Liver Let Die by Liz Lipperman Page B

as the skinny, pimply-faced kid stared at her like she was on drugs. When had she turned into a ma’am? She was only twenty-eight years old for heaven’s sakes. You’re not a ma’am until forty, at least.
    “I’ll have a Grande Chicken Quesadilla with extra cheese and guacamole, an order of queso and chips on the side, and a Diet Pepsi.”
    “I find it hard to believe you can eat like that and still maintain that girlish figure,” a soft male voice said behind her.
    Jordan turned, fully expecting to go off on someone about minding their own business, but she stopped short when she stared into eyes the color of a cloudless sky.
    “Cat got your tongue?”
    Jordan caught her breath as she recognized the man behind her as Brooder from Longhorn Prime Rib the other night. He seemed taller than she remembered, forcing her to look up. “What I find hard to believe is that you actually pick up girls with that line.” She turned back to the skinny kid who was now tapping his long fingers on the counter.
    Mentally, she scolded herself for not going to the restroom and fixing her hair before ordering. Mi Quesadilla was only two blocks from the newspaper, and she’d decided to walk. Although it was a gorgeous fall day with temperatures in the midseventies, the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip.
    Instinctively, she reached up and combed her fingers through her hair, knowing full well it wouldn’t tame the wild red mess she’d been “gifted” with at birth, as her mother always proclaimed.
    Gifted, my butt!
    She’d listened to “I’d rather be dead than red on the head” all her life, and one of these days when she had a little leftover money lying around, she’d see about getting highlights to tone it down.
    “What good is inheriting fifty million bucks if you have a weak heart?”
    Jordan had just taken a sip of her soda while waiting for change and spewed it across the counter.
    “That’s the line that usually works,” Brooder added.
    The skinny kid sent daggers toward her before grabbing a cloth and wiping off the counter. Embarrassed, Jordan threw her last dollar at him to compensate, picked up her lunch, and quickly walked to a table.
    In a few minutes, Brooder straddled the chair across from her. “Since I made you laugh, the least you can do is let me join you for lunch.”
    Jordan held his stare. It was a free country, she told herself. He could sit wherever he wanted. It might even be fun talking to someone who didn’t act like she had a contagious disease for a change, although it was amazing the way her co-workers’ attitudes toward her had changed dramatically overnight. Four people had actually stopped by her desk to express their horror about the ducks and to congratulate her for being brave enough to write the article.
    “Suit yourself,” she said, finally. “I’ve got to be back to work shortly, anyway.”
    “Alex Montgomery,” he said, extending his hand across the table. “Where do you work?”
    She shook his hand, making a mental observation that he definitely didn’t do manual labor for a living. His hand was as soft as hers. “Jordan McAllister. I’m a journalist at the Globe ,” she said, thinking journalist sounded way better than reporter. “And you?”
    “I sit around all day drinking beer and watching reality TV,” he quipped.
    “What?”
    “Did you forget about my fifty million already?” he added as she continued to look confused.
    Jordan laughed. “So, you’re not gonna tell me?”
    His eyes lit up; he was obviously enjoying making her laugh. “I’m the assistant manager at the Ranchero Commerce Bank. I was transferred from the Houston branch a few weeks ago, and I’m just getting settled in.” He paused and flashed that multimillion-dollar smile again. “Actually, I could use some help finding my way around this town.”
    He was so going to hell for lying . It had taken her all of a half day to navigate the town when she’d first arrived. But what would