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

He flipped on a lamp, a sheepish look on his face. “I always make my bed, but if I had known I was going to have company, I probably would have put away the dry cleaning. Maybe thrown out the empty Amazon boxes.”

“People with emoji toes should not throw stones,” Dylan said, the corners of her mouth quirking upward as he relaxed. There was something comforting about him making his bed every morning. A surprising shared appreciation for the rightness that came with ordering one’s space.

Dylan turned in a slow circle to get the full effect of his taste. It had the same adultness to it that the rest of the apartment had. The room was all dark woods and steampunk accents. At the center was a king-size bed, crowned with a large chocolate leather headboard and covered in a peacock-blue duvet. Making it 360 degrees, she faced Mike again, who appeared to have significantly more interest in her than in the decor.

“I like this room.” Dylan nodded with surety. “And I’m assuming you have condoms. I like you, but I really don’t want to be pregnant right now.”

“Bedside table. I’m not interested in being a dad just yet either.”

“In that case . . .” Dylan shrugged, feeling coy as she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, resisting the urge to pick it up off the floor and fold it nicely. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle, while he tugged the staggeringly well-fitted white shirt over his head. Dylan paused mid–pants unbuttoning to admire what jogging had done for him. He didn’t have the kind of body that intimidated a partner; rather, it was just the right amount of muscle and fat. Like Mike could still have a beer or a second slice of cake with her. She reached up to his bare shoulders and ran her hands down the planes of his chest, stopping only when she hit his pants. Giving them a hard pull over his well-developed backside, she let them fall to the floor with a muffled thud before looking up at him.

He traced a hand down her spine, his touch barely above a whisper. Mike paused. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. And if I change my mind, I promise you will know.”

“Fine,” Mike said, gesturing to the divot between his pectoral muscles. “For my peace of mind—last call on any other smiley-faced toes or other hang-ups I should be aware of.”

Dylan smiled, shaking her head as she began toying with the top of her blouse. Midway through unbuttoning, she looked down and squirmed. Men did not need to match anything. If their underwear was clean and lacked holes, it was considered nice underwear. Glancing back at Mike, she wrinkled her nose.

“I sense a hang-up,” Mike said, gently touching her arm. “What is it?”

What on earth had possessed her to keep the stupid bra when the panties were missing?

“My underwear doesn’t match,” Dylan said, feeling her shoulders sag.

Mike shook his head and waited, watching her with concern. “Seriously, what’s bothering you?”

“I’m being serious,” Dylan said, feeling foolish as the silence between them spread.

Mike’s brow furrowed for a moment as he studied her. When she didn’t flinch, his shoulders began to shake as he wrapped his other arm around her, drawing her in close. Placing a kiss on the top of her head, he laughed, “Do you think I care about your underwear matching?” His voice was muffled by her hair as he continued, “I can barely even see what color it is.”

“Yes, but it’s not a very good first impression,” Dylan said into his chest, feeling the tension drip from her shoulders.

He stepped back to take a long look at her. “If I can get past your feet smiling at me, I think I can get past your underwear.” He reached out and carefully unbuttoned the rest of her blouse. Pushing the left strap of her bra to the side, he leaned over and kissed the spot where the offending item had been. Pausing an inch away from her sensitive skin, he added, “In fact, I couldn’t care less if your underwear ever matched.”

Dylan felt herself smile as he kissed her collarbone, one hand snaking around her back to undo the clasp on her bra. Gentle kisses ran along her neck as her bra came undone. Placing another series of kisses on her right shoulder, he removed the last strap and let it fall to the floor. Her skin prickled with the sensation of his touch as he reached around her mismatched panties. As she drew her hand across his collarbone, his body tensed with her nearness, anticipating what the rest of the night had in store for them.

“Can we take these off too? Or is there more you need to share about the state of your underwear?” Mike asked, pulling at her waistband.

“No. These can come off without further explanation.”

“Finally.” Mike exhaled, his chin resting against the top of her head. Taking a step back, he pulled at the last of the mismatched set, let it fall next to its counterpart, and guided her toward the bed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Where has Milo gotten to? For the last few weeks, the dog had made it a point to wake her up every night with some combination of farting, sleep running, and trying to fit his massive body into her tiny bed. But it was 4:53 a.m., and she couldn’t find the dog anywhere.

As she rolled over, her pulse spiked, the fog lifting off her mind. The dog wasn’t in the bed because she wasn’t in her bed. In fact, she was in a much larger bed with admittedly cleaner sheets. And in that larger bed was Mike. Dylan willed herself to relax, pulling the duvet cover up to fill the cold space where rolling away from him had left her skin exposed. In the dark, she felt herself take on a Cheshire cat grin, although she hit pause on