Page 62 of The Checklist
The Robinsons’ light reminded her of alien-abduction movies, and she thought it might not be all bad if they descended and took her out of this humiliating moment. Recognizing only Neale would actually wait for the aliens to save her, Dylan made a breakneck limp to her front door. Growling at whoever had locked it, she furiously typed in the code and prayed that her mother hadn’t reset it. Mercifully, the door clicked open, allowing her to fall into the hallway without risking a glance backward.
It sounded like Neale and Stacy had either gone elsewhere or found somewhere in the house to crash that wasn’t the living room, which was just fine by her. Dylan wanted space. Shuffling toward the first staircase, she decided it was probably good she had not tried to make a move on Mike for at least two reasons. First, because there was no clear indication he wanted anything from her. It was an eyelash, for Christ’s sake. In fact, after that arm pat, his expression had shown the most pitying look anyone had given her since her sorority sisters had insisted she throw out her toe socks during sophomore year.
The second, she thought as she winced up a step, was that she was too sore to do much of anything right now anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dylan tried not to readjust her hem as she walked toward Masu Bistro. She didn’t need to be nervous. In fact, she’d managed to scrounge up a list of names for Mike, just like she’d promised. Admittedly half of the names were from Deep, who might have googled local philanthropists, and Charlie, who’d absolutely read them in theSeattle Times.
Walking past one of the roughly three dozen trendy sandwich spots in Capitol Hill, Dylan tried to focus on anything other than her nerves or adjusting her skirt, so naturally, her thoughts landed on her mother. More specifically, Bernice and Neale doing the Free Vagina dance in the hallway the morning after the Brick Heart. It was meant to inspire her to date again after so many years tied to “that wet sack of cow excrement,” as her mother had put it. Really, it was mostly lewd gyrations and the pair of them shouting “Free the vagina!” every so often. The entire event was somewhat amusing but also left Dylan with a deep urge to demand more anatomical accuracy. They really wanted her to free the clitoris, after all.
Rolling her eyes, Dylan gave in to temptation and adjusted her skirt ever so slightly before pulling on the door handle of the sushi spot. Stepping through the doorway, she was struck by the intimacy of the place. Unlike half the restaurants in the neighborhood, Masu was small, with a massive black counter at the center of the space. She and Mike had decided to grab a late dinner, so only a few patrons were scattered atthe tables clinging to the edges of the restaurant. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she spotted him installed in a corner of the bar near an exposed-brick wall, chatting affably with the chef behind the counter.
Dylan smiled and waved, the gesture reaching dorky levels of enthusiasm. So much for playing it cool. Taking a deep, calming breath, she smelled hints of oil and pickled ginger. Dylan focused on the familiarity of those smells over the backflips her stomach was attempting. Mike said something to the chef, whose shoulders shrugged as laughter crept into his face, before he turned away to work on an order from a customer across the bar.
“Hey there,” Dylan said, shrugging off her khaki trench coat and placing it on the back of her bar chair.
“Hey. Glad you could make it.” Mike stood up, giving Dylan a brief moment to assess him. Gone was the soft shirt, replaced by a well-fitted navy-blue sweater that could only be described as some kind of sexy Mr.Rogers situation, over a white cotton T-shirt and gray slacks that probably came from a place more reasonably priced than they looked.
Dylan smiled at his outstretched arms, determined to do a better job hugging him than she had a few nights back. Leaning into him, she felt her skin humming, as if all the static electricity in the air had suddenly decided her body was the place to be. As she inhaled his spicy smell, the buzz picked up, and she wondered how someone managed to smell like a kitchen and so good all at the same time. Probably the same way his arms managed to feel fit but not intimidating. He gave her a tight squeeze before relaxing his hold on her. Dylan let go, unexpectedly missing his warmth, and took a step back. Clearing her throat, she settled into her chair.
“Did you find the place okay?”
“More or less. This area has changed so much since the last time I was home,” Dylan answered, risking a glance away from her menu to look him over once more.
“I swear something new opens every other week. When I first moved in, I planned to try every spot in the neighborhood. Then I found this place, and now I’m that guy who eats at the same restaurant three nights a week.” He laughed at himself, sitting sideways on his barstool and relaxing his solid shoulders into the wall behind him, pulling the Mr.Rogers sweater taut across his chest.
“You like what you like. No shame in that.” Dylan feigned a casual cool. She expected the tingling sensation to decrescendo after she sat down, but it had no intention of doing anything like that. Recrossing her legs, she perched the platform of one heel on the strip of wood that functioned as a footrest before testing it with the full weight of her limbs as she relaxed. The shoe suddenly hitched down the thin 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. “Maybewe 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 worddate.
“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.
