Free The Big 5-Oh! by Sandra D. Bricker

those who said such romantic and wonderful things were certainly after one of two things: Sex, a lofty pursuit which would end in the ultimate thud of disappointment; or money, which would turn out to be about as fruitless as her bank account. Liv wasn’t poverty-stricken or anything, but cancer had robbed her better than any gold-digging man ever could.
    “I’m not a drinker,” Jared told her when they were seated at the restaurant. “But if you’d like some wine—”
    “Oh, no, thank you. I’m not a drinker either.” She hoped he wouldn’t laugh, but … “You know what I’d really love, though?”
    “Your wish is their command.”
    “A big, cold root beer.”
    “You know what?” he said with a glint of amusement. “That sounds really good.” Glancing up at the waiter, Jared inquired, “Do you serve root beer?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Excellent. Two frosty mugs of it, my good man. And keep ’em coming.”
    The waiter hardly cracked a smile, which made Jared and Liv both laugh right out loud, punctuating his exit.
    Jared was such a lot of fun to be around, and once again Liv found herself wondering when the other shoe might drop.
    If something seems too good to be true , she thought, it usually is .
    Perhaps this would be Liv's greatest birthday disappointment of them all. Finding out that Jared Hunt was flawed and deceptive beyond the façade of a dazzling smile and general perfection would leave pneumonia and broken bones and various birthday calamities strewn in the dust.
    But she didn’t have to find out just then, did she? She could at least enjoy one early evening cruise and a seafood dinner with him before the shoe broke through the clouds and hurled out of the sky toward her.
    “I’ve never been to a restaurant where you could arrive in a boat instead of a car,” she told him.
    “I never had either before moving to Florida. The lifestyle takes some getting used to, but now I can hardly remember the bitter-cold winters of Chicago.”
    “Cincinnati's not as cold as Chicago,” she admitted, “but winter is engrained in me. Of course, I was just shoveling out of two feet of snow a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Give it time. The Florida sun will melt the memory away in no time at all.”
    The waiter set down two mugs of foamy root beer on the table between them, and Liv opted for a straw.
    Lifting his drink into the air, Jared toasted. “Here's to warm hearts and melted snow.”
    “And forgotten frozen tundra,” she added with a grin.
    “Ohhhh-ho-ho,” Jared hooted at first taste. “I haven’t had a root beer in ten years.”
    “Ten years!” she exclaimed. “You poor, deprived soda drinker. I myself am a bit of a connoisseur. In fact, I can tell you that this particular brand of root beer was brewed on a northern slope … probably on a Tuesday …” She paused seriously and took a long draw from the straw, swishing the creamy liquid around in her mouth before swallowing for dramatic effect. “Barq's is my guess. 2009. It was a very good year.”
    Jared snorted and then transitioned into a rich and resonant laughter that Liv thought almost took the form of music.
    The waiter stepped up to the edge of the table, ready to take their dinner orders. Instead, Jared cast Liv a playful expression before asking, “Just out of curiosity, what brand of root beer is this?”
    “Barq's, I think,” the fellow replied, and the two of them shared a laugh that excluded their waiter. “Is there something wrong with your drinks?”
    “No, absolutely not,” Jared replied. “They’re delicious. Obviously a very good year.”
    The poor guy didn’t quite seem to know how to respond, so he raised his pad and set his pen to it. “What can I get you?”
    Liv let herself sink back into the leather booth as Jared ordered salads and a platter of peel-and-eat shrimp. She hadn’t had shrimp in such a long time and, as she glanced out the window at the emerald-green Gulf waters just beyond the dock, she