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

shouldn’t say that given my parents’ profession, but if we are being honest here,” she added with a sharp gesture of her free hand, “you can’t tell me that doesn’t look a little like a toilet.”

The idea of peeing in public was something Dylan usually found mortifying, but here she was giggling like bodily functions were adorable. She blamed Mike for this.

“I feel like his mother would have made the same excuse if she wasn’t busy being horrified.”

Hanging a hard right at a set of heavy doors marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, Mike started down an empty hall. Without the brightly colored lights, the marble floors gave off a distinctly less welcoming, more financial-institution vibe.

“This closed section leads to the sensory space,” Mike said as they continued down the corridor, the sound of Dylan’s heels bouncing off the bare walls. She stopped abruptly as Mike plunged into the massive black hole that appeared at the end of another right turn.

“Um . . . ,” Dylan called into the darkness. Her pulse quickened as the formerly friendly children’s museum turned into the beginning stages of a horror movie. The sound of Mike shuffling around in the dark didn’t do much for Dylan’s courage level.

“I’m looking for the light. I thought I left it . . . on . . .”

Taking three cautious steps into the blackness, she found herself groping around her purse for her pepper spray. Maybe Neale was right. Maybe the Robinsons were charming ax murderers after all.

“Got it!” Mike yelled, filling the room with the Rapturesque white fluorescent lighting often used for nighttime construction projects. Blinking, Dylan quickly stashed her pepper spray—and her humiliation—back in her purse, vowing to stop listening to Neale.

Unfortunately, the lighting did little to help the horror story appeal of the space. The walls might have once been cream but had slowly faded to a depressing shade of grimy beige. Large pieces of murky clear plastic hung over what Dylan assumed were windows, the massive, earthy, ornate wooden frames barely visible under the dust and bits of plaster.

“What was this place?”

“It’s labeled ‘grand room’ on the floor plans. Although I’m not sure what a grand room is, honestly.”

“Huh.” Dylan felt gravel and loose chunks of whatever covered the floor beneath her heels and tried not to wrinkle her nose. Perhaps Mike saw the potential for a sensory room, but all she saw was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Nicolas would have a field day suing this place.

Dylan grimaced at the missing ceiling tiles, then looked back toward Mike. He was studying the hunks of absent wall plaster with the sort of intensity usually reserved for avoiding looking at other things. Or people, Dylan thought.

Using the stained walls around his head as a cover, she watched Mike for a moment. His usually relaxed posture was noticeably absent, replaced by a spine that was too straight to be comfortable. Her inner business consultant kicked in as she ran down her CEO diagnostic checklist. Normally relaxed hands jammed in pockets—check. Shoulders a fraction of an inch too high—double check. Avoiding eye contact at all costs—also a check. Zero indication that he was still breathing . . . Dylan paused to observe his rib cage for a second. Although his torso filled out his shirt quite nicely, there was no way he was moving a lot of air through it. Check.

All nervous, protective gestures present and accounted for. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled. “Wow.”

“Wow good? Wow bad?” Mike asked, narrowing his eyes.

Every fiber of her knew that Mike was showing her a very dear but exceptionally impossible dream. It was a miracle the city still considered the structure sound enough to let children—or even dogs—in with this section still standing. When she’d said she wanted to help, she had thought she’d write a personal check, maybe beg her dad to pony up. But this project was so much bigger than what her puny charity budget could manage. Still, a deal was a deal, and she was nothing if not good for her word. She had to try, or risk being as flaky as the rest of her family.

“I can see it . . . ,” Dylan said, careful to meet Mike’s gaze. Dream lawsuit or no, she couldn’t tell Mike the truth about his plan.

“Really? I know it’s rough,” Mike answered. His shoulders dropped the appropriate distance, but his face read as skeptical.

“Yeah. I . . .” Dylan’s eyes cast wildly about for some redeeming quality in this troll cave. “I love the chandeliers. Are those brass?”

“I was a little worried about them structurally, what with the water damage.” Faux genuine as her response was, Mike was willing to grab the life raft. Taking a massive step over piled-up scaffolding, he walked toward the center of the room. “I want it to be paneled to the edges, like the Sky Church.”

“Sky what?” Dylan watched the ground and tried to gracefully circumnavigate the pile of junk so she could stand next to him. Mike stopped pointing at the wall long enough to aim an incredulous stare at her.

“Sky Church. The venue inside MoPOP.” When recognition didn’t immediately dawn on her face, he tried to rephrase it. “You know, the venue in the Experience Music Project, now MoPOP? The wacky-looking museum—”

“I know what the EMP is. I live in an artist hive, not a bunker. I just haven’t actually been inside of it.”

“You’re kidding. You’ve never been inside the Hendrix museum?”

“Does riding the monorail through it count?”

“You can’t keep telling people you were raised here. You gotta see it. Add it to the list.” It was Dylan’s turn to look incredulous. “Don’t act like there isn’t a checklist running through your head right now.” Mike’s good-natured smile returned as he poked fun at her.

“Gee, you remember my absolute best traits. Thanks for that.” There was no point in denying “the list” existed, and they both knew it. “Now, tell me what you want to do.”

Smirking, Mike began rambling around the room, pointing to various aspects of the space and noting planned changes. Sure, the alterations