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

strolled in and stopped short of the counter to consider the menu mounted on the wall. “Your job, I mean.”

“Well, not technically. But I’m between a rock and a hard spot.”

Glancing at the customer again, the barista stood up, looking put out over having to do his job. “Okay, if a brand-new consultant came to you with this problem, what would you tell them?”

“Calm down. You are perfectly capable. All you need to do is sketch an outline for each document, then fill in what you can. That way the bosses can see your thinking and provide feedback, as opposed to wondering why one piece is perfect and nothing else is even started. It looks like better time-management skills.” Dylan shrugged.

“One, that was way more detailed than I expected. Two, just do that.” The guy shrugged as if it were that easy. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

“That’s kind of you,” Dylan laughed, mentally preparing a rebuttal until the customer stepped up to the counter and threw the barista a hurry-it-up-dude look.

“I’ll check on you later. Good luck,” he said, wandering back to the counter with less hurry than the waiting customer expected.

Watching him wander away, Dylan smiled at the unexpected pep talk. Yes, the barista was prying, but he wasn’t wrong. She just needed to get through the next few hours. Then she could head back to the office, and everything would be okay.

The caffeine from her half-drunk latte began to work its way through her overtaxed system, and her mind shifted gears, pushing aside the stress, making just enough room for her to focus. Dylan glanced behind her to see if anyone was listening, then realized that at this rate, she didn’t care if the whole coffee shop thought she had lost it. Pulling her shoulders back, she whispered, “He’s right. I’m smart. Focus, Dylan. You got this.” Then she started working.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dylan yawned as she tipped her blinker toward the parking lot belonging to the kind of warehouse she’d told Tim she wanted nothing to do with. She’d managed to get into a flow state at Cruise with Tyrell, the overly friendly barista, making sure that each shift change kept her in a steady supply of snacks and caffeine as she’d organized the good, the bad, and the ugly from the retreat. It wasn’t until well after dinnertime that she’d even remembered she’d put her phone in airplane mode. When she’d turned the phone back on, the deluge of messages had been so overwhelming that she’d switched it right back off, vowing to return every single call and text after she made her deadline. When Cruise had finally closed at midnight, she’d carried on her work at home until her mother had started to make phone calls to France at three thirty in the morning. Even in French, her voice had carried through the house, eventually forcing Dylan to put in ear plugs and give up working.

Scanning the parking lot, she didn’t see a car that looked like something Tim would drive. As she considered the risk of being murdered in the parking lot if she leaned her seat back to catch a power nap, a pounding on her window sent her heart into her throat. Attempting to strangle the rest of her scream, Dylan took in a semideranged-looking Tim in a neon-orange bicycle helmet, his ludicrous grin fading at the sound of her screeching. Clutching the place where her heart was making an effort to escape her chest, she rolled down her window.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Why are you screaming?” Tim asked, looking around the parking lot in terror.

“You can’t just come out of nowhere pounding on car windows in abandoned parking lots.”

“I’m wearing neon,” Tim countered, as if that rendered terrifying her impossible. Unluckily for him, all it did was serve as a reminder that she hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep to notice a millionaire in a tragic spandex color combination.

“Still not a good excuse.” Dylan angled her chin at the warehouse. “What are we doing on the set of CSI?”

Tim’s face folded back into a delirious V shape. “Staff appreciation!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I need to get inside and get changed before Taylor arrives.” Tim held up a bicycle saddlebag. “Come on, Dylan. Don’t worry; you won’t get hurt. I play capoeira.”

With that, Tim turned and marched toward the big metal doors of the warehouse. She doubted Tim’s capoeira was as good as he claimed, but the odds of anyone attacking a man in a fluorescent catsuit seemed pretty slim.

Dylan continued to cling to her coffee mug as she got out of the car and crossed the aluminum threshold of the warehouse; a strong sense of dread began to creep through her. Just behind the security desk was a large window, presumably for a foreman to survey whatever was happening on the floor. In this case, Dylan had a clear line of sight into what appeared to be a massive garment-production factory on one half of the facility and a packing operation on the other. Tim took that exact moment to strut by the window in his fitted exercise attire, the effect of which was rather like a visual punch to her psyche. Whatever this was, it was real, and Tim was loving it.

She walked past the unmanned security desk and crossed onto the manufacturing floor, where Tim was speaking animatedly with a woman at a sewing machine. Looking up, Tim waved her over. As soon as she was within earshot, he launched into introductions. “Dylan, this is Lois, our head seamstress for the day. We are talking about production timeline. Lois, this is Dylan; she is going to be our floor manager.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lois said, extending her hand and fixing Tim with a glare.

“Nice to meet you as well,” Dylan said reflexively, then paused, processing Tim’s words. “I’m sorry, Tim—may I have a word with you? I think I need clarity around your, uh . . .” Dylan halted, searching