And then there was Mike. He looked so stuck in the mire. How could she not offer to do something? Surely if she could help Technocore, she could find a way to help him. And it had the added benefit of making amends for all the souls Bernice said she was claiming.
“You mean it?” Mike stopped, and she realized they were in front of her house.
“Of course. I need good karma since I’m working with Technocore. Who knows—maybe your project will balance out all the bad and keep me off hell’s doorstep.” She laughed, butterflies beating erratically in her chest as the weight of Mike’s eyes rested on her.
“Okay.” Mike sounded genuinely surprised. “Feel free to stop by anytime to see the museum in action. No pressure, if you’re too busy.”
“I can stop by Friday afternoon. I heard Tim usually leaves the office by noon, so I should be free.” Dylan waved a dismissive hand and forced herself to sound casual. After all, helping a friend was not a big deal.
“I’d like that.”
For a second Dylan thought he might hug her, and she panicked. It was one thing to get chai with Mike. It was another to go around cuddling him when Nicolas was at home, probably missing her and their email ritual. Taking a deep breath, she tried to capture a few of the more aggressive butterflies in her stomach and reminded herself that hugging an old friend was not cheating, even by Nicolas’s paranoid standards. Mike rocked forward and back on his heels for a second, his hands firmly in his pockets as if he were waiting for something.
That something turned out to be his mother’s floodlight, which snapped on and bathed the street with white light. Dylan jumped back guiltily, as if one of the Robinson women were watching them from behind a curtain. Mike let out a breathy chuckle.
“See you Friday,” he said, lifting his chin toward her disaster of a front lawn.
“See you.” Dylan took another step backward as Mike turned, fishing his car keys out of his bag. Shaking her head, she turned to face the statue-covered yard.
“Hey, Dylan,” Mike called, forcing her to rotate around again. “For the record, I don’t think you’re going to hell.” He began slowly walking backward in the street.
“For what?”
“Fixing Technocore.” He shrugged, still ambling backward. “I mean, how many people would be out of a job if you didn’t? Really, some could argue your work is saintlike.”
“Oh, please.” Dylan rolled her eyes.
“I mean it. Night.”
“Night,” Dylan called, her cheeks getting hot despite the chill.
Mike turned with a wave to face his car, and she went inside. Dylan was halfway up the stairs to her room when she realized she was still smiling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dylan sat quietly reading the pirate romance outside Tim’s office. She figured he already knew about the book, so she might as well finish it and give it back to Layla. It was only polite. She had planned to present the issues to Tim on Thursday, but in a usual bout of Tim-itis she had received not one but three can-we-push-our-meeting-back emails. He had only agreed to see her Friday morning—now afternoon—after she’d pointed out that even if he didn’t use her expertise, Technocore was still paying Kaplan for her time. She hoped the email sounded businesslike and not like the desperate plea it was. She could only dodge Jared’s check-in calls and emails for so long before he pulled the plug on her.
Dylan flipped the page and wondered how a book could go from steamy to improbable so quickly. The pirate and the heroine had broken up over stolen gems exactly two paragraphs after sex on top of a moving carriage. Who comes up with—
KTHUNK.
Tim’s office door burst open, interrupting her thoughts. “Dylan, I’ll be right with you. Layla, can you make me another mocha?” Tim called as he sprinted toward the bathroom door.
“Sure thing,” Layla shouted at the door. Glancing at the book in Dylan’s hand, she smiled. “Good, isn’t it?”
Dylan nodded. Loath as she was to admit it, the book was riveting. After carefully replacing her bookmark, she put the book back in her purse. Layla might dog-ear pages, but Dylan wasn’t about to start folding up a borrowed book.
“Ready?” Tim came sprinting out of the restroom and snatched his mocha off the little shelf Layla had set it on.
“Yes, sir. Lead the way.”
Not that Tim had waited for her. By the time Dylan closed the office door, he was already behind his desk, wearing a hands-free headset. She decided to ignore this. There were weirder things about Tim Gunderson than his propensity for wearing headsets for in-person meetings.
“What do you got?” Tim said, clicking the end of a pen.
“Well, I have narrowed Technocore’s challenges into three opportunity groups.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You have three big problems,” Dylan said, translating her own business jargon. Usually, executives preferred she say opportunities in place of problems. It was easier to claim plausible deniability if someone sued.
“Oh.” Tim’s pale eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “That many?”
“Yes. The good news is there are several small, immediate steps you can take to start fixing them.” As Dylan began making her case for staff morale and leadership accessibility, Tim remained still save for a few pen clicks, his gaze focused on the ceiling.
“The last one is more difficult to change, but I think we can manage it with some creativity.” Dylan tried to soften the blow. “Some employees have the perception that Technocore is not a community player. Consequently they feel . . .” She hesitated, searching for the phrase she had practiced over the last few days. “Well, they feel uncomfortable telling people where they work. It makes recruiting and retaining good employees a challenge.”
“Are you sure this is a real problem?” Tim’s skepticism rolled off him as he clicked his pen again.
Dylan almost snatched the pen and his stupid headset from him. Smoothing a small wrinkle in her skirt, she took a calming breath before continuing. “Look, Tim. I can lie to you. But you hired me because I help take companies that are dying and bring them back to life. If you want Technocore to flounder until the board puts it out of its misery, fine.”
“So you are a necromancer.” Tim snort-laughed. When she didn’t laugh, he added, “Because you raise zombie companies,” then started snort-laughing again.
Dylan’s stare was incredulous. “You do recognize these problems are severe. You do not want to make it to zombie-company level, right?”
Tim stopped laughing. “Sorry.” He did not look sorry.
She needed to try a new tactic if this was going to work. “Yes. I get the analogy. But, Tim, this is serious. For you and for me. You’re right; I’m a necromancer of sorts. But even I can’t bring you back if you keep going the direction you are headed.”
Tim smiled as if he had missed the point, and Dylan braced herself for another round of Dylan of the Dead jokes. “I know this is mission critical. We hired Kaplan, after all, but I don’t think you need to be that intense. Really. I built this company. Now that I know there are problems, I can fix them.”
“Great. The document in front of you outlines the research in more detail if you have any questions.” Relief began to trickle over her. Once the primary issues were agreed upon, it was just a matter of getting his signature on the next steps. From there she could work with her own team to get things done. No more waiting around for him. “I have outlined a number of actions we can take to get things going. I want to run a couple ideas for a staff-appreciation group by you, and—”
“Not necessary,” Tim said, clicking his pen once more.
“I’m sorry?” The pen was giving her a nervous twitch.
“Your big-picture analysis is great. But I know this company inside and out. I can fix it.”
“You want to contribute to the development of a strategy, then?” Dylan paused.
“No, I mean I have a solution.”
“Well, great. Very proact
ive,” Dylan said, praying she sounded diplomatic. “What would you like to do?”
“I mean, I haven’t nailed down the specifics. But I’ll let you know when I know.”
Dylan balked. The entire process was devolving from slightly ridiculous to completely absurd in record time. Tim grinned and leaned back in his chair, this time putting his feet up on his desk. Taking another deep breath, she imagined what her report to Jared would look like:
Jared: I have discussed the issues with Tim. His solution is to put his feet up on his desk, click his pen, and bark orders at no one into his headset. I’ll let you know when I have details.
Dylan
That was not going to work. Readjusting her tactics again, she said, “I’ll put time on your calendar early next week to go over ways I can help implement your vision?”
Or redirect the strategy entirely, she thought.
“Just be on the lookout for an email from me with the details.”
“Of course.” She might be sick. So far, emails with good news from Tim Gunderson were entirely foreign to her.
“All right, I gotta make a call. Talk to you soon, you necromancer, you.” Tim giggled through his nose as he took his feet off his desk.
“Can I expect an email from you by Tuesday afternoon?” she asked, placing a stranglehold on her composure as she put the papers back into her satchel.
“Yes, or close to . . .” Tim waved as if to signal that they were done, then screeched into his headset, “Petey man! How are ya?”
With a curt nod, she walked to the door. Offering a small smile to Layla, she made it inside the elevator before her seething burst from her.
“Gee, Dylan. I know you have done this a hundred times. But I’m such a genius I don’t need your opinion. Oh, I know I’m paying for it. I roll around in money for fun, so wasting it doesn’t matter to me.” She gestured wildly around the elevator, imitating Tim’s voice.
Feeling the elevator slowing to a halt, she smoothed the front of her blouse and took a deep breath, forcing composure on herself before she stepped back into the complex cubicle layout that marked the way to her office. Dylan pushed down on her door handle and did her best not to slam the door behind her.
Setting her bag on the desk, she looked at her flashing voice mail light. She knew it was Jared before she even looked at the caller ID. Typing in her voice mail pass code, Dylan leaned against the edge of the desk, waiting for the robo-inbox to finish reading the time and date of the call while tension built in her neck.
“Dylan. Jared here. Calling because I’m reading your last few daily reports now, and it says here that you have meetings with Tim and other Technocore leaders scheduled for this week. Got to say, that really disappointed me. After our conversation, I thought we were on the same page about being a team player.” Jared sighed heavily into the phone, as if the act of Dylan doing her job was painful to him, before he continued. “I’m reminding you that you need to get approval from me before you schedule these sorts of meetings. I’m still the lead manager on this project, even if I am not on site at the moment. Let me know that you understand what I am saying and how the meetings went.”
For a moment, Dylan’s rage tuned out the sound of her voice mail robot asking her if she would like to save the message or delete it. How could he possibly be upset with her for doing the most basic parts of her job? If he wanted to approve meetings, they would never get anywhere. Especially if he wasn’t reading her progress reports until three days after she sent them.
Sinking into her chair, she pressed her fingers over her closed eyes for a second. If it was so important that he know about her every move before it happened, he should be in Seattle. It wasn’t like she had time to waste, and Jared hadn’t exactly been responsive to his email lately. Unless he considered his pointless midnight check-in missives responsive, which she certainly didn’t.
Deciding to handle Jared’s impossible request later, Dylan focused on her actual problem: Tim. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that Tim would change his mind and review the documents she’d left behind. Or maybe he would come to the same conclusion about next steps on his own. Taking one more deep breath, Dylan opened her eyes to the sound of the phone ringing.
“Dylan speaking,” she said through a forced smile, grabbing a pen. Consulting 101: customers could hear smiles on the other end. Consulting 102: always be ready to take notes.
“Um, hi, Dylan. It’s Charlie from security.” Charlie’s voice wobbled.
“Hey, Charlie. What can I do for you?”
“I was checking on you. Seeing if everything was, you know . . . okay?” There was a pause before the rest tumbled from him: “’Cause there are cameras in the elevator. I watch them.”
Dylan wanted to kick herself. It was her luck that Charlie would be monitoring the cameras in the elevator when she acted like a toddler in it.
“That’s sweet of you. I was letting off steam,” Dylan said, trying to make talking and gesturing to oneself sound as normal as possible. “Tough meeting.”
“Deep mentioned you had a plan. Tim didn’t go for it?”
Of course Deep had. “Not yet, but he will. And he did start this great company; his ideas might be even better.” The corporate can-I-help-you smile was back in full force.
“Not likely.”
Before Dylan could stop herself, she laughed. It wasn’t the most professional thing to do, but she did feel better.
“Keep your fingers crossed for me, yeah?”
“Sure thing. Walking people out of the building is depressing.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Smiling in spite of herself, Dylan smoothed another invisible wrinkle on her blouse and decided that Charlie’s call was a sign to get lunch before “hanger” took control of her entirely.
The familiar smell of home cooking washed over Dylan as she entered the Skillet. Its decor greeted her with a perfect lumberjack-chic balance, complete with wood-paneled walls and waiters bedecked in plaid. The massive windows let in what little gray sunlight the city had to offer as she slid into a plush moss-colored booth. The diner was one part hipster pretension and one part perfect burger, neither of which she objected to, if she was honest.
Today was a guilt-free-hamburger kind of day. In fact, eyeing the specialty drinks, she thought pretty much the entire Technocore project deserved a treat. Vowing to come back for a boozy milkshake when she didn’t have to go back to work, Dylan had finished ordering “the Burger,” complete with whatever bacon jam was, when her phone rang.
Nicolas almost never called during the workday unless it was an emergency. While she wasn’t sure what she could do from Seattle about a leaky pipe, she felt like she should pick up. After all, she had missed yesterday’s call because she was with Mi—busy, Dylan course corrected midthought.
“Hello,” she answered, unpacking the pirate romance.
“Hey, babe. How are you?” Nicolas asked, concern in his voice.
Dylan exhaled, happy to have a sounding board. Nicolas wasn’t the kind of guy who listened to every small detail of your day. But if you told him about a problem and the solutions you were mulling over, he could be helpful. And she needed help. “Nicolas, I’m worried about this assignment. I basically pulled an all-nighter developing solutions, only to have Tim tell me that he is a genius who can solve his own problems.”
“These guys always think that. Would you really be there if he was that smart?” Nicolas scoffed.
“He seems to think so.” Dylan smiled up at the owner of a tattooed arm dropping off her iced tea.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Nicolas asked, just like she’d expected. There was a comforting order that came with being able to predict her partner’s actions.
“Honestly, I think I have to let him try. I figure if it works, great. If it blows up, I’ll either be out of a job, or Tim will give me an opportunity to do what he hired me for.”
“I guess that’ll work,” Nicolas said, soundi
ng distracted. “Listen, I was calling for a reason. When you texted last night saying you couldn’t talk, I thought maybe there was a serious problem. But now I know it was work—”
“Wait, you didn’t call when you thought there was a problem? That doesn’t make sense,” Dylan joked, waiting for Nicolas to join in. After a beat of silence, though, Dylan took a sip of iced tea. “Sorry, go on.”
“It’s just unusual for you to change our schedule. Must be the Seattle air.” On the surface it sounded like a joke, but Nicolas emphasized the word schedule to let her know that he was irritated with her deviation from it. Dylan chafed at his rebuke but let it go in favor of excitement as her food began making its way to her. The sooner her burger arrived, the sooner she could eat instead of talk.
“Anyway, I was calling because I wanted to update you on the case,” Nicolas continued, “and to tell you our shower is doing something odd.”
“Oh.” Better than the toilet.
“So I can’t make it this weekend. But since the case wrapped, I can probably make it in a couple of weeks, before I head into mediation on the next one.”
“Great!” Dylan said, more to the food that was set in front of her than to Nicolas. “I’ll give my parents a heads-up.”
“I don’t think I can take off any extra time, though, so your office will have to find flights from Friday to Sunday.”
“It’s short, but it’ll be fun. I can’t wait for you to see where I grew up,” she said, munching on a bite of burger. Whatever bacon jam was, it was amazing.
“It should be a good time,” Nicolas said in a businesslike tone. “So about the shower. The super—”
“Nicolas, I’m so excited you are coming to visit! But I have to finish up and get to a meeting. Talk to you soon. Love you.” Dylan hung up before he could add anything. If she got off the phone, he would figure it out or bathe in the sink or something.
Sighing, she set the phone down and turned back to her burger. Sure, his visit wouldn’t be for as long as she’d hoped, but relationships were based on compromise, and this was a place to start. They could always come back for the holidays. Glancing at her incoming emails, Dylan rolled her eyes at another check-in message from Jared. Typing out a quick response with her progress (yes, she had met with Tim; yes, they were taking steps), she felt the pressure return like a ton of bricks on her shoulders. Stuffing the phone back in her bag, she thought of a few different ways to relax before heading back to the office, none of which seemed particularly appealing.
The Checklist Page 8
