The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “Well, more foreign than a semester at sea, anyway.”

  “So we can both agree that a semester at sea is a party boat?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mike grabbed another cookie and dunked it in his coffee. He crammed the whole soggy mess in his mouth in one massive bite, chuckling at his own lack of grace. “That was a display of basically everything I learned in Aus.” Grabbing the list, he added, “Shall we get started?”

  “By all means,” Dylan said, hop-scooting closer to see the list. Mike did not move the paper between the two of them, so she leaned into him to see the names. Even at her ridiculous angle, she was aware of how close they were, her knees gently nudging the muscle in his thigh as she crossed him. Her copy was safely stored in her bag, and she silently thanked the gods of surprise dates that she hadn’t mentioned it earlier in the night.

  “You know these people?”

  “Or know people who know them,” Dylan hedged, cautious of committing too much to a few of Deep’s more ambitious Google additions. Brandt had begged her to add Tim, but after his last escapade with philanthropy, Dylan had decided that her instincts were right. He could humiliate himself on the charity scene without her help.

  “This is fantastic,” Mike said, leaning back ever so slightly so he could look Dylan in the eye. “Steve Hammond. I see him at events all the time. It would be great if we could get him to do something.”

  “I think we should be able to meet with Steve.” Dylan smirked. Mike had picked the one name she could actually get a meeting with. Assuming he wasn’t busy firing a fresh wave of Technocore employees.

  “Seriously, this is so great.” Mike bounced forward, grabbed two cookies, then leaned all the way into the couch’s soft leather back. Taking a bite of one, he extended the second cookie to Dylan. Tingles shot through her arm as their fingers brushed. Dylan paused, cookie still in hand, to look at him. Mike’s posture straightened, pulling at an invisible string somewhere deep in her stomach. She held her breath and Mike’s gaze, willing herself not to shrink from whatever was between them.

  “So . . .” Mike cleared his throat, still looking at her.

  “Yeah, I’m just gonna do this.”

  Taking a deep breath, Dylan leaned in. The kiss was sweet, almost shy. But there was something delicious in the reserve of it. Her lips just brushing his, as if testing their realness, ensuring he wouldn’t disappear from under her. His arm wrapped around her, softly at first, then pulling her closer to him as the kiss deepened. Sliding her free hand around the back of his neck, she let the clean, soft edges of his haircut tickle her fingers. She slipped her tongue across the bottom of his lip, testing the boundaries between them. Mike responded, moving boldly and pulling her in closer, so she could feel the hard muscles in his torso. He tasted like the sugary treats she had just eaten. Vaguely aware her own cookie was melting in her hand, Dylan couldn’t help it: she giggled.

  “What are you laughing at?” Mike’s voice was on her lips as he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing uneven.

  “My cookie is melting.”

  Mike laughed, and Dylan could almost feel his smile touch her own as he tilted his head to look at the hand that wasn’t wrapped around him. Chocolate had managed to drip all over her arm. Dylan sensed his reluctance as he released the hand at the small of her back, allowing her the space to roll back onto her calves. Carefully, she disentangled her arm from around his neck and slowly brought the softening mess of a cookie to her mouth.

  “Want some?” Dylan mumbled through a mouthful of cookie, holding up her chocolate-covered hand.

  “Maybe later.” Mike bit down on his bottom lip as she began to lick the chocolate off her thumb.

  “Suit yourself. It’ll just take me longer to clean up before we can get back to business.” She shrugged.

  Mike leaned over, close to her ear, and whispered, “Take your time,” then flicked his tongue across the corner of her mouth, adding, “You have melted chocolate all over your face,” before leaning back again.

  Dylan instinctively followed him forward, still working on the chocolate attached to her ring finger. As she did, her knees dug farther into his thigh. Mike winced and shifted away from the pressure.

  “That can’t be comfortable,” he said, tapping a hand on her knee.

  Dylan worked at the chocolate on her finger a little longer than she needed to, trying to come up with a good reason to keep her feet hidden. Pursing her lips, she watched as Mike tilted his head expectantly.

  Exhaling, she pulled her feet out from under her, stretching her legs across Mike’s lap. “I got a really bad pedicure. Like, embarrassingly bad.”

  Dylan watched in horror as Mike looked down at her metallic-yellow toes. The terrifying smiley faces on her big toes grinned up at him.

  “Wow. That is just . . .” His body shook as he pressed his lips together. “It’s just so . . . weird.”

  “I know. Don’t laugh,” Dylan said, trying to retract her legs from his lap. “I’d have removed them if I’d known I was coming here.”

  “I feel like your feet are watching me,” Mike said, placing a hand across her legs and looking away from her toes, laughing into his own shoulder. “How do you go to the bathroom?”

  “Honestly, I try not to look. I can’t find the nail polish remover, and once my shoes are on I keep forgetting to buy more. You know my parents’ house.” Dylan chuckled. “My toes are too terrible; I have to put them away,” she said, trying to bring her legs back from across his lap.

  “No, no, no. It’s fine,” Mike said, still laughing as he slowly moved his hand up her calf, past her knee, finally letting it come to rest featherlight on her thigh. “We’ll just have you sit in a different position or something.”

  “Or we could do things that don’t involve sitting.”

  Dylan said the words fast so she couldn’t talk herself out of her desire. Mike stopped laughing and grew quiet, squinting at her, the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes taking shape.

  “Like, maybe we find the room in your house that has options for other . . . activities.” She trailed off, not quite meeting his gaze. Mike continued to take her measure as she moved her hands in a circular motion, looking for a polite way to suggest sex.

  “This escalated quickly,” Mike said, biting down on his lower lip. Dylan’s face snapped to attention, catching the questioning look on his face.

  “We can de-escalate. I don’t want you to feel rushed or anything,” Dylan sputtered. Suddenly unsure of herself, she looked down at her hands and kicked herself for being spontaneous. She usually considered all the angles. Spontaneity just wasn’t her thing. She had made a whole life out of eliminating uncertainty, and it was a good life. Surprises were for people with less Delacroix in their name.

  Risking a glance, she caught Mike’s pause, his lower lip working overtime, and felt her heart stutter. Who was she kidding? The boy next door wasn’t going to drop years of animosity for an uneasy truce with someone whose parents’ had toilet papered his house two years ago.

  “Let’s forget about it. Best not to trust a Delacroix,” she half joked, fighting the deflated feeling that came from misplaced hope.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed. “I trust you. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Dylan’s chest expanded. “Because my parents lied about clogging the storm drain in front of your house?”

  “Yes, but you didn’t lie about it. Besides, we spray weed killer on your lawn whenever you all go on vacation. Dylan, you’ve always been honest with me. It’s one of the things I like about you.” Mike reached out and ran a hand down her arm. “I’m okay with escalation. Assuming you are.”

  Dylan leaned into him, surprised by the rush she felt. The pure bliss that came with taking a risk. Enjoying the slow gathering of electricity between them, she kissed him once again, slower and deeper this time. She waited, feeling Mike open to her, before backing away. “As long as you don’t make fun of my pedicure.”

 
; “Done.” Mike kissed her again, then tapped her thigh and looked over at her feet, his lips pressed into a thin line of impish delight.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Wasn’t gonna.”

  “Sure,” Dylan said, nudging him with her shoulder before swinging her offending pedicure off the couch and onto the floor, unpinning Mike so he could stand. Extending his hand toward her, he lightly pulled her to her feet. Then, still holding her hand loosely in his own, he began to walk past the kitchen, toward what Dylan assumed was his bedroom.

  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 doing a happy dance, which would probably wake him up. She’d managed to have “a little fun,” as her mother would have put it. Actually, more than a little fun.

  Remembering her family, Dylan wrinkled her nose and tried not to think about how to explain where she’d been the night before. Would they even notice she hadn’t been home? Not that she needed to be home; she was a full-grown woman. That said, she’d get asked questions she didn’t have answers to. She moved over to take a closer look at the clock, and her heart rate began to dance as she thought through her situation. If she managed to set the feud aside, which she couldn’t, her whole life was in Texas, or at least the bits of it that were still intact. Her job, for however long she had it, was there. Her friends—also in Texas. Her possessions, although still at Nicolas’s place, were in Texas. Mike knew she was only here temporarily. He couldn’t expect this to continue for any length of time, could he?

  Dylan rolled onto her back and saw Mike peacefully dozing with one arm tucked under his cheek, the other stretched across the space where she had been a few minutes before. Her eyes widened as she looked over at him, thoughts hiccuping. It was now 4:57 a.m.; she was in someone else’s comfy bed, after some damn good sex and a nice evening.

  A nice evening with a guy who was kind and had asked her to stay. Dylan had started the night with every intention of doing the best she could to get out of dinner without damaging him or anybody else. She was supposed to be helping. Instead she had done the exact opposite.

  “Oh my God,” Dylan mouthed at the ceiling, her agitation growing.

  She could not possibly stay. Here Mike was, all smiles and thoughtful gestures, and she was basically holding herself together with double-sided tape. She silently threw back the covers, then began the painstaking task of searching an unfamiliar room for her things, talking herself through her next move all the while. As far as she could tell, the best thing to do was to get out of there. Tomorrow she could buy him dinner or something and tell him the truth. After a glass of wine or
three, she could be honest about the googled list and what was left of her mess of a life in Texas. She could even tell the truth about the likelihood of her being successful at Technocore. She just couldn’t do it right now. Or first thing in the morning. Mike would probably try to make her breakfast.

  The guilt would eat her alive.

  Fumbling as she slunk into her underwear in the darkness, she cursed herself for not bothering to gather and fold her clothes the night before. After locating her skirt and blouse, she tiptoed into the hallway, grateful that they hadn’t stopped to turn the lights out the night before. She pulled open the closet and gathered up her coat and handbag. Glancing at her shoes, she decided to put them on in the hallway, avoiding the obvious click of heels against wood that would signal her departure. Reaching for the door handle, she flipped off the hall light. If she couldn’t be honest, the least she could do was save him some money on his utility bill.

  Backing into the hallway, Dylan pulled the door shut, then slowly released the handle until she was sure it wouldn’t make a sound in the lock. Exhaling, she turned and glanced across the hall.

  A woman who could only be Mrs. Warnly looked at her with disapproval, eyeing the heels in Dylan’s hand. She smiled at the grim-looking woman, who was wearing a roller set and clutching a newspaper. She did not return her smile. Mrs. Warnly knew she’d just left a nice boy sound asleep without so much as a note, and the woman did not approve. Dylan wasn’t sure she could blame her as she crept toward the staircase, shoes still in hand.

  Dylan turned into the Technocore parking lot and began the hopeless circle for a parking space, cursing Tim. When the company had moved into its new building, he’d severely miscalculated the number of parking spaces required for the staff. After all, he and the executive team had reserved parking. He didn’t really care if there were only forty spaces for roughly 2,500 employees. Making a mental note to bump the proposed parking-shortage solution up the high-priority list, she swore and started driving toward the surrounding streets to try her luck.