The Checklist, Addie Woolridge [ebook reader for pc and android txt] 📗

Technocore had gone from a groundbreaking start-up to a profit-sinking black hole in record time, losing employees, money, and public opinion faster than a politician in an infidelity scandal. They didn’t need Kaplan and Associates. They needed a miracle. Or, Dylan thought, they at least needed their founder to get a clue and stop wearing hoodies.

Jared continued, shifting uncomfortably in his chair under her fixed gaze. “The firm has been brought in as a personal favor to Mr. Kaplan. I’m sure you saw the article in Management Today. Anyway, we need a quick intervention on this one. Share prices have been down for the last two quarters. As you may know, Technocore’s board of directors is looking for a new productivity consultant to get their image cleaned up and their leadership in line by the end of Q3.”

“I’m sorry.” Dylan’s mind instinctively jumped over the condescending sections of his speech and homed in on the important details. “The third quarter? Of this year? That timeline is overly ambitious. We are already midway through April.”

“That’s why you’ll be stationed in Seattle for the duration of the project. There is really no time for back-and-forth here.”

“Jared, I don’t mean to question anyone’s judgment; you certainly know more than I do about the project, but I’m sure I could commute and—”

“Look, Dylan. I’m going to need you to be a team player on this one,” Jared said, dropping the encouraging-manager persona and doubling down on the jargon-riddled belittling she was familiar with. “The cowboy antics may have worked well with Davis, but Technocore is the real deal. Not the big-fish-small-pond stuff you are used to. We need to be rowing in the same direction on this, got it?”

Dylan did her best to bite back a sarcastic remark about not being able to hear him over the volume of his sherbet sweater. “Yes, of course. I understand. But won’t the senior partners notice that I’m there and not you? I mean, we don’t look alike or anything.”

“You’ll be handling research and first steps. I’ll have ultimate approval of the analysis and produce the final report. Besides, you’re from Seattle, correct? You have a better grasp of the culture. After the whole Davis Communications”—Jared paused to find the right word—“ordeal, I want to make sure we have our best and brightest on the ground.”

Dylan thought her boss should have used the word fiasco, but that would have been an indictment of his own work and a possible admission that she’d saved his job. An act she was steadily growing to regret.

“I see.” Taking a deep breath, Dylan tried a change in tactics. “The thing is, Nicolas and I are looking at moving into a condo soon . . .” Dylan smoothed the hemline of her pencil skirt and started praying. Unless God was wearing noise-canceling headphones, he would hear her begging to stay in Houston. If she couldn’t have Paris, at least he could leave her in the humidity.

“That’s great. Do this successfully, and your condo budget increases exponentially.” What Jared didn’t add was that if she failed—and anyone would—she wouldn’t have a job, let alone a condo budget. His simpering grin expanded. “Besides, don’t you have family there? It’ll be like a nice, long vacation. Save the company money too.”

Dylan’s heart plummeted to her stomach. She could think of about 1,422 other things she would rather do than see her family.

Taking her silence for consent, Jared added, “I’ll have accounting send over your travel details. See you in Seattle!” He gave a jaunty, dismissive wave, effectively telling Dylan to get out.

“Merde!” she whispered as she left Jared’s office. She had to hand it to him. The man was an evil genius. Jared was going to torpedo her career, and he was going to make her stay in the house of bedlam while he did it. Shaking her head, Dylan collected her handbag, computer case, and blazer before power walking toward the door.

Dylan continued her march to the car, moving as fast as her Manolos would allow, which was faster than most people could move in flats. Since leaving Seattle, she had gotten good at moving quickly in an ankle-breaking shoe. She had also figured out how to flat iron her curls into oblivion. The Houston humidity was no match for her skill and salon-quality hair products. All these talents would be useless in Seattle. Sloshing through the tireless drizzle in extreme heels was a dangerous impracticality, and wielding an umbrella was something no self-respecting local would tolerate.

After pressing the unlock button, Dylan crawled into her car and glanced around the parking lot to make sure none of her coworkers were there to witness her cutting loose. Then she laughed, the sound bordering on hysterics. She had managed to avoid going back to Seattle for years, and now she’d be making up for lost time.

Holding her breath, she slowly counted to ten. She was meeting Nicolas at the gym soon, and if she didn’t get it together, he would start his workout without her. Exhaling loudly, she eased out of the parking lot, using the voice-recognition feature on her phone to start an Unfortunately, I’m Going Home checklist. To-do listing was a technique she’d developed while living in her parents’ structureless madhouse, and it always helped. Sure, nearly everyone but Nicolas, including three-quarters of her coworkers, six of her closest friends, and her butcher, thought her listing was ridiculous. But those people didn’t know what it was to unironically wear pajamas to school because your parents lost track of the laundry one too many times . . .

Dylan cut the memory off, redirecting her focus to the list. First, her standard appointments would be canceled: eyebrow threading, manicures, blowouts, and waxing. Easy enough to manage while she waited to board the plane on Friday. Also, dry cleaning, prescheduled workouts, and her ballet tickets needed to be handled. And, of course, she had to call her parents. Her thumb hovered over the call button on the steering