Page 9 of Look at Her and Die

I elbowed her aside and said, “Here’s your food.”

The three men grunted and sat back, allowing space for me to set their food down.

“Who had the jalapeño?” I asked.

“Me.”

The deep, resonating voice did weird things to my chest.

I shoved those feelings down so hard that they would never be heard from again.

Nope.

Not going there.

Don’t have time.

Would probably never have time.

“Did you hear me?” the woman asked, crowding me close once she’d recovered from my shove.

“I heard you,” the jalapeño lover said. “But I don’t think it’s mine.”

There was a long pause and then, “You’re joking, right?”

“Ketchup only?” I asked.

“Me,” the one that looked like Elvis Presley with his great hair and stunning eyes said.

I set his down, and assumed the lone one without food was the owner of the double meat.

“Need anything else?” I asked, impatient.

“You could escort her out,” Elvis suggested.

I looked at the woman and huffed, “Are you ordering?”

“No.” She curled her lip up at me. “Like I would eat here.”

The way she said it, sounding so utterly disgusted, had my back up.

“Then why are you here?” I demanded.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m talking to my ex. We’re going to have a baby,” she lied.

I snorted.

I’d spent a lot of time with liars in my lifetime—I could thank my little sister Calliope for teaching me how to spot them—and I knew damn well and good when a lady was lying.

“When did you find out?” I asked.

She blinked. “Uh, last week.”

I nodded. “How long since you missed your period?”

She blinked. “Um, two weeks.”

I nodded. “Were you on birth control?”

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