Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “Because it’s your favorite color,” I finished, surprised I’d even asked the question in the first place.

  “What do you think?”

  “Honestly? It sounds like a mess. Besides that, Jell-O stains. You’ll be a walking alien for a week.”

  He shrugged. “I’m cool with that. My students will think it’s awesome, and I have you to help me clean it up.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I’d help him scrub his skin back to its normal tan and dispose of a pool filled with green Jell-O because I loved him. Some items on Jamie’s list seemed strange to me, but if they made him happy, I’d do what I could to help. For the next twenty-five years—or for however long he wanted—I’d be by his side as he crossed things out.

  “What else did you add today?”

  He slipped his hands around my waist and moved in a little closer. “I actually added one and crossed it off at the same time. It was for my twenty-fifth birthday. I wrote a letter to myself in ten years.”

  “That’s cute.” If I had a birthday list, I’d steal that idea for myself. “Can I read the letter?”

  “Sure.” He grinned. “As soon as I turn thirty-five.”

  I frowned but Jamie erased it with a soft kiss.

  “I need to go run some errands. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  Errands. Riiight. Tomorrow was our one-year wedding anniversary and I’d bet good money his “errands” were to find me a last-minute gift. Unlike me, who had bought his present two months ago and stashed it in the laundry room, Jamie was always shopping on Christmas Eve or the day before my birthday.

  But instead of teasing him about his tendency to procrastinate, I just nodded. “Yes, please. Would you mind going to the liquor store for me?” We were hosting a spring barbeque tomorrow to celebrate our anniversary and the only booze we had in the house was Jamie’s favorite tequila.

  “Babe, I told you. We don’t need to have fancy cocktails. Just pick up some beer at the grocery store tomorrow and we’ll drink my stuff.”

  “And, honey, I’ve told you. Not everyone likes to do tequila shots.”

  “Sure they do. Tequila shots are a classic party drink.”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed. “We’re not having a frat party tomorrow. We’re adults now and can afford some variety. At the very least, we could get some margarita mix.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Do you have a list?”

  I nodded, but when I tried to move off the counter, he kept me trapped.

  “Can I ask you something?” His eyebrows came together as his grin disappeared.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve been married for almost a year. What’s your favorite thing about being married to me?”

  My hands came up to his face, brushing the blond hair away from where it had fallen into his blue eyes. I didn’t even have to think about my answer. “I love that I get to say I’m your wife. It fills me with pride every time. Like whenever we’re at your school and parents come up to tell me how much their kids love your class, I’m so proud that I get to call you mine.”

  The tension in his face washed away.

  I wasn’t sure where his question had come from, but it was a good one. Especially today, the eve of our anniversary.

  Jamie backed away but I grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back into my space. “Hold up. It’s your turn. What’s your favorite thing about being married to me?”

  He smirked. “That you have sex with me every day.”

  “Jamie!” I swatted his chest as he laughed. “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. Oh, and I love that you do all the cooking and my laundry. Seriously, babe. Thanks for that.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  He nodded and smiled wider. “I love that I get to be the one to watch you grow more beautiful with each and every day.”

  My heart fluttered again. “I love you, Jamie Maysen.”

  “I love you too, Poppy Maysen.”

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine, teasing me for the briefest moment with his tongue before he stepped back and let me go.

  “I’ll get your list for the liquor store.” I hopped off the counter and got the sticky note I’d made earlier.

  “Okay. Be back soon.” Jamie tucked the list in his pocket and kissed my hair before he walked out the door.

  Three hours later, Jamie still hadn’t returned. Every time I called his phone, it rang and rang and rang until his voicemail kicked in. I was doing my best to ignore the knot in my stomach. He was probably just shopping. Any minute, he’d be home and we could go out to dinner. Knowing Jamie, he’d just lost track of time or bumped into a friend and they’d gone out for a beer.

  He’s fine.

  An hour later, he still wasn’t home. “Jamie,” I told his voicemail. “Where are you? It’s getting late and I thought we were going to dinner. Did you lose your phone or something? You need to come home or call me back. I’m getting worried.”

  I hung up and paced the kitchen. He’s fine. He’s fine.

  One hour later, I’d left him five more voicemails and bitten off all my fingernails.

  One hour after that, I’d left fifteen voicemails and started calling hospitals.

  I was looking up the number for the police department when the doorbell rang. Tossing my phone on the living room couch, I ran toward the door, but my feet stuttered at the sight of a uniform through the door’s glass pane.

  Oh, god. My stomach rolled. Please let him be okay.

  I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “Officer.”

  The cop stood tall, his posture perfect, but his green eyes betrayed him. He didn’t want to be knocking on my door any more than I wanted him on my porch.

  “Ma’am. Are you Poppy Maysen?”

  I choked out a yes before the bile rose up in my throat.

  The cop’s posture slackened an inch. “Mrs. Maysen, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Would you like to go inside and sit down?”

  I shook my head. “Is it Jamie?”

  He nodded and the pressure in my chest squeezed so tight, I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that my ribs hurt.

  “Just . . . just tell me,” I whispered.

  “Are you here alone? Can I call someone?”

  I shook my head again. “Tell me. Please.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Maysen, but your husband was killed earlier today.”

  Jamie wasn’t fine.

  The cop kept talking but his words were drowned out by the sound of my shattering heart.

  I don’t remember much else from that night. I remember my brother coming over. I remember him calling Jamie’s parents to tell them that their son was no longer in this world—that he had been killed in a robbery at a liquor store.

  I remember wishing that I were dead too.

  And I remember that cop sitting by my side the entire time.

  30th Birthday: Buy Poppy her restaurant

  Poppy

  Five years later . . .

  “Are you ready for this?” Molly asked.

  I looked around the open room and smiled. “Yeah. I think so.”

  My restaurant, The Maysen Jar, was opening tomorrow.

  The dream I’d had since I was a kid—the dream Jamie had shared with me—was actually coming true.

  Once an old mechanic’s garage, The Maysen Jar was now Bozeman, Montana’s newest café. I’d taken a run-down, abandoned building and turned it into my future.

  Gone were the cement floors spotted with oil. In their place was a hickory herringbone wood floor. The dingy garage doors had been replaced. Now visitors would pull up to a row of floor-to-ceiling black-paned windows. And decades of gunk, grime and grease had been scrubbed away. The original red brick walls had been cleaned to their former glory, and the tall, industrial ceilings had been painted a fresh white.

  Good-bye, sockets and wrenches.
Hello, spoons and forks.

  “I was thinking.” Molly straightened the menu cards for the fourth time. “We should probably call the radio station and see if they’d do a spotlight or something to announce that you’re open. We’ve got that ad in the paper but radio might be good too.”

  I rearranged the jar of pens by the register. “Okay. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

  We were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the counter at the back of the room. Both of us were fidgeting—touching things that didn’t need to be touched and organizing things that had been organized plenty—until I admitted what we were both thinking. “I’m nervous.”

  Molly’s hand slid across the counter and took mine. “You’ll be great. This place is a dream, and I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”

  I leaned my shoulder into hers. “Thanks. For everything. For helping me get this going. For agreeing to be my manager. I wouldn’t have come this far without you.”

  “Yes, you would have, but I’m glad to be a part of this.” She squeezed my hand before letting go and running her fingers across the black marble counter. “I was—”

  The front door opened and an elderly man with a cane came shuffling inside. He paused inside the doorway, his gaze running over the black tables and chairs that filled the open space, until he saw Molly and me at the back of the room.

  “Hello,” I called. “Can I help you?”

  He slipped off his gray driving cap and tucked it under his arm. “Just looking.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Molly said, “but we don’t open for business until tomorrow.”

  He ignored Molly and started shuffling down the center aisle. My restaurant wasn’t huge. The garage itself had only been two stalls, and to cross from the front door to the counter took me exactly seventeen steps. This man made the trip seem like he was crossing the Sahara. Every step was small and he stopped repeatedly to look around. But eventually, he reached the counter and took a wooden stool across from Molly.

  When her wide, brown eyes met mine, I just shrugged. I’d poured everything I had into this restaurant—heart and soul and wallet—and I couldn’t afford to turn away potential customers, even if we hadn’t opened for business yet.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  He reached past Molly, grabbing a menu card from her stack and rifling the entire bunch as he slid it over.

  I stifled a laugh at Molly’s frown. She wanted to fix those cards so badly her fingers were itching, but she held back, deciding to leave instead. “I think I’ll go finish up in the back.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned and disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen. When it swung closed behind her, I focused on the man memorizing my menu.

  “Jars?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Yes, jars. Most everything here is made in mason jars.” Other than some sandwiches and breakfast pastries, I’d compiled a menu centered around mason jars.

  It had actually been Jamie’s idea to use jars. Not long after we’d gotten married, I’d been experimenting with recipes. Though it had always been my dream to open a restaurant, I’d never known exactly what I wanted to try. That was, until one night when I’d been experimenting with ideas I’d found on Pinterest. I’d made these dainty apple pies in tiny jars and Jamie had gone crazy over them. We’d spent the rest of the night brainstorming ideas for a jar-themed restaurant.

  Jamie, you’d be so proud to see this place. An all-too-familiar sting hit my nose but I rubbed it away, focusing on my first customer instead of dwelling on the past.

  “Would you like to try something?”

  He didn’t answer. He just set down the menu and stared, inspecting the chalkboard and display racks at my back. “You spelled it wrong.”

  “Actually, my last name is Maysen, spelled the same way as the restaurant.”

  “Huh,” he muttered, clearly not as impressed with my cleverness.

  “We don’t open until tomorrow, but how about a sample? On the house?”

  He shrugged.

  Not letting his lack of enthusiasm and overall grouchy demeanor pull me down, I walked to the refrigerated display case next to the register and picked Jamie’s favorite. I popped it in the toaster oven and then set out a spoon and napkin in front of the man while he kept scrutinizing the space.

  Ignoring the frown on his face, I waited for the oven and let my eyes wander. As they did, my chest swelled with pride. Just this morning, I’d applied the finishing touches. I’d hung the last of the artwork and put a fresh flower on each table. It was hard to believe this was the same garage I’d walked into a year ago. That I’d finally been able to wipe out the smell of gasoline in exchange for sugar and spice.

  No matter what happened with The Maysen Jar—whether it failed miserably or succeeded beyond my wildest dreams—I would always be proud of what I’d accomplished here.

  Proud and grateful.

  It had taken me almost four years to crawl out from underneath the weight of Jamie’s death. Four years for the black fog of grief and loss to fade to gray. The Maysen Jar had given me a purpose this past year. Here, I wasn’t just a twenty-nine-year-old widow struggling to make it through each day. Here, I was a business owner and entrepreneur. I was in control of my life and my own destiny.

  The oven’s chime snapped me out of my reverie. I pulled on a mitt and slid out the small jar, letting the smell of apples and butter and cinnamon waft to my nose. Then I went to the freezer, getting out my favorite vanilla-bean ice cream and placing a dollop atop the pie’s lattice crust. Wrapping the hot jar in a black cloth napkin, I slid the pie in front of the grumpy old man.

  “Enjoy.” I held back a smug smile. Once he dug into that pie, I’d win him over.

  He eyed it for a long minute, leaning around to inspect all sides of the dish before picking up his spoon. But with that first bite, an involuntary hum of pleasure escaped from his throat.

  “I heard that,” I teased.

  He grumbled something under his breath before taking another steaming bite. Then another. The pie didn’t last long; he devoured it while I pretended to clean.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  “You’re welcome.” I took his empty dishes and set them in a plastic bussing tub. “Would you like to take one to go? Maybe have it after dinner?”

  He shrugged.

  I took that as a yes and prepared a to-go bag with a blueberry crumble instead of the apple pie. Tucking a menu card and reheating instructions inside, I set the brown craft bag next to him on the counter.

  “How much?” He reached for his wallet.

  I waved him off. “It’s on the house. A gift from me to you as my first customer, Mister . . .”

  “James. Randall James.”

  I tensed at the name—just like I always did when I heard Jamie or a similar version—but let it roll off, glad things were improving. Five years ago, I would have burst into tears. Now, the bite was manageable.

  Randall opened the bag and looked inside. “You send to-go stuff in a jar?”

  “Yes, the jar goes too. If you bring it back, I give you a discount on your next purchase.”

  He closed the bag and muttered, “Huh.”

  We stared at each other in silence for a few beats, every ticking second getting more and more awkward, but I didn’t break my smile.

  “Are you from here?” he finally asked.

  “I’ve lived in Bozeman since college, but no, I grew up in Alaska.”

  “Do they have these fancy jar restaurants up north?”

  I laughed. “Not that I know of, but I haven’t been home in a while.”

  “Huh.”

  Huh. I made a mental note never to answer questions with “huh” ever again. Up until I’d met Randall James, I’d never realized just how annoying it was.

  The silence between us returned. Molly was banging around in the kitchen, probably unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher, but as much as I wanted to be in there
to help, I couldn’t leave Randall out here alone.

  I glanced at my watch. I had plans tonight and needed to get the breakfast quiches prepped before I left. Standing here while Randall pondered my restaurant was not something I’d figured into my plans.

  “I, um—”

  “I built this place.”

  His interruption surprised me. “The garage?”

  He nodded. “Worked for the construction company that built it back in the sixties.”

  Now his inspection made sense. “What do you think?”

  I normally didn’t care much for the opinions of others—especially from a crotchety stranger—but for some reason, I wanted Randall’s approval. He was the first person to enter this place who wasn’t a family member or a part of my construction crew. A favorable opinion from an outsider would give my spirits a boost as I went into opening day.

  But my spirits fell when, without a word, Randall pulled on his cap and slid off the stool. He looped the takeout bag over one wrist while grabbing his cane with his other hand. Then he began his slow journey toward the door.

  Maybe my apple pie wasn’t as magical as Jamie had thought.

  When Randall paused at the door, I perked up, waiting for any sign that he’d enjoyed his time here.

  He looked over his shoulder and winked. “Good luck, Ms. Maysen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. James.” I kept my arms pinned at my sides until he turned back around and pushed through the door. As soon as he was out of sight, I threw my arms in the air, mouthing, Yes!

  I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see Randall James again, but I was taking his parting farewell as the blessing I’d been craving.

  This was going to work. The Maysen Jar was going to be a success.

  I could feel it down to my bones.

  Not thirty seconds after Randall disappeared down the sidewalk, the door flew open again. This time, a little girl barreled down the center aisle. “Auntie Poppy!”

  I hurried around the counter and knelt, ready for impact. “Kali bug! Where’s my hug?”

  Kali, my four-year-old niece, giggled. Her pink summer dress swished behind her as she raced toward me. Her brown curls—curls that matched Molly’s—bounced down her shoulders as she flew into my arms. I kissed her cheek and tickled her sides but quickly let her go, knowing she wasn’t here for me.