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

head and picked up another bite as Chef wandered over with a new plate, this time with seaweed-wrapped rolls topped with scallops and a spicy sauce.

“Raw fish and sex music. Oh, baby, oh, baby.”

“Pretty romantic date,” Mike giggled into his water glass, causing Dylan to snort at her scallops. After taking a drink, Mike shielded his smile and mumbled, “Look at Chef.”

The mischievous grin had disappeared and been replaced by a dignified-looking chef, carefully wiping down counters as he sang every seductive word under his breath. Dylan turned her head to face Mike and hoped the chef couldn’t catch a clean look at her laughing.

“He is clearly a fan,” Dylan managed to choke out as Mike’s gaze jumped back and forth between her and Chef, his shoulders shaking from the effort of not laughing out loud. Dylan tried to glance at the chef again but couldn’t without losing it.

“Don’t look. It makes it worse if you look,” Mike said, angling his body away from the counter so he was facing her again. Tilting his head farther away from the chef, he added, “Distract me. How was your day?”

Still chuckling, Dylan tried angling her body farther away from the counter, making her parallel to Mike. “Honestly? The best part of my day may have been putting this list together.”

“I don’t believe that. Surely someone told a good joke or something.”

Dylan picked at another scallop. “The amount of time I spend actually doing my job versus putting out fires is like a one-to-seven ratio. I’m basically a month away from the dreaded quarterly-earnings report, and things still aren’t on solid ground.”

“What does your boss say about all of this?” Mike asked, leaning in on his forearm and snagging a bite for himself.

“Besides what the hell is going on? Not much.” Dylan shook her head. “And that is the weird part. Realistically, if quarterly earnings are posted in a month, that means we have about three weeks left to get stuff to the higher-ups for approval, and he still hasn’t darkened the doors.”

“Does he usually show up on your projects?”

Dylan’s laugh sounded more like a sigh of resignation. Picking up another bite, she said, “For little projects, no. But for something this high profile, Jared has made it abundantly clear that I am just the muscle. He is supposed to have final approval on any- and everything.”

“But someone has to have noticed he isn’t here. I mean, they can’t see him at his desk every day and think, Yeah, he is definitely doing a good job up in Seattle.”

Dylan scoffed, shaking her head. Mike asked her another question, and she started to relax, letting the natural flow of friends at dinner take over. At some point the chef brought over more food, and she found herself mellowing into the kind of food coma only an intimate corner, sushi, and the sultry sounds of slow jams could provide.

“Billie is doing well?”

“By all accounts. I rarely hear from her. She is more of a call-when-she-needs-something kind of person,” Dylan said, around the straw in her water glass.

“So you know she is doing well since she hasn’t called.” Mike smiled, leaning toward her on his elbow. He had never really leaned away after the chef had started singing. The thought of the chef brought Dylan back to the room. He was no longer behind the spotless bar. Glancing around, she caught sight of the staff quietly sweeping under empty tables and chairs, trying as best they could to discreetly pack up for the night. Her eyes darted to her phone; it was well past ten, and they hadn’t even touched her donor list. As if her eyeing the room were a signal, Mike straightened his posture and looked around, alert for the first time in hours.

“I don’t know where the time went. We didn’t even look over the list,” Dylan said, stretching up, aware of Mike’s gaze following the lines of her arms toward the ceiling. She wasn’t the least bit disappointed they hadn’t talked business, but for the sake of propriety she added a pout to her tone.

“Not my most productive meeting but certainly the most fun. We should probably go before these poor people are trapped here all night,” he said, passing the server some cash. They stood, and he held Dylan’s coat for her. “If you don’t mind staying out, we could find a coffee spot that is open late and finish up.”

“You mean get started?” Dylan asked, slinking into her coat and placing the list in her handbag.

“I mean, ten thirty is my bedtime, but for you, I can make an exception. Maybe stay up till eleven fifteen.”

“Ten thirty? And here I thought that sweater was just for show. Turns out you are an old man.” Dylan smiled and began weaving her way toward the door, conscious of the movement of her hips as she swayed around tables and chairs. “I like the sound of coffee.”

“Good. I think the Tabby Cat is open late. My place is around the corner. We can grab my car and drive over. It isn’t super far, but I don’t think we want to walk this late.”

Feeling Mike reach past her elbow to open the door, Dylan turned. “If your place is around the corner, why don’t we just go there? Unless you are secretly a tea drinker or something?” She tried to make the suggestion sound like a logical conclusion as opposed to what it actually was—a casing of the joint. Dylan was dying to know what Mike Robinson’s man cave looked like.

“Of course I have coffee. I’m not a monster.”

“Fine. Your place it is,” she said, smiling at the server who was hanging back to lock the door behind them. The woman winked, and it took all of Dylan’s inconsiderable stealth not to wink back. She hadn’t started the evening on a date, but whether or not Mike knew it, they were on one now.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dylan spent the entire walk