The Birthday List(12)

I fucking hated that I’d hurt her. She was a good woman, just not the one for me. After two years, I’d never felt like she was the one. I’d never pictured asking her to marry me. Not once. We’d been on and off for our first year and a half together, but then she’d lost her roommate and moved in with me. Even after six months of Aly telling me she loved me, I’d never felt compelled to say it back.

I made my way to the kitchen for a beer, and as I opened the refrigerator door, my phone rang. I tugged it out of my pocket and pressed it between my cheek and shoulder. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Or at least I was. The fridge was empty. Aly had taken all of my beer too. Damn it. Who took a man’s beer? That was just mean. She didn’t even drink beer—which I should have taken as a sign.

“I was calling to see if you and Aly could come over for dinner tomorrow. We haven’t seen you both in weeks.”

“I see Dad almost every day.”

“That doesn’t count. I haven’t seen you both in weeks.”

I took a deep breath and shut the door to the fridge. Mom was going to be pissed that I’d broken it off with Aly. She’d had her hopes up for a wedding and grandkids. “Mom, listen. Aly and I broke up.”

“What?” she gasped. “When?”

“Last week,” I muttered and braced.

“Last week!” she shrieked. “Why didn’t you call to tell me? Is she okay? Where is she going to live?”

“With her sister until she can find a new place. She’s hurt but it was for the best.”

“And how are you?”

“Fine, but I feel like an asshole.”

“Oh, Cole.”

I sighed. “I tried, Mom. I really did. But I just don’t . . .”

“You don’t love her. I know. It wasn’t hard to see.”

I abandoned my fridge and pulled out a stool from underneath the island, slumping onto the seat. “I should have ended it earlier. I shouldn’t have dragged it out this long and hurt her even more.”

“Well,” Mom said, “at least you didn’t marry her.”

“True.”

My eyes landed on the laptop by my side and I slid it over. As Mom talked into my ear, my fingers pulled up Google. Then they typed in Poppy’s name.

Her Facebook page popped up first. Instead of a profile picture, there was a logo for The Maysen Jar. What was The Maysen Jar? I clicked the picture to read the caption. Grand opening tomorrow!

Poppy had a restaurant and it was opening tomorrow?

“Cole!” Mom yelled into the phone.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. What was that?”

“I asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow.”

I closed the profile picture and clicked on another Facebook photo. This one was of Poppy standing outside a restaurant. Her hair was swept up in a bun and her arm was looped with a brunette’s. She was only five five or five six, but her legs went on for miles in her tight jeans and heels. The photo was stunning, but what really drew me in was her smile.

A smile I wanted to see for myself.

“Cole,” Mom huffed.

“Sorry, Mom.” I closed the laptop. “I can’t make it for dinner tomorrow. I’ve got plans.”





“I love the name of your restaurant.” My customer handed me her credit card.

I smiled and swiped. “Thank you.”

“Except she spelled it wrong,” Randall grumbled on the other side of the register.

He’d been camped out on “his stool” all afternoon and evening, offering commentary to people as they came to pay their tabs. He’d been talking and eating. Randall had walked in right before the lunch rush and had since eaten two quiches, a spinach salad, a chicken potpie, three apple pies and two peach cobblers.

“Mason,” he muttered. “M-a-s-o-n. That’s how you spell mason jar.”

My customer looked at him, about to come to my rescue, but I just laughed. “Ignore him,” I told her as I handed back her card. “He’s just grouchy because I cut him off after five desserts.”

Randall scowled. “Grown man can’t even indulge in desserts these days without a lecture.”

“You’ll thank me later when you aren’t in a sugar coma.” I shot him my so there look and turned back to my customer with a smile. “Thanks for coming in! I hope you enjoyed everything.”

“Oh, yes, it was wonderful. You’ve got a fantastic menu. And so creative.” She glared at Randall. “Especially the name. I’ll definitely be back.”

“Thanks again!” I waved good-bye as she turned to leave.

When the door closed behind her, I surveyed the empty tables in the restaurant. For the first time since seven this morning, they were all vacant.

“Wow.” Molly joined me at the register with a wet rag. “That was crazy. I figured we’d be busy, but never that busy. We’re sold out of everything but one potpie and three salads.”

“It’s a good thing we’re closing in,” I glanced at my watch, “twenty-seven minutes.”

Not that I’d be going home. I’d be in the kitchen all night making breakfast dishes for the morning and replenishing the dessert cooler.