The Checklist Addie Woolridge (pocket ebook reader TXT) 📖

mission,” Dylan said, rubbing her hands together for extra emphasis. “I have some ideas for getting this sensory room funded. I have a former client who was big into facilitating stock gifts. I can connect you to him. Also, have you thought about a live text-to-donate drive at the fundraising gala?”

CHAPTER TEN

Dylan pulled into the office at 7:15 a.m., determined to answer a few of Jared’s emails before she dealt with Tim’s panicked messages. She was impressed the meme hadn’t reached Tim’s consciousness until early Sunday, limiting the number of URGENT emails he could send. Dylan had considered writing to him that applying the little red exclamation point to his email and adding READ ME to the subject line was overkill and part of his perception problem. Instead, she’d simply answered that she was aware of the meme and that they would take mitigating steps on Monday. What those were, she had no idea.

“Morning, Charlie,” Dylan called, breezing through the heavy doors. “Can you do me a favor and give me a call when Tim comes in?”

He arched his eyebrow like she was asking a trick question. “I don’t think it’s against any of our policies. Is it?”

“If it is, I won’t tell.”

Charlie’s manner eased. “In that case, I’ll do it. Although do you really want to be the first person he sees after, you know . . .” He shrugged in place of saying the meme.

“He’s gonna have to see someone first—may as well be me. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye.” Charlie’s voice floated into the elevator bank as she pressed the floor button with the corner of her laptop case. Sure, she had spent her weekend covering herself in little-kid germs, but that didn’t mean she needed to get everyone else’s germs too.

Exiting the elevator, she ran through her plan for the day. Step one: head off any high-pitched emails from Jared. Step two: cut Tim off before he could try another diet-soda stunt. Step three: stay employed long enough for steps one and two. Kaplan was notorious for removing consultants over the weekend and replacing them on Mondays, so she’d decided Mike was probably right when by Sunday evening no one had called her about getting a ticket home.

“Still, there is a first time for everything,” she said under her breath, waiting for her computer to boot up. As expected, she had no fewer than seven emails from Jared, the previews for which all read something like:

Dylan: Things are out of hand . . .

Tipping the last of her coffee back, she scrolled through her unopened emails, trying to decide which of Jared’s missives to answer first, until an email from Barb Maisewell caught her eye. She wouldn’t email gossip. Barb was way too savvy for that. But really, what other interaction did she and Dylan have beyond the occasional tabloid article about their favorite guilty pleasure cooking reality show?

Hi Dylan,

I hope you are enjoying your time at home! Quick question for you. Has Jared been up to Seattle since you got there?

Thanks,

Barb

Dylan was disappointed that Barb didn’t include an article from EW or something but decided answering a work email from Barb was better than dealing with Jared’s. She hit send on a quick “nope” email, complete with an In Touch link on the reality chef’s latest dating exploits, as her desk line rang.

“Hi, Charlie, is the eagle on the move?”

Without missing a beat, Charlie answered, “Ten-four. Be prepared. He looks rough.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Good luck.”

The click on the line gave Dylan a jolt. She didn’t have a plan or even the semblance of a plan. Despite having spent an impromptu Saturday with Mike, she wasn’t ready to call herself a fan of improvisation just yet. She walked to the elevator doors, silently thanking her maker that Tim was in early enough that other people weren’t around to see her trepidation.

Whatever comfort the silence of an empty office provided dissipated the moment the elevator doors opened. To say Tim looked destroyed would be an understatement. If that hoodie had less than a week’s worth of dirt on it, she would be shocked. After a moment’s hesitation, Dylan stepped into the elevator.

“Hi, Tim,” she ventured. The weight of the elevator bearing them upward was almost as heavy as the silence, and Dylan stifled the impulse to check on her chignon, look at her phone, or do anything other than count the seconds until she could get out of the metal box of misery she was riding in.

Finally, Tim grunted something that could not be construed as a word in any language. She decided to take it as an opening. “Let’s talk about Friday.”

Tim took a deep breath, shaking his head and jamming his hands into his filthy pockets. “I don’t get it. What do people want from me? Based on everyone’s reaction, you would think I shot someone. I swear people were nicer to that soccer dude who ran over someone with his Porsche.”

Dylan bit her lip instead of pointing out that it was actually a baseball player who’d tried to crush fans at the supermarket with his Lotus. Tim was looking to vent about someone who drove a more obnoxious car than him, and she could understand that. Sort of.

“Tim, why the diet pop?” It was all she could manage as the elevator doors chugged open.

“Your document said people missed the coffee cart. Coffee equals caffeine. Give the people caffeine.” Tim’s voice had gone up about six octaves as he unlocked his office and stopped short. “Fuck.”

Dylan peeked over Tim’s shoulder into his office and cringed. In a decade of studying terrible corporate leaders, she had never seen anything like this.

Dixie Cups everywhere. Full of diet soda. The cups were lined end to end on the carpet, bookshelves, and all the chairs. They’d even managed to balance them on his computer monitor. Whoever had pulled this off must have spent all weekend carefully filling tiny cups and placing them on every possible surface. They’d avoided the