The Birthday List(8)

The cop who’d told me my husband had been murdered.





Poppy Maysen.

Holy fuck.

Poppy Maysen was standing in my dojo.

“Hi, Sensei.”

“Hey,” I replied automatically, turning from Poppy to acknowledge a student as he walked past.

It didn’t take long for my gaze to wander back to Poppy. She was standing frozen against the wall, staring at me like she’d seen a ghost.

How long had it been? Five years? The last time I’d seen her, she’d been asleep on her living room couch, trembling from the nightmare I’d delivered to her doorstep.

And now she was here, dressed in gym clothes and waiting to take a karate class. To take my karate class.

“Hey, Cole.” Danny, a teenaged black belt, slapped my arm as he walked by.

I was standing right in the way of people coming and going to the locker rooms, staring at Poppy like a fool. “Hi, Danny.”

I tore my eyes away from her again and shuffled aside. When I glanced back over, she hadn’t moved.

What was going on in her head? Was she about to bolt? My face had probably triggered an onslaught of bad memories. And me standing here, gawking at her, probably wasn’t helping.

Shit. I forced one foot in front of the other, giving her a slight nod as I disappeared into the men’s locker room. If she was still in the waiting room by the time I got out, I’d be shocked, but I’d say hello. Maybe a few minutes would give her—and me—a chance to get over the surprise of being in the same room once again.

“Hi, Cole Sensei.”

“Hey, boys.” I greeted a couple of the younger kids in the dressing room as they tied on their shoes. “Did you learn anything new today?”

The kids started yammering on about the new punches they’d learned in class tonight, though neither could remember the Japanese names. I tuned them out, dropping my duffel bag on a bench and raking a hand through my hair.

Poppy Maysen.

What had she been doing these last five years? What had become of her life? I hadn’t kept tabs on her after that awful night, but now I wished I had.

She was just as stunning now as she had been years ago.

Loose waves of long, ginger hair. Skin as flawless and creamy as melted ice cream. For a redhead, Poppy didn’t have the typical smattering of freckles—just a few on the bridge of her nose. And those cornflower-blue eyes. Still hauntingly beautiful, just like they’d been on her porch. I’d never forget the moment the fire behind them had smoldered out.

“Bye, Sensei!”

“Bye,” I called as the boys walked out the door. Hopefully they hadn’t said anything important because I hadn’t registered a word they’d said.

Fuck. Poppy Maysen.

I ran into people all the time from the past, but none of them had shocked me this much. And if I didn’t get a handle on it, I’d be falling all over myself in class.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I slid the sunglasses out of my collar and tossed them on the bench. Then I zipped open my bag and hurried to change from jeans and a black polo into my white gi. With my black belt tied around my hips, I sucked in another long breath. A few other guys were changing, but I kept my back to them, needing just a minute to get my head on right.

Had she found a way to spark that fire behind her eyes again? I really wanted to find out. That was, if she wasn’t already miles away from the dojo, never to return again.

“See you out there.” I nodded to the other guys and pushed the locker room door open.

Poppy was still standing in her spot against the wall. Her eyes darted between the people crowded in the waiting area. It was loud as everyone visited before class, and she hadn’t noticed me slip out of the locker room. And despite her obvious nerves, she kept a small smile on her stoic face.

Graceful strength.

Poppy had a graceful strength. I’d thought the same all those years ago. I’d never seen a person so devastated, yet collected. She hadn’t screamed or cried or lashed out. She’d just . . . kept it together. In all my time with the Bozeman Police Department, I’d never met anyone—cop or civilian—who had handled a trauma like she had.

Poppy hadn’t noticed me yet so I took my opening and slid into the empty wall space at her side. I leaned down and spoke softly. “Hi.”

Her face whipped to mine, then she swallowed and blinked. While I’d been in the dressing room, she had apparently steeled herself for our next encounter. “Hello.”

Hello. Even her voice affected me. Five years ago, the words she’d spoken had all been full of pain. But now? Her voice was so clear. There was nothing soft or timid about it. Nothing jaded or raspy. It was the purest voice I’d ever heard.

Nonchalantly wiping the sweat from my palm, I held out my hand. “I’m Cole Goodman.”

“Poppy Maysen.”

I nodded. “I remember.”

Poppy’s eyes darted to my hand still outstretched between us and back up to my face. Then, slowly, her delicate fingers fit themselves into mine. The minute her soft skin brushed my calloused palm, a zing of electricity traveled up my arm.

While I froze, Poppy’s breath hitched.

We stared at each other, still holding hands, and probably looking like crazy people to the other students standing around, but I didn’t care. Not when Poppy’s hand was still in mine and she hadn’t made a move to take it back.