The Checklist Addie Woolridge (pocket ebook reader TXT) 📖

wood, causing her to jerk forward as the heel hit the strip. Dylan squeaked and caught herself with her forearms before she managed to go face-first into the bar.

Mike’s forehead creased as Dylan tried to right herself with all the grace of a baby hippo exploring its first mud bath. “We can move to a table, if that is easier for you. I didn’t think about your shoe of choice when I picked this spot,” he said, inclining his head toward the heel she was trying to untangle from the clutches of the stool.

“No, no. This spot is good,” she said, attempting a lower-abdomen crunch to extract her shoe, silently thanking Pilates for whatever core strength she possessed.

Mike looked at her with more than mild concern. “Are you sure? Because it’s not like the place is—”

“What can I get started for you?” the chef asked.

Dylan had never been more grateful for a conversation to be interrupted as she finished righting herself with a shimmy so her backside was once again centered on the stool.

“Mike, you are the expert. Any recommendations?”

He lifted an eyebrow at her chair but let it drop when Dylan glanced back down at the menu without additional comment. “Maybe we order in rounds? I usually let Chef pick. He never lets me down. Except for that one urchin thing. I did not like that.”

The chef cackled, as if it was one of the better jokes he had played on a patron. “You said you were in the mood for something wild!”

“I believe my words were ‘something new and unexpected.’”

“Shoulda been more specific.” The chef’s expression looked like a cat who’d caught a mouse. “But I won’t do that to your lovely date. What are your opinions on sashimi?”

The man asked this question in such a mundane tone that Dylan was halfway through, “Love it!” before her mind tripped on the word date.

“Good, good,” he said, retreating to the other side of the counter to grab something.

“Thanks, Chef,” Mike said, ignoring the man’s assumption. Apparently, he was not bothered by the idea that someone believed he was on a date with his familial archrival. Or he hadn’t been listening carefully.

Would it be bad if we were on a date? Dylan thought as the buzzing kicked back into high gear. Wouldn’t Mike think it was a little soon for her to be dating again? She didn’t miss Nicolas or anything, but should she at least pretend for the sake of propriety? Or had propriety gone out the window when she’d driven over the flower bed? Because it seemed that way.

Feeling her thoughts spiral, Dylan reached for the security of the list in her handbag. “Right, so. Down to business,” she announced, extracting the list and placing it on the counter between them.

Mike laughed and moved off the wall. “Ah, yes. If we yell it to the whole restaurant, Chef will revise his assessment, and this will definitely not be a date.”

“That is not what I was doing.” Dylan put on her best innocent smile.

“You are about as sneaky as a Mack Truck.” Mike chuckled, pointing to the list of names. “I know we aren’t on a date because your list isn’t titled Dylan and Mike’s Date List.”

“I just want to be efficient. Don’t want to waste our time,” Dylan said, leaning into the joke—she needed to practice flirting now that she was single anyway. Why not start here? “We can be on a date later tonight.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you. I know how seriously you take list titles. Now you are just toying with me.”

“Me? Never.” Dylan tossed her hair over her shoulder, doing her best to lean into the idea of practice flirting. She smiled, catching the eye of the chef as he made his way over to them with a board of sashimi, looking like a tiny arc of two-by-two matching bites of goodness.

“It’s cool. Skip the chitchat. I don’t need to know how your day was.” Mike sighed before leaning in to take the board from the chef. “Thank you. This looks great.”

“Fine, we can eat first. Then list,” Dylan said, mixing a bit of wasabi in with her soy. Picking up something that looked like unagi, she added, “So how was your day?”

“It was great—thanks for asking!” Mike said, a sarcastic grin written on his face as he popped a bite of food into his mouth.

“You wound me.” Dylan placed her hand over her heart. “Really, how was your day? I promise I’m not asking so we can cut to the chase. I genuinely want to know.” She also wanted to know how his lips managed to maintain a whisper of a smile while he was chewing, but asking that felt intrusive.

“It actually was an enjoyable day,” Mike said, carefully affixing a bit of ginger to another bite. “I spoke with my boss, and they said they can add the sensory room to the program. I’m so excited I already started looking at construction crews.”

“Really?” Dylan asked, shifting uncomfortably on her stool. It was one thing to babble mindlessly about helping him; it was another watching him stake his career on her dubious claims. Still, she had a list. It wasn’t as if his coworkers had promised him a spot onstage or anything. All he would have to do was say no one would take his calls and move on with his day. At least, she hoped it worked that way. “So what does that mean for you?”

“It means they will plan both table space and program space for the sensory room, assuming your list works out. I can’t say thank you enough for—” Mike paused, turning his ear toward the speaker nestled into a dark corner of the restaurant, pulling Dylan’s attention with it. “Sorry. It’s just . . . is this D’Angelo?” His expression was bemused.

Listening, Dylan wrinkled her nose. “It totally is—2000s slow jams and sushi. Unexpected.”

“‘How Does It Feel’ is not exactly what I think of when I eat sushi.” Mike shook his