Page 82 of The Birthday List (Maysen Jar 1)

But . . . slow. She needed slow.

So instead of moving her completely into my life like I wanted, I’d help her find a decent rental she could live in—for now.

“Is this the first place you’ve looked at?”

“You mean tried to look at?” She jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.

I chuckled, fighting the urge to pul

l her in for a hug.

“No,” she sighed. “I’ve looked at two other places this week. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a decent rental in Bozeman? All of the good ones are already taken by college students and people moving to town. And since you just vetoed my best option, I’m back to square one.”

“Sorry.”

She smirked. “Liar.”

“You’re right. I’m not sorry. How about I make it up to you and help you scour the rental ads?”

“Riiight.” She narrowed her eyes as we stopped by her car. “You just want to go through my list and filter it down to those you deem acceptable.”

“Guilty,” I grinned, “but my offer still stands. How about I come hang at the restaurant tomorrow for dinner and help you make a list?”

She gave me her brightest smile, making all the nights alone worth it. “It’s a date.”

“Try this one next.” Poppy set a jar down in front of me. On the bottom was what looked like chili and, on the top, a layer of corn bread.

I picked up my spoon from the tiny jar of quinoa salad I’d just demolished and dove right in.

“Well?” she asked as I chewed. “Good enough for the fall menu?”

I swallowed my bite and nodded. “Good. Really good. Add it.”

She smiled and took my jar away before I could take another bite.

“Hey! I was going to eat that.”

“One sec.” She held up a finger and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Damn it, woman,” I cursed as she giggled from behind the swinging door.

She’d been making me try new recipes since I’d gotten here thirty minutes ago. Now that it was September, she was on a mission to get her fall menu settled and I was her test subject. Except the only thing she’d actually let me eat was the fucking quinoa.

Not that it wasn’t good. Just like everything she made, it was tasty. But I was a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. I wanted the fucking chili and corn bread. Or the beef stew she’d brought out. Or the homemade chicken noodle soup. Not quinoa with red peppers and zucchini.

When she came back out a few moments later, she had three new jars.

“If you take these away from me,” I gave her my best scowl, “I’m going to riot.”

She laughed, setting down a jar of what looked like baked ziti. The next one had my favorite chicken potpie and the last was filled with cheesecake and some type of caramel sauce.

“I didn’t want you to get too full during my tasting, but I’m all done. These you can just eat.”

“Finally.” I started with the cheesecake, polishing it off without delay before digging into the rest of my meal. When I was finished, she ran the dishes back to the kitchen and then came around to my side of the counter, bringing over a newspaper and her laptop.

“Okay.” She handed me the newspaper first. “Green stars are the rentals I like. Red are the maybes.”

It took me less than a minute to completely dismiss all of the red, since they were in mostly college-kid neighborhoods, and all but two of the green stars. “Don’t use that property management company,” I told her, pointing to one of the green stars that I’d crossed out. “I’ve heard they have a habit of keeping people’s deposits and are assholes when it comes to maintenance.”