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

beautiful when it had been built in the 1940s, but now its graying cement facade looked tired. Dylan reached for a heavy brass handle and gave the door a hefty pull, pushing her doubts about the visit aside.

While the outside might have been imposing, the inside was warm and inviting. The floors were old, serious-looking marble with black, red, and white geometric designs covering every inch, but the dim sconces had been replaced with a variety of brightly colored light bulbs. Glancing up at the map in front of her, Dylan realized that the colors corresponded with the different sections of the museum. What would have been boring wood-paneled walls had been covered with inviting banners, advertising exhibits like the waterworks, the sounds-and-signs room, and still others focusing on various forms of art. Dylan walked up to the massive oak counter built into the floor. School was not out yet, so the museum was slow. Only one woman wearing a brightly colored cat T-shirt was behind the desk, attempting to solve a Sudoku puzzle.

“Hello,” Dylan said, trying not to feel guilty as the woman jumped in surprise.

“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked, pushing her Sudoku to the side.

“Yes. I’m here to see Mike Robinson.”

“Is he expecting you?” the woman asked, already dialing what Dylan guessed was his extension.

“He should be. I spoke to him a few minutes ago.” Dylan threw in an extra smile for good measure.

The cat-shirt woman nodded before speaking into the receiver. “Hi, Mike, there is a Ms. . . .” She glanced up, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

“Dylan Delacroix.”

“A Ms. Delacroix here to see you.” Dylan listened to mumbles on the other end as the woman smiled affably. “Sounds good,” she said before shifting her focus back to Dylan. “He says he’ll be right over.”

Dylan nodded and went to study the big calendar of events by the door. She was vaguely aware of the happy shouts of children’s questions floating through the stone corridors every so often. Actual whispering is a skill you acquire over time, she thought, then amended that. Whispering was a skill you acquired if you were lucky. As far as she knew, Deep had never learned to whisper, and it didn’t seem likely that she would learn anytime soon.

The sharp click of dress shoes on marble pulled her attention away from whisper skill development. Dylan whirled on her heel as Mike strode down the long corridor, looking like what magazines thought people at museums looked like. He was dressed in dark-gray slacks and a smoke-infused light-blue dress shirt, and his walk was intentional, not hurried. As if walking in colorfully lit corridors were the same as being in his living room. He had his sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned. She wanted to hand him a tumbler full of scotch and an old book. Unless there was a polo pony and an Aston Martin waiting outside, he could not have looked more like a character in an Annie Leibovitz photo for Vogue.

“Thanks for coming,” Mike said as he drew closer to the large calendar, an easy smile tugging at the corners of his eyes. Mike leaned in to give her a quick hug, made slightly awkward by her bulky bag. Dylan realized that, outside of her first night home, she had not touched Mike. Or even come close enough to smell the aftershave he used. Earthy and fresh. Not floral.

Mike left his hand on her elbow as he turned to face the woman at the desk, reminding her more forcefully of the first night on his front steps. Dylan felt her stomach tighten, remembering the reassuring muscles that had steadied her. Fighting an instinctual urge to lean into the security of his arm, she readjusted her necklace and her thoughts.

“Gloria, I’m going to take Dylan on a short tour. If anything comes up, feel free to call my cell.” Turning back to face Dylan, Mike added, “I was surprised you showed up.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come? I always come.” Dylan smiled, adjusting her handbag to rest under one arm.

Mike paused on an inhale, dropping his arm from her elbow and biting down on his lower lip. Tilting his head to the side, he blinked at her. Dylan’s mind replayed her last words as Mike shut his eyes and took three deep breaths. Did she have ketchup on her top? She looked down and was relieved to find no food attached to her attire. Looking back up, she met Mike’s gaze as he shook his head slowly. Exhaling, Dylan asked, “What?”

“You always come, huh?” Mike said, trying to press his grin into a straight face, his eyebrows raised mischievously.

“I . . . that . . . that . . .” Dylan opened her mouth and then closed it, the heat of a furnace burning in her cheeks as she realized how her words could be construed. She had been thinking that he looked good when she’d first seen him. But, she reasoned, that was in a strictly scientific-observation sort of way. It certainly wasn’t the cause of her perfectly innocent words. Mike was just twisting them. “That is not what I meant.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” Mike said. “Are you trying to tell me something, Dylan?”

“No. No. I’m not trying to tell you anything.” If Dylan had thought she was overheating before, it was only because she hadn’t known the humiliation she felt could get any worse. “No. Really, that is not what I meant.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’m happy for you.” Mike stared at her for a long moment before clearing his throat. “Shall we start in the theater?”

“Yes. Let’s do that,” Dylan said, making her words crisp. Running a hand over her hair, she tried to flatten her flustered mind, carefully storing her urges in the irrational corner of her brain, where she could blame them on her upbringing. “The theater, huh?”

“It is the best place to get a sense for what we do at the museum.”

“It sounds like I’m about to get