Page 29 of The Birthday List (Maysen Jar 1)

“We’re at a police station, Poppy. I’m sure your car will be fine.”

I teased but I knew she wasn’t worried about her car. She was debating whether or not she wanted to be in a confined space with me.

“That’s not . . .” She threw up her hands and did her little wrist-circle thing. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

I grinned as she marched past me to the door.

Damn, she was something. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I’d waited two weeks to see her again.

“How about Colombo’s?” I opened the door for her.

“That sounds great. I haven’t been there in ages.” Her voice quieted. “Not since Jamie and I were in college.”

“If it’s a problem—”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded and smiled. “I love Colombo’s.”

“Okay.” I slid my sunglasses off my head and onto my nose, then led her to the truck.

It couldn’t be easy for her, living in Bozeman. I’d bet she was assaulted with memories of her husband everywhere she went. It was admirable that she hadn’t let them chase her away.

Poppy was a fighter.

I beeped the locks on my truck and opened the passenger door. I took her elbow and helped her up. That familiar zing of electricity shot up my arm the moment my skin touched hers. Wanting to test her reaction, I leaned in, just a bit.

She didn’t step away and her chin lifted an inch as her eyes landed on my mouth.

I wanted to kiss her. If we weren’t in a parking lot, surrounded by patrol cars and the sounds of engines whizzing by, I might have given into the temptation. But now wasn’t the time. Though there was lust in Poppy’s cornflower blues, there was fear behind them too.

“Climb on in.”

She dropped her eyes from my lips. “Thanks.”

When she was in her seat, I shut her door, then rounded the hood to my side. Belted into the driver’s seat, I backed out and pointed the truck down the road. “So, a day without technology. What exactly are you going without?”

She was smiling out the windshield. She’d thrown her hair over her shoulder and a couple of locks were trailing down her bare arm. Her delicate hands were folded in her lap.

That was Poppy’s seat now. Any time I looked at the leather, I’d picture her riding shotgun.

“I’m basically cutting out screens,” she said, reminding me that I’d asked her a question. “I’ve deemed modern-day appliances acceptable because I’m trying to get caught up on laundry. And kitchen appliances don’t count, but other than that, nothing else. No TV. No phone. No radio.”

“Oh, shit.” I smacked the off button on the radio. “Sorry. Did I ruin your day? Do you have to start over?”

Her sweet laugh filled the cab. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t that you singing? Has anyone ever told you that you sound a lot like George Strait?”

I grinned. “I think you might be the first.”

She was witty too. This woman had it all. Beauty. Brains. And a sense of humor.

The drive to Colombo’s was just a couple of blocks, but by the time I pulled into the parking lot, Poppy’s vanilla perfume had infused the air. I hopped out and slammed the door in one motion, hoping to keep the scent from escaping.

“This place hasn’t changed much, has it?” she asked as we walked to the door.

“Not a bit.” My favorite thing about Colombo’s was that it never changed. It was exactly the same as it had been when my parents had brought my sister and me here as kids.