by Max Monroe
“Macallan on the rocks, half a lime on the side, please.”
The bartender confirmed my order with a nod, turning to the glass shelves behind him to grab my scotch. It was fifteen minutes past eight, forty-five minutes later than our agreed upon time, and still no sign of Georgia. I was beginning to think she might have stood me up—hoping that she had, rather than something having happened to her—when Stacey Henderson sauntered up to me and leaned her body into my space with an elbow at the bar.
“Where’s your date?”
I grabbed my scotch and the lime as the bartender set it down in front of me, squeezing the juice into my glass before handing the carcass back to him with a smile and a nod. Plucking a napkin from the top of the stack, I wiped the remaining juice off of my palm.
“Well, hello to you too, Stacey.” I turned to her in acknowledgment, but my body did it under protest. It feared the effects of cross-contamination if it got too close.
“Your mother told me you already had a date. That’s why you couldn’t come with me.”
“I’m aware. What I wasn’t aware of was the fact that she had arranged a date with you in the first place. Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you should be asked directly by a man?”
She waved the thought away like a pesky fly.
“If you’re not here with someone—”
“I am,” I interrupted.
Her eyes narrowed while mine searched the room nearly desperately, and my brain tried to conjure up an excuse. My face and body portrayed an outward calm.
“Where is she, then?”
“The restroom. You know how you ladies are,” I patronized in the name of inserting frivolous, vaguely-insulting conversation into a still-civil exchange. As much as Stacey Henderson was asking for a big ‘go fuck yourself,’ the Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital was not. “Always running to the restroom to touch up something or other or to relieve your peanut-sized bladders.”
Stacey scoffed rather indelicately, an effect of too much alcohol too goddamn early in the benefit, and I winced, fearing the turn of events when no one returned from the restroom.
Then, out of the crowd emerged a frazzled—but stunning—Georgia. Red framed her body from breast to foot, the tight material clinging to her in all the right places. Her tan skin peeked out of a cutout just below her chest, and a matching blood red painted her lips and nails. The only thing missing red was her head, her now blonde locks cascading and curling down and around her slim shoulders and damn near robbing me of the ability to think.
Worry from her late arrival ravaged her face as she approached the two of us without pretense or fear.
“Oh my God, Kline, I am so sorry I’m—”
“It’s okay,” I cut her off, stepping pointedly around Stacey and pulling her into my arms for a hug.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I whispered softly into her new hair. Stacey groaned audibly in begrudged response before grabbing her high-priced clutch from the bar and stomping away like a petulant child.
“Who was she?” Georgia asked, leaning back and glancing over my arm as Stacey dragged ass away.
“That was a day-spa-loving version of my cat.”
Her nose scrunched up adorably as she tried to make sense of my words.
“Would you like something to drink?” I offered, escorting her the few steps back to the bar with a hand at her back. I felt the warmth at my palm all the way in my dick, the need to touch her having been a palpable thing all day long.
She smiled, and it lit up her face and mine. “Can I say ‘God yes’ without sounding like a lush?”
One side of my mouth hooked up in a grin. My cock said she could say ‘God yes’ anytime she wanted, but thankfully, my mouth said, “Sure.”
I looked away long enough to grab the bartender’s attention and then turned back to her.
“You look beautiful.”
She started to smile but stopped herself, the skin between her eyebrows pinching slightly.
“I’m an asshole. I can’t believe I’m so late. I mean, I can believe I’m late,” she rambled. “Just not this late. This is a new low for me.”
“You’re always late?” I asked, trying to distract her from the late arrival and learn more about her instead.
“Yes. Every day of my life. Well, to everything other than meetings with you.” She winced again. “The work you, at least.”
“Don’t worry,” I promised with a grin. “Kline won’t say anything to Mr. Brooks.”
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, tossing a napkin up on the bar for the anticipated glass.
Georgia looked to me in question.
“No.” I waved her off and lifted my glass. “I’m good. Just got one. You go ahead.”
I glanced down the line of her back as she leaned over the bar. Wide straps criss-crossed to form cut-outs in the fabric of the back as well, and smooth material hugged the curve of her hips and ass. Her body petite but curvy, I wanted to run my hands all over that fabric.
God, she looked gorgeous. It was almost unreal.
She turned to me, holding a glass of wine she had obviously ordered at some point during my ogling.
“Sorry,” I apologized through a tight throat. “I was…”
She raised an eyebrow pointedly, a knowing grin on her face. “Staring at my ass.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”
She laughed.
“It’s a really fine ass, though. And your hair…”
She grabbed a strand of it self-consciously, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Yeah. I have a thing for dyeing my hair. I’m not sure why, but I tend to change it like a hobby. Red or blonde or sometimes—”
“Georgia?”
She finally took a breath. “Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. You look beautiful. Own it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, but her face relaxed.
From there on out, she seemed herself: funny, sometimes awkward, but mostly at ease.
We worked the room, schmoozing all of the people who needed it and small-talking with the others. Unable to help myself, I kept a hand on Georgia all night.
Her hand in mine, my palm at the small of her back, a set of my flexing fingers on her perfect hip. Anything to touch her. Anything to keep her in close proximity.
Finally done with my obligations, I asked her something that’d been on my mind all night.
“Would you like to dance?”
She seemed surprised. “You dance?”
“With you, yes.”
“I swear,” she whispered with a shake of her head. “Do you secretly have one of those things on your wrist that Coca-Cola wears?”
I grinned in confusion.
Her eyes searched mine like I held all the power, a sheen of fear coating them with moisture.
Only then did I realize she meant the quarterback’s playbook cheat sheet.
I took her cheek in my palm, smoothing a thumb over the apple of it softly.
Apparently, when it came to Georgia Cummings and tonight, I’d been doing just fine.
“Come on,” I coaxed, setting my drink down on a nearby table, pulling her onto the dance floor with me, and pressing her body right to mine.
Hands clasped together, I pulled them into my chest and wrapped my other arm tightly around the curve of her hip.
Her eyes followed mine and mine followed hers, a closed loop of exploration into each other. The moment picked up speed as the band played a sweet and melodic tune, and the rest of the room faded completely away.
My chest felt tight with anticipation of what was to come—right now, in this moment, and beyond, as I gave myself over to getting to know this amazing woman.
Our weight shifted from foot to foot and our hips swayed, very much moving but, at the same time, fighting with everything we had to stay stagnantly lost in that moment.
Without thought or delay, I leaned in, touching my lips t
o hers for a full second before I felt the tension leave her body and her eyes fluttered closed.
Tentative but bold, her lips began to move under mine, exploring on their own rather than waiting for my invitation.
I abandoned her hand at my chest immediately and sought the solace of her hair instead, entrenching my hand and using its leverage to pull her lips even closer.
A sigh bounced from her mouth to mine as I focused on her bottom lip, pulling it between my own and sucking ever so slightly.
She tasted like the sweet cherry notes of her wine, and my tongue shot out to lick up another drop. When the tip of her tongue touched mine, everything else was lost.
Time.
Space.
All sense of propriety and appropriateness for a crowded dance floor at a Children’s Hospital benefit. My hand left her hip, circling around on a path straight for the cheek of her ass.
When the corners of her lips tipped up despite their connection to mine, I knew I’d never experienced anything sexier than a woman unable to withhold a smile while we kissed.
“Kline,” she whispered, pulling away and smiling without inhibition.
Just the way she said my name had me groaning.
“God, I know. Not the time.” I pulled her close to me and practically dragged the two of us off the dance floor. The band had started to transition into an old Grand Funk Railroad song, “Some Kind of Wonderful,” anyway. In the haze of my peripheral vision, I could see other couples head in the direction we’d just come, and amongst the shuffle and swing of their active bodies, our lip-locked, fully intertwined ones would have been even more obvious.
I grabbed Georgia’s wrist lightly, and her pulse thrummed and fluttered under the tips of my fingers. The feeling made my grip tighten minutely as I turned her to face me.
Her hair hung in a veil around her face, but I could actually feel our chemistry in the air between us.
When I pulled her body flush with mine, she tipped her chin so that she could look straight into my eyes.
Her signature blue eyes were shining with emotion, but something else wasn’t right.
She was still beautiful, but her face—something was different. Her lipstick-smeared lips looked to be twice their normal size.
“Um, Georgia—”
“Georgie,” she corrected while looking up at me sweetly. She fluttered her lashes coyly, but I barely even noticed. I couldn’t look away from her mouth.
“Right. Georgie.” I steeled myself. “Listen, I know this is a weird question, but you wouldn’t happen to have had some light work done, would you?”
“Work?” she asked, oblivious.
“Yeah, you know. Work.”
She shook her head and smiled a little, clearly still in the fog from our kiss. I wished I was. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
I coughed to clear my throat and wiped the building sweat from my brow. This wasn’t a good idea. Asking women questions like this was never a good idea.
Maybe I should just pretend not to notice.
“Kline?”
Shit. Were they getting bigger?
“I don’t know,” I fumbled. “Some kind of lip filler that has a delayed reaction, maybe?”
“Wip fiwer?” She tried again, her nose scrunching with the effort. “Wip fiwer. Wipppp fiwer.”
Concern blanketed my face and hers turned distraught.
“Oh, sit. Sit sit sit.”
“Sit?”
“Not sit. Siiit.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Sit.”
“Ohhh,” I said in realization, picking her face up out of her hands to find her lips and the palms that had just touched them swelling at an alarming rate. “Shit, Georgie.”
“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 steroi
ds 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.
“Georgia, please, don’t hide your pretty face.” Kline removed the paper bag, staring back at me with serious concern.
Pffffffft. Pretty? All forms of pretty had fled the building the second I had contracted elephantiasis of the face.
I averted my eyes from his and focused on removing the cellophane wrapping from the Benadryl. “Somonabith,” I cursed, fumbling with the childproof cap.
He gently took the bottle out of my hands, detaching the cap with ease, and handed it back to me. “We need to get you to an emergency room. St. Luke’s is just around the corner.”
Oh, hell no. Out of all of the emergency rooms in New York, I was not going to that one.
Well, unless my reaction gets worse—then I’d reconsider. I’d face the embarrassment and my brother’s incessant teasing for a shot of epinephrine over not breathing at all. I’m not a complete moron.
I shook my head frantically. “Ma brudder. Nob way.”
He scrunched his brow up in confusion.
“Nobe. Nob hobitals.”
My brother Will was finishing up his ER residency at St. Luke’s, and I knew for a fact he was elbow deep in a twenty-four-hour call shift. If I walked into his ER looking like this, I’d never live it down.
“But—”
“Uh-uh. Nob habbenin’,” I cut him off, resolute.
And to solidify my decision, I tipped the bottle of Benadryl to my goliath lips and knocked back as much as I could.
“Shit! Georgia!” Kline grabbed the bottle from my hands, panicked. “That’s too much. Way, way too much.”
I shrugged, reaching for the discarded paper bag and pulling a pen from my purse.