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

“Sometime between never and when I win the lotto.” He laughed at her expression. “Prior to my mom’s company getting involved in the museum, the place was almost completely underwater. Things are improving, but a new sensory room, especially the kind I want, is expensive.”

“Oh,” Dylan offered awkwardly. She had run out of knickknacks to examine and was forced to look Mike in his unusually symmetrical face again.

“Enough about me. How are you? How are your sisters? Sometimes I see Neale driving out of the neighborhood, but I haven’t really talked to any of the Delacroix in months.”

After picking her way over to the adjacent love seat, Dylan sat down, tucking her feet under her, instantly more comfortable in the Robinson home than in her own. “Oh, you know . . . Billie is still in New York working on her variety show, which I’m pretty sure means waitressing. And Neale is . . . well, Neale is just Neale.” Dylan sighed. In Texas, she usually said her sisters were waitresses, but she couldn’t lie to Mike, who, through the unfortunate proximity of their houses, had been forced to observe her entire family history.

“It’s good they’re pursuing their dreams.”

Mike was being nice. She could have said her sisters were mutants, and she was positive the pleasant smile on his face would still be there.

“What about you? I’m sure whatever you are doing is super impressive. You were always a good-looking go-getter. What’s new?”

Dylan’s face felt hot. Did he think she was good looking? The expression was as old as the hills and too goofy by a mile. He couldn’t mean it like that. Clearly, he was just channeling some old Hollywood charisma to go with his looks. The charm just rolled off him and messed with her head in the process. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m still the family oddball. I work for Kaplan; it’s a corporate-productivity consulting firm. I’m starting with Technocore on Monday, helping—”

“Wait. Technocore? As in Tim Gunderson, the activist guy who hacked the mayor’s office and exposed all that city fraud?”

“The one and only.”

“Didn’t he just lay off an entire department, then buy a Tesla?”

“That’s him.” Dylan cringed as she said this. The infamous candy apple–red Founders Series custom Roadster wasn’t half as bad as his memo instructing all departments to give out T-shirts instead of holiday bonuses. Gunderson prided himself on being frugal when it came to business but was completely extravagant in his personal life. As a result, Technocore was hemorrhaging key employees who wanted to be paid well and treated to more than a doughnut at the annual Employee Appreciation Day.

“What are you doing for them?”

“For starters, getting rid of the Tesla.” Dylan’s smile was more of a flinch. Technocore was nothing short of a career death sentence. Four of the last consulting firms had either been fired or had quit within weeks of attempting to work with Gunderson. She just hoped she lasted long enough for a stay of execution.

“Hello? Mike? Whose shoes are these?” Patricia’s crisp voice floated down the hallway.

“In here,” Mike called over his shoulder.

Dylan suddenly became aware of her legs tucked under her, the wet hem of her wool pants soaking into the couch. Feeling guilty, she pulled her legs to the ground just as Patricia and Linda rounded the corner.

“Oh, hi, Dylan.” Patricia looked surprised the shoes belonged to her but recovered quickly enough. After walking over in her ultrawhite and well-pressed sweater set, she stood in front of Dylan with her arms open. It took a moment for her to realize that Patricia Robinson actually wanted to hug her. A Delacroix. Stooping to embrace the petite woman, she wondered what alternate universe she’d stumbled into. Since when did the Robinsons unlace enough to hug?

“You look so grown! I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I haven’t been home in a few years,” Dylan said as Patricia released her to Linda, who was equally well put together. Dylan spotted pearls under Linda’s black fleece jacket. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun and covered in enough hair spray to make sure each strand stayed in place into eternity. “How are you?”

“Same old, same old. Are you here about the lights?” Linda asked without preamble.

“I’m sorry. It’s killing my mother,” Dylan said with an uncomfortable shrug.

“I heard her tell Henry last night. I thought they would send Milo with a note again. You’re a pleasant surprise,” Linda said happily, holding up the take-out bag. “Join us in the kitchen?”

“Mom, if you knew it was bugging them, why didn’t you fix it?” Mike had the decency to look confused. Patricia wore the same contrite expression her father wore whenever her mother did something ridiculous.

Ignoring Mike’s question, Linda shook the bag of food at Dylan. “Stay for egg rolls?” she said, looking entirely unrepentant.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I was only stopping by to see if maybe you could angle the lights a little more toward your driveway?”

“Come have something to eat. You have to be starving,” Patricia answered, disregarding the stubborn set in Linda’s jaw. Whenever Dylan had been sent to negotiate peace as a kid, the Robinsons had fed her. Patricia and Linda were convinced that two people as strange as her parents could not possibly feed their children. This wasn’t true. In point of fact, Bernice was obsessed with family meals, just not at regular meal intervals. Dylan had never bothered to correct the Robinsons’ assumption, mostly because it got her a lot of cookies.

“No, really, it’s okay. I’m sure you want to eat with your son.” Dylan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble at the smell of fried vegetable goodness.

“You sure sound hungry,” Patricia added, her voice tight with disapproval.

“Nope, I’m leaving them all for you.”

“Let’s compromise. You take one for the road,” Linda said, her litigator skills showing. She popped open the container and held it out to Dylan. “Also, honey . . . one of your shoes is dripping