Tinsel (Lark Cove #4)(100)

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.





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.”