“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 head and picked up another bite as Chef wandered over with a new plate, this time with seaweed-wrapped rolls topped with scallops and a spicy sauce.
“Raw fish and sex music. Oh, baby, oh, baby.”
“Pretty romantic date,” Mike giggled into his water glass, causing Dylan to snort at her scallops. After taking a drink, Mike shielded his smile and mumbled, “Look at Chef.”
The mischievous grin had disappeared and been replaced by a dignified-looking chef, carefully wiping down counters as he sang every seductive word under his breath. Dylan turned her head to face Mike and hoped the chef couldn’t catch a clean look at her laughing.
“He is clearly a fan,” Dylan managed to choke out as Mike’s gaze jumped back and forth between her and Chef, his shoulders shaking from the effort of not laughing out loud. Dylan tried to glance at the chef again but couldn’t without losing it.
“Don’t look. It makes it worse if you look,” Mike said, angling his body away from the counter so he was facing her again. Tilting his head farther away from the chef, he added, “Distract me. How was your day?”
Still chuckling, Dylan tried angling her body farther away from the counter, making her parallel to Mike. “Honestly? The best part of my day may have been putting this list together.”
“I don’t believe that. Surely someone told a good joke or something.”
Dylan picked at another scallop. “The amount of time I spend actually doing my job versus putting out fires is like a one-to-seven ratio. I’m basically a month away from the dreaded quarterly-earnings report, and things still aren’t on solid ground.”
“What does your boss say about all of this?” Mike asked, leaning in on his forearm and snagging a bite for himself.
“Besides what the hell is going on? Not much.” Dylan shook her head. “And that is the weird part. Realistically, if quarterly earnings are posted in a month, that means we have about three weeks left to get stuff to the higher-ups for approval, and he still hasn’t darkened the doors.”
“Does he usually show up on your projects?”
Dylan’s laugh sounded more like a sigh of resignation. Picking up another bite, she said, “For little projects, no. But for something this high profile, Jared has made it abundantly clear that I am just the muscle. He is supposed to have final approval on any- and everything.”
“But someone has to have noticed he isn’t here. I mean, they can’t see him at his desk every day and think, Yeah, he is definitely doing a good job up in Seattle.”
Dylan scoffed, shaking her head. Mike asked her another question, and she started to relax, letting the natural flow of friends at dinner take over. At some point the chef brought over more food, and she found herself mellowing into the kind of food coma only an intimate corner, sushi, and the sultry sounds of slow jams could provide.
“Billie is doing well?”
“By all accounts. I rarely hear from her. She is more of a call-when-she-needs-something kind of person,” Dylan said, around the straw in her water glass.
“So you know she is doing well since she hasn’t called.” Mike smiled, leaning toward her on his elbow. He had never really leaned away after the chef had started singing. The thought of the chef brought Dylan back to the room. He was no longer behind the spotless bar. Glancing around, she caught sight of the staff quietly sweeping under empty tables and chairs, trying as best they could to discreetly pack up for the night. Her eyes darted to her phone; it was well past ten, and they hadn’t even touched her donor list. As if her eyeing the room were a signal, Mike straightened his posture and looked around, alert for the first time in hours.
“I don’t know where the time went. We didn’t even look over the list,” Dylan said, stretching up, aware of Mike’s gaze following the lines of her arms toward the ceiling. She wasn’t the least bit disappointed they hadn’t talked business, but for the sake of propriety she added a pout to her tone.
“Not my most productive meeting but certainly the most fun. We should probably go before these poor people are trapped here all night,” he said, passing the server some cash. They stood, and he held Dylan’s coat for her. “If you don’t mind staying out, we could find a coffee spot that is open late and finish up.”
“You mean get started?” Dylan asked, slinking into her coat and placing the list in her handbag.
“I mean, ten thirty is my bedtime, but for you, I can make an exception. Maybe stay up till eleven fifteen.”
“Ten thirty? And here I thought that sweater was just for show. Turns out you are an old man.” Dylan smiled and began weaving her way toward the door, conscious of the movement of her hips as she swayed around tables and chairs. “I like the sound of coffee.”
“Good. I think the Tabby Cat is open late. My place is around the corner. We can grab my car and drive over. It isn’t super far, but I don’t think we want to walk this late.”
Feeling Mike reach past her elbow to open the door, Dylan turned. “If your place is around the corner, why don’t we just go there? Unless you are secretly a tea drinker or something?” She tried to make the suggestion sound like a logical conclusion as opposed to what it actually was—a casing of the joint. Dylan was dying to know what Mike Robinson’s man cave looked like.
“Of course I have coffee. I’m not a monster.”
“Fine. Your place it is,” she said, smiling at the server who was hanging back to lock the door behind them. The woman winked, and it took all of Dylan’s inconsiderable stealth not to wink back. She hadn’t started the evening on a date, but whether or not Mike knew it, they were on one now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dylan spent the entire walk over praying Mike’s house wasn’t covered in black IKEA furniture and college posters. That would have spoiled the magic of the entire evening. Now, standing in front of an old brick building, she reasoned that nothing this classic could house the sad remnants of a man clinging to his glory days. Once she thought about it, if the sweater was any indication, he might have skipped over the postcollege man-child phase altogether. After twisting the key in the lock, Mike held the door open.
“After you. I’m on the fourth floor.”
The building was old enough that Dylan didn’t bother looking for the elevator. Instead, she crossed the black-and-white-checkered tile floor toward the worn mahogany staircase and started the climb toward his apartment. Dylan liked to think that spin class kept her in decent cardiovascular shape, but by the second floor she was starting to sweat under her trench coat. Looking for something to take her mind off the endurance event that was getting to Mike’s apartment, she caught sight of a gaudy red-and-gold door wreath with something that looked suspiciously like a papier-mâché unicorn one floor above them.
“What is that?” Dylan asked as they rounded the stairs to the top landing.
“Hmmm?” Mike asked, turning his focus from the key in his hand to the door she was pointing at. “Oh, that is Mrs. Warnly’s good luck ornament. She makes them. Even gave one to me for the holidays last year. I have yet to display it.” Mike smiled wryly as he turned the handle.
“At least you have one neighbor who likes you and wants good things for you.” Dylan shrugged up at him with a hint of mischief.
“Even if those good things are pretty dreadful looking,” Mike whispered as they walked in. Dylan shivered. His presence felt like the movement of the earth around the sun. An unavoidable truth, drawing her in. Intentionally shifting her thoughts, she moved into the entryway, giving Mike room to hit the lights and toss his keys on a hook by the door.
“Welcome,” he said, stepping out of his shoes and placing them on a rack hanging on the back of the hallway closet door. As if he had been reading her mind, Mike began to carefully unfasten the buttons of his sweater, furthering Dylan’s sexy Mr. Rogers fantasy. Slowly, he peeled off his sweater to reveal a white undershirt stretched across his chest, hugging the curves of his shoulders, leaving his biceps exposed as he hung up the sweater.
Subconsciously, Dylan knew she was staring. She knew this was rude, and she was certain she didn’t care. His back was to her, and it wasn’t like her mouth was open. At least, she hoped it wasn’t, since he chose that moment to turn around. He held her gaze for a beat before tilting his head like he was studying a curious artifact.
“You doing okay?”
“Totally fine.” Dylan felt the heat in his stare radiating in her cheeks and looked around the narrow hallway for something to feign interest in. How was she this awkward? Sure, she hadn’t been on a date for the better part of a decade, but this was someone she knew well. She didn’t need to be nervous. Giving herself a shake to refocus, she pulled the soy sauce–spotted list from her bag and shrugged off her coat. Slipping out of her heels, she sighed with the relief that came with taking off dress shoes at the end of the day. “Feels good to take those off after all those stairs. Must be how you stay in shape.”
Mike laughed. “I suspect that has more to do with the jogging. I usually take the elevator, but you seemed pretty gung ho on the stairs, so I just went with it.”
“There’s an elevator?”
“The door is built into the staircase.” Mike chuckled as he padded down the hall into the living room. “I’ll start the coffee. Make yourself at home.”
“I thought this was the sort of fancy old place that only had a dumbwaiter. I may have been in heels, but I wasn’t about to try to squeeze all of me into a two-foot box,” Dylan called, her eyes following him to the kitchen.
“Wouldn’t have judged if you had tried it. Four flights of stairs is a lot of stairs,” Mike chuckled over the rattle of dishes and the closing of cupboard doors.
Dylan allowed the apartment to draw her attention away from the kitchen. There was not a shred of obvious collegiate furniture or paraphernalia in sight. In fact, the place had a distinctly grown-man vibe. He had painted the walls a warm shade of Bermuda gray that made the room feel relaxed. A sensation only enhanced by the oversize chocolate-brown sofa and armchairs. In place of a coffee table, he had a battered wooden trunk covered in a stack of about three weeks’ worth of Sunday Times back issues and a few junk mail catalogs doubling as coasters.
“So this is where you live,” she said, wandering deeper into the space as the smell of coffee crept from the kitchen. “It feels so grown up.”
“Thanks,” Mike called as the coffee maker sputtered.
Dylan walked toward a delicate glass dining set to look at his art. On one end of the dining table was a large vintage opera poster; on the other was an abstract piece composed of broad, romantic brushstrokes with grayish undertones and a warm streak of berry red running through it.
“I got lucky. I found this antiquing with my mom.”
Mike’s voice grew less muffled, and she turned to find him holding a mug out toward her.
“Thank you,” Dylan said as Mike passed her the steaming mug. “I didn’t know Linda was into antiquing.”
Mike laughed, the sound as warm as the coffee in her hand. “It was a short-lived phase. Mom was an amateur collector, but Ma is a professional declutterer.”
“Sounds like Patricia. I bet there was never a week where my dad didn’t try to raid your trash when y’all weren’t home.”
“Oh, he did it while we were home too.” Mike smiled at this, as if he was letting her peek inside the Robinson family dynamic. “My parents act annoyed, but a small part of them likes to see what he can do with junk. Did you want cream or sugar?”
“Cream, please.”
“Your parents are quite talented. I hope you know how much I admire their work,” Mike said, turning to walk back to the kitchen.
“You have no idea how nice that is to hear.”
Careful to follow at a distance, Dylan did her best not to stare at his walk, then deposited herself on the couch. Leaning forward to peruse the newspaper stack, she caught sight of her electric-yellow toenails and froze. She had forgotten all about them until now. Their eerie smiles grinning at her as if they knew the game. After checking to see if the coast was clear, Dylan stood up and tucked her knees under her. Sitting on her feet was tricky in a pencil skirt, and she listed to one side, pulse fluttering at the sound of Mike closing the refrigerator. Using the trunk, she pu
shed herself upright with enough force to leave her slumped against the back of the couch, her knees hanging off the edge but her feet safely under her, as Mike returned, clutching creamer and a package of cookies.
“I love your place. It feels like a not-creepy gentlemen’s smoking club,” Dylan said, gesturing widely with the arm that wasn’t pinned to the side of the couch, as if sprawling on his furniture were perfectly natural.
“Glad to know my house feels like the good kind of boys’ club,” he laughed, placing the creamer and pack of cookies on the middle of the trunk, next to the old newspapers and the list she had left there.
“If it were even close to the creepy kind, I’d have hiked back down that Mount Everest of stairs. Somehow I can’t picture you being a creepy-club kind of guy.”
“I’ll take the compliment.” Mike’s smile was lopsided. “Cookie before we dive in?”
For a brief moment, Dylan considered forgoing both the cookies and the creamer, but then she noticed the name on the package—Tim Tam. Leaning forward, she bunny hopped to the center of the couch, careful to keep her feet stowed beneath her. Mike’s smile spread into a full-blown grin as she came to a halt facing him and reached out for a cookie.
“I love these,” Dylan said, ignoring the question written on his face as she took a bite.
Mike raised an eyebrow and nodded at her knees. Dylan chose to ignore this, too, adding creamer to her coffee instead. Turning back to Mike, she leveled what she hoped was a charming, who-me smile. Shaking his head, Mike said, “Fine, you don’t have to explain,” and picked up a cookie. “I became obsessed with these while studying abroad in Australia during undergrad.”
“Does studying abroad in Australia really count?” Dylan asked, reaching for another cookie.
“More than a semester at sea does,” Mike laughed, then added, “which is to say, barely. But I did have a good time wasting a semester and not learning another language.”
“Fair enough. I didn’t go anywhere in undergrad, so what do I know?” Dylan giggled.
“You learned to live in Texas; that feels pretty foreign to me.”
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