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

straight teeth made him uncomfortable to be around. Or maybe it was the vast amount of water in her shoe.

“I’m sorry. My dad’s drum circle carries all the way over here. I forgot how loud it is.” Dylan gestured around the front door with a nervous laugh.

“We’ve gotten used to it. Do you want to come in?” He stopped leaning on the frame and took a step back to let her in.

“Thank you. I . . .” Dylan nodded, then paused as her shoe squelched. Panic left the little corner of her brain and seeped all the way to its outer edges as she tried to find a graceful retreat. If she walked in, she would track muddy water into the Robinsons’ otherwise spotless home, further cementing her place in the Worst Neighbor Hall of Fame. “Actually, I really shouldn’t.”

Mike must have sensed her guilt, because his face relaxed into an easy smile. “No worries; I wouldn’t want to be seen entering the home of the enemy either.”

“Oh no. It’s not that.” Dylan rushed to explain herself before she was firmly entrenched in Camp Dreadful Delacroix. “It’s just, my shoe is full of storm drain water, and your house is always spotless, and I don’t want to track it in.” She pointed erratically at her heel, which seemed more absurd now that she was drawing attention to it. What kind of Seattleite wore expensive shoes in this weather? “I promise I’m still significantly less strange than the rest of my family. Shoe thing aside.” She let her hands drop helplessly to her thighs.

To her horror, Mike started laughing, his face cracking into a lopsided grin. “Why don’t you dump your shoe out and come in? My parents are picking up dinner, so we don’t have to tell them about the averted carpet disaster.”

“That is probably the most reasonable option,” she admitted, adopting a woman-as-flamingo pose as she tried to take off one heel while still wearing the other.

Wobbling precariously close to a fall, Dylan threw her hand out to catch the front of the house, but instead she caught the lean muscle of Mike’s bicep as he grabbed her forearm to keep her from toppling over. Appreciating the feel of muscle under the cotton dress shirt he wore, Dylan grabbed her heel and pulled. He likes the gym, she thought, smiling. Those don’t just happen overnight; it took Nicolas how many months of lifting? Thinking about Nicolas, Dylan cut herself off. How Mike Robinson got his arm muscles—or what they looked like without a dress shirt over them—was 100 percent none of her business.

“Thank you,” Dylan said, clearing her throat.

“Do you want to try to dry it or something?” Mike asked as a sizable amount of water fell from her shoe.

“I’ll just leave it by the door for now.” Dylan felt a small twinge of regret, which she refused to acknowledge, as she let go of his arm. It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own set of nice arms in Texas. Why should she notice someone else’s? Especially anyone related to the Robinsons.

Following Mike into the gently lit living room, Dylan experienced an overwhelming urge to point out that all of Patricia and Linda’s furniture was unstained and that the drapes matched. Instinctively, she reached out to touch a lumpy clay statue covered in Crayola paints. Picking up the dust-free object, she turned to face Mike, who’d been watching her with curiosity as she wandered around the shelves. Conscious of her overly familiar behavior, Dylan set the object down and put her hands firmly in her pockets.

“Sorry, I was noticing how many of these y’all have.”

“They come from the children’s museum where I work. Mom’s company sponsors a table at our fundraising gala every year, so she gets little things made by the kids. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to save them, but she does anyway.” Sensing the question Dylan was too polite to ask, he added, “Linda’s company.”

“That’s sweet,” Dylan said, noticing the different flecks of brown in his eyes. Trying not to stare, she turned back to the shelves, adding, “So you work at a museum? I thought you were getting a PhD?”

“I am. My dissertation explores early-childhood development and experiential education, hence the children’s museum.” Mike said this with the easy confidence of an academic, as if everyone knew what he was talking about.

“This is the point where I confess that I have no idea what experiential education is.” Dylan laughed over her shoulder, then moved to look at the framed pictures next to the shelves.

“Basically, learning through activity and reflection. Students who learn to discuss their thoughts and feelings are better equipped to handle peer-to-peer or peer-to-adult relationships. My interest is in finding ways to provide those experiences outside of the traditional school setting.”

Mike smiled as if he had been waiting months for someone new to ask him about teaching methods for children. Dylan hadn’t even known toddlers could be socialized. Kids, she thought, were wild, sweaty, and unpredictable. Their singular purpose was to make her nervous. Mike did not share her fear. Intriguing.

“So how do you create that in a museum setting?” she asked and watched as his smile widened.

“In roughly one thousand different ways. However, my dream is a high-tech sensory room.”

Dylan cocked her head and arched an eyebrow, prompting another explanation.

“For example, I can use lights, sounds, and images to create a jungle. The kids can listen to jungle sounds, see animals . . . and maybe I add a mister so they can feel humidity.” He ran a hand down the back of his head, stopped at the base of his neck, and then continued. “The idea isn’t new. But the community around the museum needs something like this. Anyway, I’m developing one that can transition into a number of experiences using technology so children can feel a desert or a frozen tundra or a crowded city all in one place.”

“When does it open?” Dylan was pretty sure she had never met anyone