“Didn’t do anything wrong?” Jordan repeated, his voice no longer soft. “You mocked me behind my back because I looked like I didn’t belong here. Then you spoke to a paying customer like he was dirt. This isn’t a gossip lounge or a private club. It’s a diner. My diner.”
The two women froze. Denise opened her mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come.
“My name is Jordan Ellis,” he said, pulling back his hood and taking off the knit cap. “I own this place.”
Silence fell like a hammer across the diner. A few nearby customers turned to watch. The cook in the kitchen peeked through the window.
“No way,” whispered the younger woman.
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