

“Definitely get the apple with that one.” A voice from behind startled her. The barista looked up and nodded in agreement as Dylan turned to look at the speaker. Mike Robinson stood smirking down at her, as if catching her off guard in a great pie debate were an inside joke.

“Hi, Dylan,” Mike said, his voice mellow against the whirring of the espresso machine.

Dylan blinked a few times, staring at the gray cashmere covering his broad shoulders, racking her brain for the right response. Her sister was right: even Bernice, sworn enemy of the Robinsons, would think he was good looking. Honestly, who looked good in sweater-vests after the age of ten?

“Dylan?” Mike was still smiling, but one eyebrow was raised in a question.

“Um . . . sorry, I was spacing out. Long day.” Dylan shook her head, pulling herself up to her full height and tearing her gaze away from the well-fitted vest. She wished she were wearing her heels or at least not such dorky tennis shoes. She also wished she hadn’t left her vocabulary at home. Since when did she greet people with um?

“Are you together?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“I’m not that lucky, but a guy can dream,” Mike said. His smile was innocent enough, but his eyes betrayed him as they ran a hot look over her, giving her a fleeting up and down. Dylan’s heart rate tripled almost as fast as the goofy grin appeared on her face. He thought someone would be lucky to get coffee with her in her gym clothes. Mike tilted his head toward her bag, the fleeting look of mischief still playing around his eyes. “Are you staying?”

The sound of his voice jogged her brain. Gym clothes were irrelevant, because Nicolas had the regular honor of seeing her in them. It was still a flattering thought, though. He was Sexy Robinson, after all.

Fixing her face, she tried to say sure, but whatever came out was more babble than a word. Dylan nodded and wished her ponytail would stop bobbing around. If she couldn’t use her words, she wanted to at least salvage what was left of her adult image.

“Then yes, we are together. May I also have a chai, please?” Mike said, adjusting the strap of his computer bag and drawing Dylan’s attention back to his shoulders.

“Two chais and one apple slice,” the woman said, cheerfully ringing them up as Dylan slid her credit card across the counter and into the woman’s hand.

Mike opened his mouth to say something, but Dylan cut him off. “I insist. As a thank-you for solving the light situation.”

“I don’t think asking my mother to redirect a spotlight deserves particular thanks. But I’ll accept it nonetheless,” he said, scooping up the pie and a mug of chai. Dylan replaced her credit card in its proper spot in her wallet, then picked up her mug and followed him to the table. She wanted to think she was smiling over the neat leaf design in her foam, but she acknowledged it was nice to have an unexpected chai with someone who was at least charming enough to flatter her and pretend she was a catch.

Mike set the slice of pie down on a low coffee table and collapsed into an oversize leather chair, leaving the adjacent love seat for Dylan. She set her drink on the table and lowered herself onto the cushion, tucking her legs under her. Across from her, Mike pulled out a tablet and started poking around. His denim-clad legs were so long they nearly hit the edge of the table.

“So what are you doing here? Dinner with the parents again?”

“Sort of. I was dropping something off, then decided to force myself to go over my lecture notes before I get home, because”—he looked up from his tablet and smiled at her—“the last thing I want to think about when I get home is teaching a bunch of sleepy undergrads. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.” She groaned into her palms and closed her eyes, as if by shutting them, she could shut out the mountain of information she needed to sift through.

“Tell me about it.”

Dylan moved a hand, cracking one eye open and fixing it on Mike, who was situated in the chair exactly as one would imagine their professor to be. Straightening herself up, she took a big breath, considering how best to gloss over everything.

“I’m listening,” Mike said, still looking like he wanted to know why her term paper was going to be late.

“Fine,” she said with a massive exhale. “I might be in over my head at work, and when I got tired of the paint on my office walls, I thought, Go home, get some food, a little peace and quiet, then try solving this whole Technocore mess. Only, it’s my parents’ house, so that is like going to a preschool and expecting order. Thus, I’m here.” Dylan felt the tension leave her shoulders as she watched Mike process everything.

“Preschools are a great place to conduct business.” He deliberately took another sip of chai, managing this with a straight face before busting up. Dylan’s smile gave way to laughter. The image of her in a suit