“Exacwy.”
“What’s happening? What do I need to do?”
I moved to grab some ice out of my forgotten glass, and her eyes followed me and then widened exponentially.
“Sit, Kwine! Is where wime wuice in where?”
“Wime wuice?”
“Wime wuice!”
“Oh! Oh, yeah. Shit. Shit! Yeah, there’s lime juice in there.”
“I’m awerwic. I nee benedetto. Benedwetto. Sit! Benedwiwww.”
“Benadryl!” I shouted, victorious. Like it was some kind of game. She looked disgusted.
“Right. Sorry,” I apologized, turning my attention back to surveying her and putting my focus back on her health. “Jesus, it’s bad, Georgie. Do we need to go to the emergency room?”
“No.” She shook her head, eyes determined.
Her lips looked like cartoons. I panicked at the thought of her throat closing up with the same fervor.
“Please. Let me take you to urgent care or something.”
“No, Kwine. Wet’s wust wet ouw of hewre. Benedwiwww.”
“Right. Benadryl.” I grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the elevator without looking back. No way was tonight going to go down in history as the night I fucking killed a woman with one kiss.
I shoved through the crowd that had gathered there without apology, and Georgia shielded her face from their scrutiny. The doors propped open with my foot, I ushered her in and hit the button for the lobby as fast as I could before holding the ‘close door’ button with excessive force. When they finally shut, I pulled Georgia’s gaze from the floor with a gentle finger at her chin.
“I’m so sorry, Georgie.”
“Is wit bwad?”
“It isn’t good,” I answered vaguely. “Please, let me take you to the hospital.”
“No,” she refused, taking some of the sting out of it by offering a smile. I mean, her mouth didn’t smile—it was too swollen—but there was visible happiness in her eyes. “I’m owkay. Pwomise. Wust nee Benedwiw.”
The doors opened on the ground floor, and I peeled out of there like a drag car, Georgie in tow.
“Swow down, Kwine,” she ordered, tugging on my hand and nearly tripping on her dress.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, knowing I wouldn’t be able to beat the panic back enough to slow down to her pace.
She smiled again, but it didn’t last long. It turned right into a shout when I swept her off of her feet and into my arms and took off at a jog again, dialing Frank as I did.
Two rings and he answered.
“Mr. Brooks?”
“I need you to meet us at the Rite-Aid on the corner!”
He wasn’t used to me shouting, but he sure as hell didn’t question it.
“Yes, sir.”
One look at Georgie’s face, and I started running faster.
For the first time in ten years, I didn’t have the first clue what I’d done with my phone after ending the call—and I didn’t care one bit.
“Here.” Kline slid back into the car and handed me a brown paper bag with what I could only assume was Benadryl.
“Tanks,” I whispered, offering a small smile.
He furrowed his brow, lips fighting a wince.
Shit. How bad is it?
Seeing as it was my first date with Kline, I knew this wasn’t an optimal situation. In a matter of a few minutes and one perfect, sexy kiss, I had gone from smiling and offering up charming, flirty responses to sounding like I was talking around a wiener in my mouth.
Lime juice had sabotaged me. It had been years since I’d come in contact with the allergy-inducing demon. And the last time, it was way worse. My throat had started to close up because I had ingested it, whereas this was just contact swelling.
Swallowing a few times, I confirmed my throat was breezy and clear.
But the way Kline was trying not to react to my appearance?
Well, that had me rummaging through my purse and getting my compact out. Flipping the clasp, I opened the mirror, coming face-to-face with something that could nauseate horror movie enthusiasts. Bright red blowfish lips consumed my face. The skin was stretched so tight I feared something might burst.
Bottom line: It was bad. Real fucking bad. Kylie Jenner’s mouth on steroids bad.
“Ah ma gaw,” I gasped, tongue still swelling by the second.
I glanced at myself in the mirror again, which was a big, fat mistake of epic proportions. The swelling seemed hell-bent on consuming my entire face.
“Tis is ba! Tis is so ba!” I grabbed the paper bag off the seat and pulled it over my head.
On a Britney Spears’ scale of embarrassment, I had proverbially flashed my beaver to millions of people.
For the love of God, the inflammation is going to my brain. I can only think in celebrity speak. My allergic reaction had turned me into Leslie.