The Birthday List(20)

“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.

Colombo’s was a Bozeman institution. Located directly across the street from Montana State University, it was always packed with college students. I all but stopped coming during the school year, but in the summer, this was my go-to lunch stop.

Opening the door, I let her walk inside first. The minute I stepped in behind her, the smell of onions and garlic and tomato sauce filled my nose.

“Oh, god,” she moaned. “I missed this place. It smells sooo good.”

That moan and the smile on her face didn’t help the problem in my jeans.

“You should know that I’m no good at sharing pizza,” she declared. “You’ll have to get your own.”

I chuckled. “I can live with that. I’m more of a sucker for their pepperoni calzones.”

We wasted no time ordering our meals from the walk-up counter and getting drinks from the fountain. Colombo’s son was manning the open kitchen today and I waved to him before leading Poppy to a booth at the back of the narrow restaurant.

“How’s everything going at the restaurant?” I asked as we sat.

“Good.” She smiled. “Busy, but I’m getting the hang of how much food to make, and so far, I haven’t had any complaints or bad reviews.”

Not that she would. I doubted anyone would find fault with her food, and I’d only ever had a sandwich and salad.

“Are you getting any sleep or are you a slave to the kitchen?”

“That first week was rough, but we have a new part-time employee who started last week, so hopefully Molly and I can get into a better routine and not be there twenty-four seven.”

“Good. I don’t like the idea of you coming and going late at night by yourself. Make sure you’re always parking in the space next to the door.”

“I know,” she muttered. “I’ll park by the door. I won’t take the trash out after dark. I won’t forget to lock up the front the minute we close.”