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

over praying Mike’s house wasn’t covered in black IKEA furniture and college posters. That would have spoiled the magic of the entire evening. Now, standing in front of an old brick building, she reasoned that nothing this classic could house the sad remnants of a man clinging to his glory days. Once she thought about it, if the sweater was any indication, he might have skipped over the postcollege man-child phase altogether. After twisting the key in the lock, Mike held the door open.

“After you. I’m on the fourth floor.”

The building was old enough that Dylan didn’t bother looking for the elevator. Instead, she crossed the black-and-white-checkered tile floor toward the worn mahogany staircase and started the climb toward his apartment. Dylan liked to think that spin class kept her in decent cardiovascular shape, but by the second floor she was starting to sweat under her trench coat. Looking for something to take her mind off the endurance event that was getting to Mike’s apartment, she caught sight of a gaudy red-and-gold door wreath with something that looked suspiciously like a papier-mâché unicorn one floor above them.

“What is that?” Dylan asked as they rounded the stairs to the top landing.

“Hmmm?” Mike asked, turning his focus from the key in his hand to the door she was pointing at. “Oh, that is Mrs. Warnly’s good luck ornament. She makes them. Even gave one to me for the holidays last year. I have yet to display it.” Mike smiled wryly as he turned the handle.

“At least you have one neighbor who likes you and wants good things for you.” Dylan shrugged up at him with a hint of mischief.

“Even if those good things are pretty dreadful looking,” Mike whispered as they walked in. Dylan shivered. His presence felt like the movement of the earth around the sun. An unavoidable truth, drawing her in. Intentionally shifting her thoughts, she moved into the entryway, giving Mike room to hit the lights and toss his keys on a hook by the door.

“Welcome,” he said, stepping out of his shoes and placing them on a rack hanging on the back of the hallway closet door. As if he had been reading her mind, Mike began to carefully unfasten the buttons of his sweater, furthering Dylan’s sexy Mr. Rogers fantasy. Slowly, he peeled off his sweater to reveal a white undershirt stretched across his chest, hugging the curves of his shoulders, leaving his biceps exposed as he hung up the sweater.

Subconsciously, Dylan knew she was staring. She knew this was rude, and she was certain she didn’t care. His back was to her, and it wasn’t like her mouth was open. At least, she hoped it wasn’t, since he chose that moment to turn around. He held her gaze for a beat before tilting his head like he was studying a curious artifact.

“You doing okay?”

“Totally fine.” Dylan felt the heat in his stare radiating in her cheeks and looked around the narrow hallway for something to feign interest in. How was she this awkward? Sure, she hadn’t been on a date for the better part of a decade, but this was someone she knew well. She didn’t need to be nervous. Giving herself a shake to refocus, she pulled the soy sauce–spotted list from her bag and shrugged off her coat. Slipping out of her heels, she sighed with the relief that came with taking off dress shoes at the end of the day. “Feels good to take those off after all those stairs. Must be how you stay in shape.”

Mike laughed. “I suspect that has more to do with the jogging. I usually take the elevator, but you seemed pretty gung ho on the stairs, so I just went with it.”

“There’s an elevator?”

“The door is built into the staircase.” Mike chuckled as he padded down the hall into the living room. “I’ll start the coffee. Make yourself at home.”

“I thought this was the sort of fancy old place that only had a dumbwaiter. I may have been in heels, but I wasn’t about to try to squeeze all of me into a two-foot box,” Dylan called, her eyes following him to the kitchen.

“Wouldn’t have judged if you had tried it. Four flights of stairs is a lot of stairs,” Mike chuckled over the rattle of dishes and the closing of cupboard doors.

Dylan allowed the apartment to draw her attention away from the kitchen. There was not a shred of obvious collegiate furniture or paraphernalia in sight. In fact, the place had a distinctly grown-man vibe. He had painted the walls a warm shade of Bermuda gray that made the room feel relaxed. A sensation only enhanced by the oversize chocolate-brown sofa and armchairs. In place of a coffee table, he had a battered wooden trunk covered in a stack of about three weeks’ worth of Sunday Times back issues and a few junk mail catalogs doubling as coasters.

“So this is where you live,” she said, wandering deeper into the space as the smell of coffee crept from the kitchen. “It feels so grown up.”

“Thanks,” Mike called as the coffee maker sputtered.

Dylan walked toward a delicate glass dining set to look at his art. On one end of the dining table was a large vintage opera poster; on the other was an abstract piece composed of broad, romantic brushstrokes with grayish undertones and a warm streak of berry red running through it.

“I got lucky. I found this antiquing with my mom.”

Mike’s voice grew less muffled, and she turned to find him holding a mug out toward her.

“Thank you,” Dylan said as Mike passed her the steaming mug. “I didn’t know Linda was into antiquing.”

Mike laughed, the sound as warm as the coffee in her hand. “It was a short-lived phase. Mom was an amateur collector, but Ma is a professional declutterer.”

“Sounds like Patricia. I bet there was never a week where my dad didn’t try to raid your trash when y’all weren’t home.”

“Oh, he did it while we were